My Mother by Lakshman Bulusu (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

My Mother
by Lakshman Bulusu

One word
One world
Host
to a host of worlds

Your name, priceless
Your hands still cradle me
Your smile bears the light
of a thousand lamps
Your soft words—
My son, I am proud of you.
You scored the highest GPA—
echo love and resound in my heart
like dancing anklets
Your timeless prayer—
Let God be with you in mild and wild times
Your sacrifices, too deep for tears—
help with my homework,
preparing my favorite carrot halwa.
You, a poem personified.

PHOTO: Carrot halwa by Elizaveta Sokolovskaya.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My poem is about my mother and how compassionate she was, be it praising me on graduating with highest or making my favorite carrot halwa. It also highlights her prayer to God to protect me in “mild and wild times.” It describes my view of her—be it her soothing smile, her protective hands, or her love everlasting in its height. All these remind me, “What a priceless name a mother’s is.”

PHOTO: The author’s mother on her sixtieth birthday (Hyderabad, India).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lakshman Bulusu is a poet, educator, and author based in Princeton, New Jersey. He has been published in over 40 literary journals in the US, UK, Ireland, China, Taiwan, and India. He invented the “Star” poem genre and “Miracle Star” poem genre in 2016 and 2021 respectively. His poem “The Best Memorial” was chosen for the Origin Stories (April 2022) in The Gyroscope Review for National Poetry Month. His “Star” poem, “For Another New Day, Another New Light,” was chosen for theatrical performance of Healing Voices: Caregivers’ Stories on Stage, a joint 2023 production of New Jersey Theatre Alliance and McCarter Theatre, Princeton New Jersey.

One with green fingers by Srabani Bhattacharya (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

One with green fingers
by Srabani Bhattacharya

Maa will rescue plants
unwanted on pavements,
come home to wash leftover
pickle from an old jar
or scavenge a cup with
a broken handle and shove
in a handful of soil, make
a hole and tuck in roots
crooning baby talk lovingly
asking it to grow well only
to repot it over and over again.

She will run after the sun
and steal sunny spots from
basking cats to favour her
flourishing flower; cry if
I throw away banana peels
or drain the rotting pan of
vegetable-washed water
because everything in kitchen
belongs to her family extended
from children who have escaped
her wing.

I see her call her new younglings
pet names and think that
she has not known anything better
than the time of day when the sun
shines brightest to feed her brood:
Not the tea kettle where she
makes rounds and rounds of
tea to bribe baba to hang planters
on hooks or trim the overgrown
hedge of the shiuli. Nor the
rusted gas stove before which
between her endless chores
and preparation of four dishes
for four people, she studies
poetry when she is not searching
“how to make terrariums” or
“best rooftop garden ideas”
on YouTube.

No. She has not
known anything better than
to pile desires and dreams
in compost pits to decompose
with the egg shells and vegetable
peels to feed her children so they
can grow and grow and grow.

Previously published on The Kali Project (2021).

PHOTO: Balcony garden by Alexi Novikov.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My mother can turn any empty container into a planter. All our unused kettles, cups, bowls, jars, bottles, pencil holders – you name it – are refurbished into plant homes. The best part of her day is the few hours she spends composting, repotting, and tending to her terrace garden. I have seen maa put her everything into her plant projects – her time, her savings, her online studies, her creativity. As a grown daughter, I often wonder how much of herself she put into her family and in bringing me and my brother up.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: This photo of Maa and I was taken by my father when we were on a family trip to Puri in April 2018.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A poet, editor, and copywriter based in Kolkata, India, Srabani Bhattacharya completed her MA in English Literature from Jadavpur University in 2019. Her work has been published on LiveWire, Muse India, NOVUS Art Literary Journal, Usawa Literary Review, Rigorous Magazine, and other literary spaces. She was the finalist in Wordweavers poetry contest and Five Elements of nature poetry contest. You can find her weaving poetry @paperbird.me.

Cumin Song by Mohini Malhotra (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Cumin Song
by Mohini Malhotra

My mother is no longer with us. Her greatest fear was to be remembered as she last was. Parkinson’s ravaged her—her body moved on its own volition, her hands and legs defied her.

She once draped herself in silk sarees, wore dangling earrings, and necklaces graced her slender collarbone. She once prepared fragrant curries, mounds of raisin and nut studded saffron rice, and her spherical pooris caressed cumin-flecked potatoes. I called to ask for her lamb curry recipe even though she had recited it to me one hundred times. I told her mine never ever came out as good as hers. I called to remind her of trips where we crossed mountains in Nepal by car, and how her cumin-sprinkled parathas sustained us. I had to learn to accept her invitation for a cup of tea. Her need for dignity overrode the risk of hitting her head on the counter edge.

Food was her gift then, and is her gift of memory now. Each fold in her sari lifted a new scent when she moved—cumin, coriander, cinnamon. The scent of roasted cumin smells of celebrations, of gatherings of family and friends. It reminds of fields—like a quilt of green patchwork—from my bedroom window in Nepal.

Now I am at an age where I think of making memories. I hope the scent of cumin will link my sons to me as it does me to my mother.

PHOTO: Cumin, whole and ground by Kippy Spilker.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mohini Malhotra is originally from Nepal and is a Washington DC-based writer, adjunct professor, and founder of the social enterprise artbywomen.gallery. She loves language, and her fiction has appeared in several anthologies (This is What America Looks Like, 2021; Essential Voices: A COVID-19 Anthology, West Virginia University Press, 2023; Stories for Home, U.K, 2018) and literary journals, including Gravel, Bloom, West Texas Literary Review, Silver Birch Press, Blink-Ink, Flash Frontier, 82 Star Review, A Quiet Courage, and DC Writers’ Center.

For More Than Fifty Years… by Lavinia Kumar (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

For More Than Fifty Years…
by Lavinia Kumar

As she had for more than fifty years
            since she was married, his sister sat cross-legged
on her blanket-covered charpoy in a front room
            in India to prepare for the evening meal.
I saw her pluck small methi* leaves from hundreds of stems,
            her green pile slowly rising

as her husband took pod after pod, removed peas,
            chatting with us, comfortable in his chair,
on the wide-tiled terrace, his yellow-green pool
            deepening in a large-striped blue bowl.

Oceans later, I sprinkle, from a box, dried methi,
            into a white powdered rice-lentil mix,
stir in yogurt and water to a thin paste,
            then fry, as pancakes, tangy uttappams.

His sister made methi muttar malai,
            a creamy dish with peas, and extra flavors
of onion, garlic, cumin, and hot pepper,
            served with her fresh roti.

I, now for fifty years, make methi uttappam
            served with bitter gourd pickle,
or fresh raita of cucumber grated into yogurt.

* Methi = fenugreek

PHOTO: Rani Brand Methi, found here.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem, about methi, was first written years ago, after a visit to Aurangabad in India. I thought about it, and rediscovered it, recently, when I had to buy another box of methi after giving a daughter my box—along with a fresh bag of the uttappam mix. Uttappam has many spellings because it is not an English word, so, essentially, none could be considered correct.

PHOTO: MTR Uttappam mix, found here.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lavinia Kumar’s latest book, Spirited American Women: Early Writers, Artists, & Activists, contains short prose biographies/histories of pre-Civil War writers, poets, publishers, painters, sculptors, abolitionists, early suffragettes, and activists.  She is author of three poetry books, including No Longer Silent: the Silk and Iron of Women Scientists, and four chapbooks, including  Beauty. Salon. Art ( Desert Willow Press). Her recent poems appeared in The Examined Life, Kelsey Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, New Jersey Journal of Poetry, New Verse News, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Tiny Seed, and US1 Worksheets. Visit her at laviniakumar.net.

Kitchen Spices by Smitha Vishwanath (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Kitchen Spices
by Smitha Vishwanath

The first time I tried to cook, I stared at my fingers
Then, I conjured Amma up—she in her starched cotton sari
Sitting on the kottemane her sari raised to the knee
Her legs parted on either side of the oralu kallu*

Mamma cooked well
But I liked Amma’s better
So what if she made only the local cuisine
Unlike Mamma, who could whip up a multicuisine feast at the drop of a     hat.

Mamma never let me in; she told me I got in the way
But Amma, she let me watch her.
As she conjured up a meal
She looked like she were dancing—

the way she emptied a plate full of grated coconut
in to the well of the grinding stone; the way her wrist moved,
as she wielded the pestle—round and round
It looked like the earth spinning on its axis,

and the way she daintily picked the dried, red chilies
in hamsaasya hasta mudra**
How many? I would ask her
“Six or seven,” she’d say, dropping them into the granite womb

On the bed of white coconut
Then came the golden beads of coriander
“Eshtu***, Amma?” I’d ask
“Ishtu****,” she’d reply, pointing to her fist,

A network of plump veins showing through her gossamer skin
The seeds fell like drops of rain in the basin
along with half an onion, two garlic pods, a finger of ginger,
a bark of turmeric and a pebble of tamarind.

Then came the secret ingredient; she swore by it.
It rested in a white ceramic jar in the corner
“This,” she’d say, “does the magic.”
And pull out its contents in the cup of her palm.

And wave it with the flourish of a magician under my nose—
pearls of roasted mustard seeds, peppercorn, fenugreek, and cumin,
before sprinkling it into the crater.
Crunch, grind, squelch.

The pestle gyrated fluidly in her hand.
And I’d watch in awe, the spices transform
into a smooth, flaming orange paste
“It’s your hands that have the magic, Amma,” I’d say

“Mine can never be as good.”
And she’d reply, in her confident, quiet way,
letting the pestle rest on the edge of the stone
while she scooped out the ground masala with a sweep

“Yours will too. You’ll see.
The whorls on your fingers are like mine.”

REFERENCES:
*orala kallu: grinding stone used in the old days
**hamsaasya hasta mudra: touching index finger to thumb
***Eshtu: how much
****Ishtu: this much
Amma: grandma
Mamma: mother

“Kitchen Spices” was published by SpillWords Press in 2022.

PHOTO: Indian spices by Ratul Ghosh on Unsplash.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem was first published by SpillWords Press under the title, “Grandma’s cooking.”  I wrote the poem for the prompt “Kitchen spices” during NaPoWriMo. It was written in memory of my grandma, whom I fondly called “Amma.” September 8, 2023 marked the third year anniversary of her passing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Smitha Vishwanath is a banker turned writer. She began her writing journey in 2016 through her blog. Thieving Magpies, Spillwords Press, Silver Birch Press, Borderless Journal, and Rebelle Society have published her poetry. In 2019, her poem, ‘Omid,” was nominated for Best of the Net and her poems, “Do you have dreams?” and “Forgotten,” were given special mention in NaPoWriMo, 2021 and 2022, hosted by Maureen Thomson. She was awarded the Reuel International Prize for poetry during the NaPoWriMo month by TSL. In 2019, she co-authored a book of poetry, Roads: A Journey with Verses, which received positive reviews. Smitha’s writing is peppered with the lessons learned from the plethora of invaluable experiences that come from having lived in India, UAE, and Iran, worked in a multi-cultural environment, and travelled widely. She resides in Dhaka, Bangladesh, with her husband and two daughters. When she is not writing, you can find her painting, traveling, or sharing reviews of books she has read on Goodreads, Amazon, and her blog. Her debut novel, Coming Home, was released in March 2023 and is currently available through Amazon. Find her on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter (X).

Turmeric by Carol Tahir (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Turmeric
by Carol Tahir

I was introduced to Turmeric by my Indo-Pak
husband who was born in India and raised in Pakistan.
Making Indo-Pak food was a new experience
for a small town midwest girl.
Of course my introduction was an explosion of color.
I spilled a jar on my clothing, counters, floors and body.
It was a Diwali festival in my kitchen.
The muddy brown of turmeric root peeled or cut is
the color of saffron when dried, mashed or chopped.
It is the Indian saffron, sustainer of life, healer of the body.
A bitter potion that stains the tongue, hands and clothes.
A gift from the Gods, a touch of the sun .
Curries, congees or tea for comfort, to release pain.
A bucket full of earthy rhizomes
adds a musky, bitter peppery taste
if used in abundance,
but a pinch, dash or sprinkle
Adds the taste of sunshine and earth.

PHOTO: Turmeric by Nirmal Sarkar.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My husband is an amateur herbalist who swears by the medicinal properties of turmeric. Over the years, we have found it to be helpful in relieving pain in joints and muscles as well as adding a rich golden color to curries.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Carol Tahir lives and writes in Southern California. A retired cosmetologist. she is a visual artist who loves to paint in most mediums. Several of her poems have appeared in online journals, reviews, anthologies, and blogs.

Tintinnabula-tion by Ellen Rowland (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Tintinnabulation
by Ellen Rowland

The tips of her pinched forefinger and thumb
were stained with paprika and turmeric,
a culinary henna trailing down her palm.
Her bright sari smelled of toasted cumin
and when her bangled wrists tapped the
edge of her bowl, they made a clear brass
bell of connection. There was no measuring,
no weighing. “Be generous with all,” she said.
I remember how she cupped a mortar and pestle,
the sandy crunch as she crushed globes of coriander
and clove, cracked pepper and petals of sea salt,
the soft release of garlic and ginger perfuming
the air under the weight of her knife. She anointed
pieces of lamb and eggplant, tomato, and onion,
her fingers oily and thick with spice paste.
While the meal began to sizzle, she nestled neat
balls of risen wheat beneath a clean, white cloth
and put them aside to rest. Soon, she said, patting
them gently. Only then did she look up at her students
and smile. She was stunning, small beads of sweat
on her upper lip, a halo of grey at the hairline.
“Can you smell that? It’s heaven.”

PHOTO: Spices for Indian cuisine by Vishakha Shah.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: While visiting Kerala, India, a few years ago, I took a cooking class with a woman who taught from behind her kitchen table. There were maybe eight of us. She didn’t explain much, but the care with which she prepared the meal felt like a holy experience, a sacred ceremony honoring the food and our senses. We all remained silent, mesmerized. The only sounds were the tinkling of her bracelets and the transformation of ingredients. Maybe a few pens taking notes. And the smells were heavenly, the meal never forgotten.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ellen Rowland is the author of two collections of haiku/senryu, Light, Come Gather Me and Blue Seasons, as well as the book Everything I Thought I Knew, essays on living, learning and parenting outside the status quo. Her writing has appeared in numerous literary journals and in several poetry anthologies, most recently The Wonder of Small Things edited by James Crews. Her debut collection of full-length poems, No Small Thing, was recently published by Fernwood Press. She lives off the grid with her family on an island in Greece. Connect with her on Instagram and Facebook.

Masala Chai by Geetha Ravichandran (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Masala Chai
by Geetha Ravichandran

Self-proclaimed experts in the family
busied themselves
making
steaming masala chai
to salvage
some part
of long, boring family gatherings.
Into the simmering kettle went
ginger, pepper, cardamom, clove, cinnamon
and other unnamed ingredients
guaranteed to shake out
the effects of a restful siesta
and keep the family gossip flowing.
I’ve tried to keep my distance from this spiky brew.
Even the scroll of virtues
of spices—immunity booster, digestive aid,
seems tiresome.
At a roadside eatery, the other day
I looked warily at the cauldron
brimming with chai.
But when it was poured into earthen cups
and handed out,
I caved in to the subtle aroma.
Sipping masala chai, seated on a wooden bench
watching the chaos of evening traffic,
finding a strand of saffron
in the clay cup…
is what slacking is about.

PHOTO: Masala chai tea and spices by Yulia Voneisenstein.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: A cup of piping hot tea, loaded with spices is an anytime, any occasion drink in India. It is considered ideal for a break at work, to celebrate a gathering of friends, or just to revive drooping spirits. I have only recently warmed to this go-to beverage.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Geetha Ravichandran lives in Chennai, India. Her two collections of poetry Arjavam and the Spell of the Rain Tree, published by Red River, are available on Amazon. Her recent work has  appeared in Silver Birch Press, Failed Haiku, and Trash Panda. She loves reading, yoga, and watching the sea.

Garam Masala, 1972 by Tere Sievers (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Garam Masala, 1972
by Tere Sievers
               For Brooke

We stand on their front porch,
invited to dinner by our friends,
smell the bright aromatics of
crushed spices from the kitchen,
cinnamon, cardamom, cloves,
the perfume of garam masala.

                    II
I pull out Brooke’s 1972 recipe book,
food splotched and yellow-paged.
On the inside cover is a hand-
written menu: chicken curry,
samosas, naan, chutney,
hot, spicy food, a match for
the heat she was seeking.

                    III
The 70s warmed up her life.
She welcomed fiery kisses,
worshiped sun in a macramé  bikini,
tried thrills on all the hot rides.
The years burned by, took their toll.
She was alive, and then she wasn’t.

                    IV
In my kitchen cupboard, 48 jars
of spices, caps tight, wait for an
invitation from a recipe to open up.
The garam masala jar is empty
but I can still smell her spice.

PHOTO: Organic Zing Garam Masala, available at Amazon. Ingredients include coriander, cumin, cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, and black pepper.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: In the mid-1970s, I attended the weekly Beyond Baroque Poetry Workshop and benefited from the supportive environment. Now, my weekly Poetry fix comes in Donna Hilbert’s poetry workshop. There, surrounded by talented writers, now good friends, I continue the effort. As I age, writing poetry helps me see clearly the joys of a long life and teaches me how to survive its losses.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tere Sievers lives and teaches in Long Beach California. Her poems have appeared in ONE ART, A Year of Being Here, Nerve Cowboy, Pearl Magazine, as well as Arroyo Seco Press and Silver Birch Press Anthologies.

Roses and Cardamom by Sheila Hailstone (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Roses and Cardamom
by Sheila Hailstone

On a slow rice boat in Kerala
we drifted on a lazy river
dipping into jars of lip tingling
chili red Tamatar Kasaundi,
our mouths igniting
on Samosa and Pakora,
only quenched by cool Lassi.
A match of minds and hearts
of Thali plates and eating by hand
eyes connecting over
dishes spice full.
It ended with a gift of Rose toffee
sweetened with palm jaggery
laced delicately with cardamon
wrapped in last month’s newspaper.
savored on a train to Mumbai
as farewell tears fell uncontrollably.
This is how India entered my heart and never left.

PHOTO: Indian sweets by Kailash Kumar.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: In the early days of marriage, my husband took me to his beloved India and this is a reflection of this time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
From Aotearoa, New Zealand, Sheila Hailstone sends poetry out into the world. In 2020, her work, “Waiting for an avalanche when you live by the sea,”  was awarded first prize in New Zealand Micro Flash Lockdown competition. She is the author of children ́s stories and a memoir, Dancing Around Cancer.