Eternal Grind

Peeking through the thin curtain

the ones with the polka dots,

I can see my mother

lifting and dragging

the dough along the sides

of the stone mortar.

 

She is cutting onions

into thin rings

along with the chillies

her eyes watering.

Or is she crying?

 

The window left open

drags into ebbs

onto freshly swept floor.

The phenol is over.

Why is the floor so shiny?

 

Dad has left the groceries

on the dinning table

Squashed tomatoes. Unpeeled onions. Tiny garlic.

He has switched on the TV

and is laughing. At something.

 

.The exhaust fan is black

covered in grim and soot

the cooker is shooting rings of steam

the milk is spilling over

and the lighter is wet.

 

It’s the evening.

 

Dinner over dirty tables,

time-tables and lesson plans

milk with horlicks for me.

 

 

The night in the kitchen is out.

Yet the moon still shines,

so she won’t get fired from her job.

 

 

 

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