On this beautiful thanksgiving morning I stand by the kitchen sink cutting, slicing, dicing, stirring the pot on the stove and all the while speaking to a friend on the telephone about diaper rashes, ear thermometers and breast pumps. In the living room office communicator blinks. I finish my telephone conversation abruptly in order to chat with a colleague in India who has a question to ask. In the kitchen the pot hisses warnings and then boils over in a jealous rage. I dart back urgently to attend to it, scald my fingers, curse and then curse some more as the phone rings again. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a few lines swim into my head from a poem I’d read a long time ago and memorized. I ignore the telephone, the colleague, the belligerent stock pot and turn to google to look up the rest of the poem.
I'm Kamla
or Vimla
or Kanta or Shanta.
I cook
I wash
I bear, I rear,
I nag, I wag,
I sulk, I sag. I see worthless movies at reduced rates
and feel happy at reduced rates...
- Kamala Das
In those few lines, I read my life. And then I put on my winter coat and gloves and step out in the sun to seek the day.
