Her offering to Lord Hanuman.
Still, she cooked.
A few days back she was sick.
Fever took over. She shivered.
Could hardly stand.
Still, she cooked.
Months back it was her birthday.
Everyone wished.
There were gifts.
A celebration and a party.
Guess who prepared the feast.
On Mother's Day, she cooked.
On Father's Day, she cooked.
When she was pregnant she cooked.
On the day she delivered me,
She must have cooked.
Maybe when the nascent earth was
Born. When the planets aligned and
The big bang happened.
Even then she must have been cooking.
Through the world wars and
Through terrorist attacks.
Through earthquakes and
Volcanic eruptions..
Even when my father abused
And when I made her cry
She still cooked.
Maybe that's how she expresses.
See how conveniently I say that.
She cooks when angry.
She cooks when she's sad.
She loves me by cooking.
The salt is perfect even when
She hates.
Global warming hasn't stopped her.
Neither has the feminist movement.
Maybe the future of flying cars and
Sarcastic robots will make her wonder
And make her laugh and she'll
Still cook.
One day she will die and
In her own funeral, she'll be
Compelled to cook.
And that'll be the last meal
The world will ever have.
The great Indian kitchen ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
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