The memory always begins with a sepia
Polaroid picture; its clean
white walls, surrounded by amber
dusty streets. Then slowly, it melts
into motion. Being there, was always
accompanied by a light chiffon layer
of moisture on the skin, and Goldie,
our fluffy dog, following any visitor. Ceiling
fans set the slower rhythm
within. Each member of the three generations
in their own sections of the house, the size
of a palace to a curious toddler. Goldie,
really grandfather’s dog, sits by his feet
while he smokes his cigarette and sips
his scotch. Grandma and mum are up-
stairs in their everyday saris, sorting out
stuff. I, more than anyone else, weave in
and out of these places, just there, in
the omnipresent background, watching. At the
back, in the kitchen, the cook is clanging
copper pots. The cumin, turmeric and curry powder,
simmering with the garlic and onions command
a presence at a certain time each day; this memory,
at uncertain times in my life