My dearest.

There are tears in your eyes as you speak.

Welling up.

You won’t let them fall.

I listen, in silence.

Because this a grief I do not know.

I can’t fathom.

Haven’t been thru.

So I feel.

I have nothing to offer.

No words of solace.

And as we leave,

The tears in my eyes fall.

And we hug.

Woman to woman.

Stillness to soul.


And so I cook for you.

The one thing I know to do.

My mother’s dahl.


I let the mustard seeds burst.

Curry leaves from the garden.

Toovar dahl, soft and blended.

Just the way my mum makes it.


I put in jaggery for sweetness in your day.

Lemon juice for strength in your body.

Corriander powder for iron and the fire in you.

Chilli powder to make you feel hugged.


I put in my metta.

My good vibes.

The only way I know.

I taste it and I know.

It’s just right as it is.


A mother’s love, from my mother to me.

From my motherhood to yours.

My dearest.

My tears still fall for you.

I know the dahl will not do.



A little comfort.

On the worst of days.

When the tears don’t stop.

When Netflix doesn’t numb enough.

When dark thoughts sweep like torrents in your mind.

And you can’t see any light.

A little dahl.

Will do.


Till today turns into the next.

And little by little,

The darkness shifts.

And the healing starts.



A little dahl.

Will do.