At the ripe old age of 89,  grandmother
has uncovered life's purpose —live to eat.
Planning the daily menu, 
dismissing suggestions
of healthier options, she stirs aromas
out of even pulses and grains.
'Others before us, ate everything
and lived as long as they had to,' she says.
'Diets are fads that shackle the spirit.'
And she has stories to tell
of plenty amidst scarcity, 
sautéed pumpkin leaves,
pickled orange rinds,
of pepper, for which her father 
took two buses to the neighbouring town
and brought back surprise jackfruits, 
of coconuts that grew in the backyard,
which needed hard work 
to get to the soft core,
and garnished almost every meal. 
Kitchen queen, smiling tyrant,
she peers into our plates,
says we eat too little
and need to be grateful for abundance. 
                        

After 29 years of raising a family,
it’s impossible to exchange sweet- nothings.
But I do have to make an effort
not to grit my teeth
when you bring me a bag
of my favorite goodies
which includes the wine 
I gave up drinking two years ago.
It’s your exasperating kindness
that stops my logical arguments.
We have dragged ourselves 
through crisis to loss,
from theatre to forest trails
and back from the edge of the cliff.
Our life is like the overarching
sweet-sour tamarind tree
that sways in the night-air,
even as ghosts hang about its branches.