From work I return, completely drained
Having navigated a complex web again
Of illness, death, pain, angst, anger, and more
Each day seems more exhausting than the one before
*
The thought of preparing dinner right now
Is daunting, and I am wondering how
To rid myself of this tedious chore
When I see chickpeas I had soaked the night before
I am obligated to cook them, I realize
So with resignation, I begin to dice
Onions and tomatoes, some garlic I pound
In a few minutes, a familiar rhythm I’ve found
The subliminal ritual of cooking a comfort meal
Calms me down, the predictable process makes me feel
Much more in control than I did during the day
The aroma of Indian spices further takes away
Stressful thoughts; then the pressure cooker chimes in
With its shrill whistles, and my salivary glands begin
To produce their juice, because this is the sign
That piping hot stew would be ready in no time..
I steam fragrant basmati rice and roll out dough,
Into fresh rotis, puff them on the griddle, nice and slow
By the time dinner is ready, work woes I have left behind
The ritual of cooking dinner has been therapeutic for my mind
*
To counterbalance the unpredictability at work I need
The comfort and familiarity of a ritual indeed
By cooking a simple meal rooted in my culture, I find
A salve for my heart and my overburdened mind
Passion...unbridled 