Home insisted on grief—an overabundance of never being enough,
consisting of too little, reduced to living in margins. I found myself wanting
to explain every breath, as if to forge a reason to my right to life,
to a house that accepts my existence, but the word proud is
not in the top-ten adjectives used to describe me,
and to myself—to stop subsisting, and find a reason to live,
truly. Hunger is unknown in this house,
food—the currency of love. The first house on the right of this
street becomes known for its food—people line up, asking for their favourites,
biryani that perfumes the air the moment you open the front door,
chilli-chicken that compels you into seconds and thirds,
curries so fragrant, well-spiced omitting maybe just one-or-two from
the spice cabinet. An apology in this house is a well-cooked meal,
you’ll find the words ‘I’m sorry’ at the bottom of your plate,
because outright apologies taste like tamarind on the tongue.
I suppose this limiting of language fosters a certain creativity—
laddus, jalebis, mutton rolls, vadais are progeny of love,
what does one cook to apologize for burden,
when one hasn’t quite lived up to their potential—
when one is afflicted, when one will never
be enough?
