24 x 7

  

In the bustling household, she works twenty four X seven,

With hands dextrous and heart full of love and care.

No recognition needed, her to-do list forever longer,

She toils and toils everyday with an uncanny determination.

 

Spices dance and jiggle in her expert hands,

A pinch of this, a dash of that, flavours added to the taste of others.

Her cooking skills, so taken for granted, like the morning sun sure to rise,

She makes meals that bring a smile on the face of the loved ones,

But the sweet smile is not always the reward,

A sulky face for the lesser salt or extra pepper is expected at every meal!

Nonetheless, her touch transforms ingredients

Into delectable dishes nourishing the lives of her dear dear ones.

 

The clinking vessels are tamed to her needs,

Cooking, stirring, sautéing with practised ease.

Each pot and pan washed after use,

With careful hands, as if to wash off her karma on every dirty vessel.

But, come what may, fever or leg pain or periods,

She would put the platters full three times a day.

 

The eaters don’t see her in the kitchen,

Wielding her knife with precision,

Chopping, dicing, slicing the veggies, fish and chicken,

And sometimes the tips of her fingers.

Turmeric, chilly powder, pepper and salt, her queen, knight, pawn and rook

In the game of permutation and combination.

The daily flavours sometimes make her taste buds bland,

Making her crave for food made by another,

But ends up playing the same game day in, day out.

 

Cleaning every nook and corner of the house and premises,

With brooms, mops and dusters, she coughs often.

With every speck of dirt, she tries to wipe away her miseries,

Finding happiness in each task completed.

On some days, nothing makes her happy as a clean toilet, 

A testament of her slog.

 

Her eyes and hands reach each inch in the house,

Dusting, organising and creating order.

The sticky cobwebs, the naughty ants and the shrewd lizards,

Are sent away from her humble abode.

The dust on the ceiling fans, the dirt on the carpets,

The termite on the wooden interiors,

Nothing leaves untouched by her scouring hands.

 

Piled up laundry makes her cringe on days,

But she is methodical in sorting the bleeding clothes and the light coloured ones.

The stubborn stains and the fidgety folds yield to her gentle touch.

Soap, lather and buckets of water wash away her hours,

Sometimes give her a skin allergy,

But every time, fresh, clean and crisp clothes.

The fragrant dresses are pressed in summer and monsoon,

And folded in bundles in separate cupboards.

 

She stands with all in sickness and in health,

More so when the loved ones are down with fever or stress,

Her soft words and kind touch soothing the sick.

The caring touch and the loving embrace

Transforms the illness into cherishable moments.

Medicinal tea and the alleviating words become her smell and sound.

 

Her circadian rhythm tuned to the needs of others,

She wakes up before the sun,

To race against time preparing breakfast and lunch boxes.

Though the stress draws lines on her face,

And grey her thinning hairs,

She hardly misses the targets.

 

The fabric of her life, woven with duty bound love,

Fades as years pass, tears with every job done,

Her body withers as away like a cankerous plant,

Her mind goes bonkers somewhere in the fine tune of works,

Her bones crack, nerves weaken,

Eyes darken, Nails blacken,

And her old self slowly forgotten

By the time she is ready to get into a lighted photograph. 

Renjitha. K. R, Assistant Professor of English, Al Shifa College of Arts and Science, Kizhattoor