Nostalgia
Noorulain Noor
2011
It's the kitchen I ache for:
The purple October-dawn sky
fractured
by a sanguine smear;
the glass-top table gleaming
in the uncertain light
reflecting a laden face,
a pair of stooped shoulders,
a belly still loose from having you in it;
the petals of a monstrous orchid
on the window-sill, drooping,
the long stem bent over
like the flex in the spine
of an old woman;
your head in the crook of my arm,
your body like the warm weight
of an herb-infused heat-pack,
your eyes glinting,
onyx orbs closing languidly;
the smell of toasted bread
with a dollop of butter
and freshly ground black pepper,
a broken pod of cardamom
swimming in the thick layer of milk-fat
on the surface of my chai,
the taste of warm chocolate
melting along the edges of a tea-biscuit;
sleep stealing over your swaddled body,
an enraptured stillness except the clink of china,
and the sky rolling itself thinner and thinner,
paler and paler.
2008
It's the kitchen I ache for:
The hope and trepidation
of an inexperienced cook
thick in the air like the smell of onions
caramelizing in a cast-iron pan;
the hesitancy of each knife stroke
chopping parsley, basil, cilantro,
slicing the tip of a wayward finger;
the defeat of a burned dinner,
and the mounting distress for a fight,
looming like a flood warning
in the valley during heavy downpours;
the ecstasy of a perfectly cooked meal,
vindication in the symmetry and imperfections
of homemade bread,
in perfectly roasted chicken
with a touch of garlic and rosemary;
the failures and triumphs
of the early seasons of love
in the company of a two-decade-old gas oven,
a lazy ceiling fan ricketing on waning afternoons,
a wall stained with culinary mishaps - pasta sauce,
sputtering oil, scorched cheese,
a thrift-store, threadbare mat on the floor,
hiding the rip in the linoleum,
offering comfort to tenacious feet.
1995
It's the kitchen I ache for:
The cool epoxy floor, mopped
with diluted Dettol, the artificially-sweet
scent, a hint of pine and spirits,
lingering in the air;
the round walnut table,
chipped and unsteady,
littered with pencil shavings,
geometry sets, dirty lunch-pails,
note-books, ink-pots, fountain pens;
the chatter of three little girls
over chopped cucumber salad,
mint chutney, chicken karahi, and
ballooned chapaatis exhaling steam
upon landing on cool earthenware plates;
my mother's sonorous humming
lost in the loud crackle of the old freezer,
lost in the plumes of flour rising from her dough,
lost in the clatter of dishes soaking in the stone basin;
rain falling along the sloping tin roof,
prattling like glass marbles,
a spray of monsoon entering through the screen door,
misting walls, making wooden cabinets swell,
and all the while spicy potato fritters
turning golden-brown in an age-blackened wok,
cognizant of the good weather.
Noorulain Noor
2011
It's the kitchen I ache for:
The purple October-dawn sky
fractured
by a sanguine smear;
the glass-top table gleaming
in the uncertain light
reflecting a laden face,
a pair of stooped shoulders,
a belly still loose from having you in it;
the petals of a monstrous orchid
on the window-sill, drooping,
the long stem bent over
like the flex in the spine
of an old woman;
your head in the crook of my arm,
your body like the warm weight
of an herb-infused heat-pack,
your eyes glinting,
onyx orbs closing languidly;
the smell of toasted bread
with a dollop of butter
and freshly ground black pepper,
a broken pod of cardamom
swimming in the thick layer of milk-fat
on the surface of my chai,
the taste of warm chocolate
melting along the edges of a tea-biscuit;
sleep stealing over your swaddled body,
an enraptured stillness except the clink of china,
and the sky rolling itself thinner and thinner,
paler and paler.
2008
It's the kitchen I ache for:
The hope and trepidation
of an inexperienced cook
thick in the air like the smell of onions
caramelizing in a cast-iron pan;
the hesitancy of each knife stroke
chopping parsley, basil, cilantro,
slicing the tip of a wayward finger;
the defeat of a burned dinner,
and the mounting distress for a fight,
looming like a flood warning
in the valley during heavy downpours;
the ecstasy of a perfectly cooked meal,
vindication in the symmetry and imperfections
of homemade bread,
in perfectly roasted chicken
with a touch of garlic and rosemary;
the failures and triumphs
of the early seasons of love
in the company of a two-decade-old gas oven,
a lazy ceiling fan ricketing on waning afternoons,
a wall stained with culinary mishaps - pasta sauce,
sputtering oil, scorched cheese,
a thrift-store, threadbare mat on the floor,
hiding the rip in the linoleum,
offering comfort to tenacious feet.
1995
It's the kitchen I ache for:
The cool epoxy floor, mopped
with diluted Dettol, the artificially-sweet
scent, a hint of pine and spirits,
lingering in the air;
the round walnut table,
chipped and unsteady,
littered with pencil shavings,
geometry sets, dirty lunch-pails,
note-books, ink-pots, fountain pens;
the chatter of three little girls
over chopped cucumber salad,
mint chutney, chicken karahi, and
ballooned chapaatis exhaling steam
upon landing on cool earthenware plates;
my mother's sonorous humming
lost in the loud crackle of the old freezer,
lost in the plumes of flour rising from her dough,
lost in the clatter of dishes soaking in the stone basin;
rain falling along the sloping tin roof,
prattling like glass marbles,
a spray of monsoon entering through the screen door,
misting walls, making wooden cabinets swell,
and all the while spicy potato fritters
turning golden-brown in an age-blackened wok,
cognizant of the good weather.