How I Go About

The frequent calls 
those at the door
and those in phone
take my breath pot.

With the ladle in one hand
 I rush to the door to see
 find one who has come 
looking for someone

who bears my name.
 I tell him to look elsewhere,
return to my kitchen
 my phone rings.

Picking up the mobile
my fingers soaked  
in flour, I answer
Lo! it is a wrong call.

Being half way 
through  cooking
 I forget what I have 
added, once again 

into the process
salt, masala, and tamarind
I hasten to complete
as it is past lunch time.

While consuming find 
they are perfect. none 
of the diners complain,
with a pat on my back.

I   go to my bed contented.
sleep engulfs, no sooner
the ringing starts 
I am up once again.