Pickled carrots
And turmeric,
The musty smell of curd
And fresh jam,
The whistle of the pressure cooker
And sometimes bread with ham.
The rice, each grain is precious,
Sieved through a rusty ring with holes,
Hot by the fire, sweltering,
Feeding hot macher jhol.
The hands are wrinkled
Pink, the lines are clear and deep
Just as is fate knitting sewing
With one hand to feed the geese.
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