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.
Meenas Poems 