By Srija Mondal
The warm wisp of tea floats,
Near the kitchen stove.
The woman huddles around
Cooking, filling water bottles.
The lid of lunch boxes stubbornly doesn’t close.
The knife struggling with the guava has gone blunt.
“Mumma I don’t want to drink milk!”
“Honey the sabzi needs more salt!”
The house help is finally here,
Right after the work is done and they are gone,
She strains the tea and takes a sip,
Too bland, too stale, too cold, as always.
Evening strolls, pages flip over.
The tired body tries to nourish the mind.
Another cup of tea is placed on the table,
Its warmth vaporises into a smoke of disappointments,
Over the degree certificates hanged on the wall,
Dancing on the ebony and ivory keys of the harmonium.
She types one word, document titled ‘thesis’,
Ding Dong! The bell rings and comes,
A worn-out child and an exhausted man.
“Mumma, a lot of homework!”
“Honey, can you make me something?”
The woman smiles and gets up
Keeping down the pen, she holds the spatula.
The tea remains, unattended and forgotten,
Later she takes a sip again,
Too bland, too stale, too cold, as always.
She remembers the sweet, warm taste of childhood.
A cup handed to a little girl by her loving mother,
In the wee hours of the morning, when the whole neighbourhood slept.
She pours the cup of tea in the sink,
Dreams, future, and identity, spills and runs down the gutter.
Missing pieces of a past, when she was a whole person.
Now too tired to taste.