The Avurudu table, looks a banquet,
The rock hard Aluwa, a breastful of Konde Kawum,
And the diamond-shaped Mung Kawum,
All looking festive, spread on a wooden table.
As I remember my grandmother
Making little bloated nipples
On a flat Kawum, showing how easy
It can be done. Time, it erases memories
And lives, rushing like a juggernaut,
While the timeless treats take,
A bite of your eye and a chunk out
Of your teeth, wondering how
Some traditions perpetuate
While others die.
While love stands in the open
In checkered sarongs and flower-rich dresses,
Aspiring to fit into the April spring.
Renewal, is the sound of an Asian Koel
And red flowers on tree tops,
And little treats warming the mouths
Of little ragamuffins, who will I suppose,
Will never remember three generations back,
When my grandma made everything
From raw ingredients.
As we forget the buttons on a keyboard,
To open the doors of our mouths,
To the two way traffic of food and conversation,
And a culture that untightens fastened lips,
To flourish, in cascades of the tummy,
And words flung by lip ledges, the inside
And out, pleasured by the presence of kin,
Huddling around a round table,
Finding out how beautiful slowing down time is.
Still, a mouth too knows the fine art
Of a smile, that commonplace tradition,
Of how to be photogenic, to the need of the hour;
An auspicious selfie…!