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My grandmother knew a woman
whose kindness
spluttered like mustard seeds in hot oil,
scented like curry leaves and sautéed shallots,
and flavoured like grated coconut
when layered on wheat puttu.

She spoke no language of love,
but was kind enough to wash away
a man’s abuses in soap water
which trickled down the drainage every night
for sixteen years.
For him, every day,
her kindness was ‘overcooked’, ‘unsalted’,
‘extra-salted’, ‘extra-chillied’ or ‘burnt’.

One night
she fed him the finest biriyani in their village.
Their daughter past fifteen, stared
at her father’s unkind hands-
which groped her breasts and felt her ass,
when mother was not around.

The next morning, he died.
Autopsy read, ‘Poisoned’.

“That kind of a woman”,
said my grandmother
over the din of her grinder.

*puttu- steamed flour layered with grated coconut