Chutney

By Pankhuri Jain

She wakes up to her family in absolute upheaval, 

A normal weekday for the Sharma household.

She rubs her eyes, 

Waiting to grab attention from her dad, from someone, from anyone.

Grabbing her blue blankie, she drags herself into a messy kitchen,

To a woman with a face wearied down by ever-smiling wrinkles.

She watches as her grandma labours to make the perfect chutney,

“one tsp of jeera”, “aadha chammach namak”, as she mutters to herself.

The little girl thinks to herself,

This house spins on her grandma’s hands.

This day is followed by another,

But, this house seems quieter, almost eerily quiet.

No yelling to switch off the TV,

No noise of clanking utensils,

But more importantly, no noise of the grinder.

Have I woken up in a strange land?

Or, perhaps, I’m still dreaming?

She walks to the kitchen, clutching her blankie tighter than she had yesterday,

Something makes her think she needs it more today.

“Where’s grandma?” her voice thick with sleep and unable to swallow,

Her maa just cries louder.

She stays into the stillness, 

She hopes to find her grandma, and her fretting over the chutney.

But, in the Sharma household, time refused to move that day.

Not a whisper, not a stir.

Only the hum of the fridge – and there it was, 

The bowl of chutney.

By Pankhuri Jain