on your mother,

walking by the shore that night with you, reminded me of my pathetic culinary skills when you asked me if i could cook. the question is quite obvious and as much questionable. i hardly regret and fret but for once i thought, i should have known. that further reminded me of your mother. my cooking or not has not much to do with her, but somehow she hasn't left my mind, eversince.

i virtually walked through her kitchen in a dream you know, stopping to stare at the neat crockery and shining utensils i could see my awed face on. i was afraid i would drop a thing and wake her up from from an early siesta. i saw her bushy plant of tulsi in the courtyard. or does she keep it in the portico? i should have asked you. the smoothness of the carpet in your living room, the cushions on the couch. the curtains, mildly flowing in the midsummer afternoon breeze that kept me awake in my dream.

i saw her making you the dishes you so yearn for now. saw you as a kid, being bashed, being loved, being put to sleep, running to school, coming back with a scratched knee and all dirtied up. playing with the folds of her saree, making tiny excuses that made her laugh or slap you left and right.

till now i have tried to see her through your eyes. for the first time in these years of knowing you, i saw you in her eyes. her eyes. infinite unconditional love.

the more i realised her, the faster i could see the distance between the two of you diminish. in the rage of the moment, i wanted to wake up from my dream and hold you so close that nothing could do us apart. but the day hadn't broken yet.

@ Anonymous ..Does this look any less sad? If it doesn't, then my suffering is chronic.