by Vinita Agrawal
[box] In a poem that evokes nostalgia and brings in fragrances of the past, Vinita Agrawal describes a beautiful experience of how a little girl and her grandmother walk up to a kiln with all the key ingredients to get some tasty biscuits baked from the bakers.[/box]She would tuck my small hand into her own
And in the other, carry a 10 kg square tin
Of flour, sugar, ghee and a few large cardamoms.
Every summer holidays, grandma and I
Would walk to the kiln just around the corner of our house,
Me wearing a faded frock and rubber slippers
She in a cotton sari.
Sheets of dust would rise like sheer curtains in the noon-time heat
Coat our faces, get into our mouths, leave them gritty
But nothing deferred the sweet anticipation
Of the taste of freshly baked biscuits, straight from the bakers.
At the kiln, she would let go of my hand,
Loop the border of her sari behind her ears
Because it was too hot and
Standing before the furnace made us feel hotter.
We would hand our rusty tin and its contents
To the baker. Grandma would also give him a few grubby rolled notes
I would give him a shy happy smile,
For he knew how I loved these wheat-flour biscuits
And that I accompanied my grandma every year
to watch them being freshly prepared –
Creamed, kneaded, rolled, garnished, baked.
Perhaps I knew then that the aroma wafting
Out of the process would make its way across years,
Across time. That it would wrap my childhood
– Keep it warm against my pillows at night
A memory to cherish, where grandma, cookies and love
Became one. Now, years later, I walk down to the same corner
Where the kiln once stood.
A footwear shop stands in its place.
Neon lights have replaced its blazing fires
Uniformed staff strut across its polished floor.
The smell of leather overrides the air.
Granny’s soft voice is missing.
Her cajoling tone telling the baker to bake the biscuits
‘nice and brown’ is missing. Her warm hand-clasp is missing.
But if I close my eyes, if I surrender to my senses,
The aroma of freshly prepared biscuits wafts right in;
Tender and indulgent, a treasure of memories, thoroughly baked in the furnace of time.
Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals.
[facebook]Share[/facebook] [retweet]Tweet[/retweet]
