Today I used the last of dried Tamarind my grandma packed for me two years ago. Two years ago, I did not foresee that she will no longer be there to pack me another consignment. Having lived alone almost all my life, going back home once a quarter was an absolute delight. Grandma would be waiting on the portico, sometime, she would not not sleep late into nights, waiting for her favorite grandson's footsteps to alight. She would hug me and when she did, everything was all right.
Tonight's fish curry tastes wonderful. Wonderful because the last sprinkle of tamarind adds to the spice. There will be this spice no more. Ah! fickle life!
If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.
If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.