The Kitchen

By Shweta Prasad

As the day began,

darkness broke,

by the half lit daylight-

like every other day,

the fan hung on the ceiling,

moving an inch slower;

with the days passing and dust clinging on,

those beautiful weaves,

garnishing architectured walls

the work of a lost spider.

My feet now bare on ground,

those fingers running along my eyes,

capturing reality after the dreamy night,

I walk, half awake

into clouds of smoke.

Searching for her.

Watery eyes,

the perfect smile adorned her face.

Those faded lilies on her saree,

withered with her sweat.

She often wiped my tears from the smoke.

Coughing on the spices,

it was she who still chose to stay.

I, open my eyes,

Webs entangled the fan,

never to drift.

I walked-

to the most walked in abode.

Clouds of smoke laiden,

bound on window panes and walls around,

I called out 'maa',

as I see her faded smile,

fading off this time.

Flames slept forever,

spices were boxed untouched for long.

Under rays from the greasy bulb,

tears ran down hopeless.

But this time,

nobody wiped them.

This is where she is,

This is my favourite void,

My mother's kitchen.

By Shweta Prasad