The Dinner
Saturday dinner at my grandmother’s house.
The old oval table groans with different meats:
Mutton cutlets with tomato gravy and bakery bread
Chicken with a sprinkling of potato straws
Pomfret swimming in the oil in which it was fried
Scrambled eggs, my Aunt’s special, quivering
On an aluminium lid.
Gossip and laughter waft over my bowed head
Food congeals on cold fingers
As salacious details are savoured.
I eat in silence, not looking up
Focusing on more real pleasures.
The whoosh of air escaping
As rice, dal and the fish oil get squished together.
The squelchy, drooly feeling in my mouth
Of potato straws drunk on gravy.
Chewing; chewing.
The table gets lighter and talk dribbles down.
Spoons clang in near-empty bowls.
I am urged to finish the last cutlet,
The small slice of fish, mop up the egg.
I happily agree. A twelve-year-old wearing a loose nightdress
So as to have no hindrances
On the way to Food Heaven.
I carefully put away to one side of my plate
A selection of the best morsels.
The slightly burnt gravy scraped from the bottom,
The tail of the pomfret with no bones.
These are to be eaten last
A toast to the feast I have enjoyed.
Slowly they get up, chairs scraping,
Sisters, aunts, my silver-haired grandmother.
There will be dessert later, China grass and fruit salad.
But I replete will pass.
My sisters help to clear up the table.
But no one disturbs me
As I sit back, feet on the chair opposite
In meditation, in communion
With my gurgling stomach, my gently beating heart.
