An Unfinished Ending
Last summer,
my grandmother clogged my brain
with her spice directory.
Asafoetida kept your health on track,
turmeric was anti inflammatory,
cinnamons comb the air
to doll it up,
and cumins add strength to your limbs.
I learnt how to lodge loads of love in
a small jar of lemon pickle.
She even mentored me to lick
the sour aftermath off my fingers
in a certain choreography.
She used to say
that every kitchen cages unfinished endings:
there are ceremonies when women
experiment new recipes
and men complain about the ingredients,
crumbs of burnt brownies are traded
by ants in incomplete quantities,
forgotten chutney tins sit alongside
half cut lemons in refrigerator doors,
and curry leaves caress rotten memories
turning moments into scent.
The day she left, I wanted to take the shape
of mustard oil and succumb in a
tiny container for the rest of my life.
I learnt that memory is malleable.
What is now your favorite lesson
can be a punishment later.
The lemon pickle has remained untouched
since grandma's departure.
Just like she said, oil is the best
of all preservatives.
Humans expire after a specific time,
but pickles don't.
I open the lid, try to lick it.
It tastes sour on my tongue,
bitter in my throat.
It will remain unfinished,
stuck in the same space forever,
like a prayer that has no god to go to,
like an artificial flower that has no property to wilt.
