• I carry a taste within me
• that swims through mash potatoes,
• undoes what a granma does,
• rejects grammar.

• I carry a taste within me
• of generations-distant genocide,
• a rogue flight
• because you read the wrong book.

• there is unburden on my shoulders – 
• my hands stay soft,
• and the hymen of hard work
• lies untouched.

but I cannot sit still.

• I run
• and run and run
• away from a self,
• away from an other,
• because I cannot let go of the fact
• that I am not one.

• when I look back
• into the steaming pot,
• the sweet smell of biryani
• pours desires.
• I am a warmed piece of ghee.

my recipe is untranslatable.