Better half, please come back! 🙏 🤲 🧎

Dear Lalitha,

In corners of the heart you stay,

Like soft echoes that will never sway!

It’s hard for me to cook these days but somehow I have learnt to cook 👩‍🍳 deliberately.

I use just the right amount of water to swell up those last few grains left in the jar. I have to stock up as storms are approaching fast. Last night’s terrific thunder was indicative enough for me to be prepared in advance. The winds are still blowing and the flood pools are riveting in the streets.

I am finding it difficult to head out in such a situation.

So, I am staying put and making “Kunji,”today.

I know you w’d have loved it and without exception yours would have tasted better. I still remember when our kitchen used to be almost empty, and our hunger would skyrocket at any hour of the day.

That’s when *Kunji recipe would come to our rescue. It came into our kitchen like a long, lost old friend.

You made it with left over rice 🍚. It didn’t matter whether the rice was perfectly fine. Left overs tasted even better ! You took one cup of rice and put loads of water along with it in the cauldron.

You had introduced it to me graciously. It didn’t require any fancy ingredients nor measuring cups. All we needed was rice, water, and whatever else you w’d mysteriously mix in the cauldron. Yes, I addressed the pan  —a  cauldron simply because it gave us a heavenly meal within seconds. Yes, simple meals but delicious 😋 enough to soothe our senses. It was your choicest food humbly served for that perfect comforting moment especially during rainy season.

Those days, hand in hand you would insist that I follow the preparation process of “Kunji.”

I on the other hand would frolic around in childlike delight wondering what kunji was and how it would taste.

And you would say:

“ This isn’t biryani. This is Kunji — watery, soothing, meant to fill the stomach sumptuously and calm those fidgety nerves. “ Then you would add a pinch of salt to it and let the rice porridge simmer on low heat.

Those words were enough for my soul to feel replenished.

Seeding in full swing was our love and our hearts were beheld together somewhere between those cooking chambers and charms.

Then came the grueling part.

I mean, you would insist on slow cooking the food over the lumber  logs 🪵; a make shift stove outside in the backyard. That was 39 years ago and it still feels like yesterday. The years have flown by very fast but the aforesaid time replays like this very instant.

Your exciting exchanges with me still ring in my ears. You used look at me eagerly just to draw my attention towards the kunji recipe like this :

“You’ll see the rice breaking down slowly, releasing its starch. The water shall turn cloudy and thick. That’s when the "kunji" part would come to a grueling boil.

Keep it on a low flame. Are you listening. ?!” That’s what you would say to me lovingly!

Within few minutes the kitchen would smell like a perfect home —warm and soothing.

Today, it’s Ugadi day ( an Indian harvest festival ) here. There was no rest for anyone around. Harvesting started in time. The crops were cut and stored in the granaries much before they c’d catch any frost. I rode around the fields supervising the paddy fields. Everything happened in clocked precision. Our acres of land have yielded lots of crops.

Rainstorms are setting in today.

Rainy days are  making me feel sad. I rise up as though I am about to stroll around to pick up flowers but then I settle in thinking —maybe after you return back home. A state of illusory happiness is lain across the pristine hills

Running amok is that gentle breeze, supple and soft, as though, teasing me against my natural instincts; much as much to weed out everything, naturally.

I keep getting this recursive dream time and again—The farmer  hasn’t  tended to his fields for days.

Those dreams seem like : Living long, innings long ; that unending life, and I seem to be here to stay. I wake up startled.

Now,  It’s supper time and that makes me pursue this great escape into the kitchen once again.

This season is particularly seeming strange. I am trying hard to keep up to your promise of not giving up. But , your absence hangs limp. I can’t do it alone.

The house feels different now.

I’m scared that I may forget to water the plants you liked most.

I hold your sweater close to me as though you are next to me.

I play TV on low, because you wanted me to keep it quiet while cooking.

And guess what , I am in the kitchen now. Not one cup of coffee ☕️ was made by me today.

This morning I felt like arguing with you because I didn’t feel like eating “Kunji,” in your absence.

I moved through these rooms like trying to meet you in every corner.

The bed is intact.  I haven’t slept in it ever since you left. Your side of the bed remains  untouched, but the pillow still holds the shape of waiting.  I sit there sometimes, not to lie down.

Most of the time I sleep in the easy chair.

They say old age is a curse but in my case it has turned worse. I try to listen to your footsteps that don’t come.

The hospital lights were white and steady when I admitted you there in emergency.

They said it was your fluctuating health that needed  continued monitoring and treatment. It’s been years since then.

And now you are there with the clock ticking into eternity.

I am still saving the last piece of your favorite sweet and of course — the Kunji for— us two—to relish together.

Praying frantically that the divine providence sends you back home.

Doctor’s last words to me were : “Miracles do happen. Pray for her.”

Nothing compares to you… waiting for you with aching heart!

I remain… yours lovingly—Shivam

P.S: You are not supposed to be reading these outpourings. Today , I was back at the hospital, hoping to see you there. There was something about the way those attendants gazed at me. They all looked at me, not with anger, but with the knowledge that I was imagining something that wasn’t supposed to.

And the worst part is: part of me didn’t want to leave the hospital premises right away.

And I know, part of you wants to come back home and see what’s in this journal.

• Kunji : A simple comfort food made out of left over 🌾 🍚 rice in the Indian households (Telugu homes,) for generations.