This Is All I Have

Surely you know that in a hot summer kitchen, time ticks slower? Bubbling water in my tin pot, folding carrot dices in edged, shaved coconut, sprinkling salt from a height because that's how ammamma used to do it; in sweltering heat, oil sputtering, I dab at my forehead with the ends of my pallu, shifting my weight from one bad knee to another, heels aching and cracking, and so my back too. I sip and slurp from a deep spoon-ladle, satisfied, I put all this food in those earth-deep bowls, set them on the table, I ladle out rice onto your plate, have some more, I insist, you eat, let loose a burp birthed deep in your innards, pat your round tummy and patter to sleep, and only then, only then, I sit, with my small oval plate of food, with the rice and rasam, and a side of poriyal, I roll the rice in my fingers and form a fist and put it in my mouth, this, only this, is what I have to myself, so no, do not bother me now.