The Home I can't reach — Three Poems by Reya Raffi

AN ODE TO THE CITY THAT MADE ME

On a quiet August noon, I left

your warming daylight to the monsoon

of the state that birthed me, here,

tongues swerve to a language I understand,

to a people that resemble me, this must be home,

the passport screams it, my father’s escapades with

all his dearest brothers speak it, but when

I am sitting by the window, woken by the woodpecker’s

stubborn feeding on this house and my mother’s

endless chatter about which almari needs dusting, staring

at the verdant backyard of my uncle’s home,

I think about your calming waters, I think

how you woke me before

dawn, your lilac blue October sky that enveloped my

awe as I put on my pinafore for school,

your fleeting rains before summer that dressed

our excitement, but also fear, the memory of 2007,

fresh in its people that order the shutting of institutions and

parks at the sight of sulking clouds. Sitting with the sight

before me, sipping chai as I see tamarinds fall

to ground, it isn’t sweet enough, but warm enough

to keep my ponder company, I imagine I was drinking

suleimani or zafrani chai after dinner, or skipping it as

I watch everyone have it, with cousins and laughter

that garmented childhood. You are

one and a half hours behind, and two

and a half years behind me, but

I still dream of your warm halwa, of

winter festivals that inspire in me

a lasting joy, of the Middle Eastern

palette, of supermarket delights, of sleeping

safe under your sky, all as I wake

with this pinching longing

for the home I cannot reach

THE PERFECT INGREDIENT

every once in a while, you

get it perfectly right, the balance

of sugar and spice, the chutney not

too sore on the throat, the dosa

evenly crisp, every thing you make,

kindly resembling another’s recipe,

another you adore,

the new neighbor makes

the best spanish omelettes, his potato

tender within and not slightly

popping the way your daughter

prefers, the way his daughter

likes, you try it the next time and

fail, you try again, and it is almost

there

for the annual soiree this summer,

you made biscoff cookies, you knew

Mani’s five year old finished a box

when he came over to borrow sunflower

oil. At the party, Mani brought biscoff

cookies too, everyone savoured

yours both, no one

realized it was made by different

hands

some foods, you do not need

to measure

the spoon or the cup, and it rests

in the appetites without lament, family

favorites, cookbooks

and reality shows

are made with the sweet

aroma of shared discoveries,

and the tastes pass

across maps as you realize, recipe by

recipe, the perfect ingredient to anything

you have had to create or discover

in making, has always been a

trembling tablespoon of love

to be loved

WEARING FRIENDSHIP FOR A TALISMAN

Last night, the daughters of

grief gnawed in the belly of my

despair, supine with the

weight of everything I have lost, I had

no where under the midnight sky to

breathe out the singing of

sleeplessness, except for the presence of

girlfriends that lay awake

on a screen, giggling at the

silliness of it all, life as it has been

seemed to be painted in a sweeter shade

with them in it,

the aid for our interwoven

maladies beating in memories

made, in making, with each other,

stepping ahead and farther

apart by continents, we still wear

friendship for a talisman, gripping onto

its steady shoulders for every step

that elates or tenses

our feet.

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About the Poet:

Reya Raffi is a postgraduate student of literature from Kerala, with a strong inclination towards poetry and fiction. Her poetry has received international recognition, having won second place in Oman’s national contest, Penned Thoughts, and being featured in The Hour of the Sun, an anthology by Delhi Poetry Slam.