The silences and pauses
In conversations between
My grandfather and grandmother
Ricocheted off the gleaming brass pots
In the large stone kitchen
Filling themselves with trivialities.
Which Indian spices
Had she put into the curry that day?
He always wanted to know.
It tasted so different and special, ‘First class,’ he said,
Waving two fingers, thumb and index in the air
Wearing an absent look, with his white moustache
Curled and twitching, if ever so slightly,
Grandfather ate the curry and coconut rice with deep concentration
Emitting sounds of appreciation from time to time.
It annoyed Grandmother that he asked the same question,
She had told him often what she put into the curry
Still, she repeated, in one breath,
“Turmeric, Chilli powder, cumin, ginger and garlic.”
After so many years of marriage, he should know something,
The curry was the same each time she made it
But she obliged, a marriage without tolerance
Wouldn’t be the same.
Grandfather was home only for holidays
He was the Principal of a college in another Indian State,
She was more proud of other things in that kitchen
Like the Formica-top dining table
She could afford at a discounted rate from a friend
He would hardly notice that.
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