Downsizing my meals
bigger dishware
give way to small.
Two ounces of broth
three spoons of curries
half a bowl of rice,
a glass of buttermilk
with a pinch of salt
comprises my lunch.
My old utensils have
climbed the attic, and will stay
for the rest of life.
The kitchen adopts
a miniature form that reclines
to an obnoxious silence.
There is no clattering of vessels,
no more scrubbing of charred
wares, taps do not sing.
The pantry is bare
bereft of stacks of rice,
pulses and gallons of oil.
Refrigerator breathes easily,
little dumping, of stock
a minimal occupation of space.
Tranquility unassumingly takes hold
awe grips, fear and solitude
reign supreme,
Meenas Poems 