[43] Masala Dabba, Anuja Ghimire

my mother used mortar and pestle to grind cumin and coriander
I have a coffee bean grinder that crushes the spice seeds
years have shrunk into ribbons since I left home
I can buy a masala dabba from the Internet,
seven steel receptacles for spice
small spoons so I don’t stain salt with turmeric
home in a drawer I can shut or open as needed
when my mother calls on her smartphone, my car picks it up
her voice declined for the direction I need
my mother was worried when I said I was leaving
because I started getting lost the moment I learned how to walk
and I flew seven seas away from her wandering eyes
I never wanted to cook just for myself, or reheat, freeze love
once my mother asked me to watch the pressure cooker for four whistles
but the lid flew off and out the third story window with a rain of chicken bits,
cardamom, clove, dried red pepper, and lava of curry on the neighbor kids
noises replay, the flip flops sticky with gravy, hands in the air.
I wipe the spills before the colors change on the appliances
nobody laughs in the kitchen sparkling with stainless steel.