Mothers of My Dream
Mothers are not writing recipe books anymore.
No half kg of butter mixed with one tablespoon of cinnamon powder scribbled on torn pages.
No recipes are getting handed down to the next generation
There is no fragrance of oil in old washed-out nighties.
No smells of fish curry on a Sunday afternoon either.
Mothers don’t call each other,
To recite the recipes on phones anymore.
There is no batter prepared at 11:30 pm.
No species are drying on the terrace either.
No carpet next to it where mothers would oil their hair every afternoon.
Mothers are not having afternoon naps,
all of them together after the 11 am tea.
They are not heading to the Wednesday sabzi mandi at 5 pm to buy fruits and vegetables for the family.
They are not bargaining with the women from the nearby villages
Mothers do not have a pouch to keep the money tied around their waist,
They don’t have the keys either.
Oranges are not peeled off one by one and placed in the fridge for anyone to walk in and eat.
No used lemon is stored carefully sealed in the glass jar for pickles.
No curd stored in the earthen pot either
No milk with dates is secretly prepared to soothe the menstrual pain
No turmeric marks are left on the latest covers of Grishobhas and Feminas
Mothers are not sitting for lunch after everyone is fed at home
They are not going to inspire poems, exhibition halls, and theatres
Never ever going to scintillate your nostalgia in sepia tones
They are not going to be unsung heroes of the households
Not even the heroes of your life
No silence in the afternoon when everyone is gone
mothers are not writing recipe books at all
They are not writing anything for you anymore
In a shared household of four or five,
mothers are not doing anything
In my dream, they do absolutely nothing at all.
