The Mistress of Spices, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

First things first: we are blog of the week over at Readerville, how lovely! Thank you, dear friends.

And now, kheer.

But here is another image. A woman in a kitchen, cooking my rice. She is fragrant as the grains she rolls between her fingers to see if they are done. Rice steam has softened her skin, has loosened hair tied back taut all day. Has gentled the smudges under her eyes. Payday today, so she can begin the frying, mustard seeds sputtering in the pain, brinjal and bitter gourd turning yellow-red. Into a curry of cauliflowers like white fists, she mixes garam masala to bring patience and hope. Is she one, is she many, is she not the woman in a hundred Indian homes who is sprinkling, over sweet kheer that has simmered all afternoon, cardomom seeds from my shop for the dreams that keep us from going mad? Inside my head her thoughts knock against one another, falling.
... But it is dinnertime now. The mothers call out and the children come running from homework, chairs are pulled up, the steaming dishes brought in. Rice. Rajma. Karela sabji. Kheer.
Kheer today after so long, and there's enough after Father and Elder Brother have been served, enough even for Mother who eats always last for all. Kheer with almonds and raisins and crunchy pods of elaichi because the old woman at the store said they were on sale when she saw us looking. I dip my mouth into its sweetness, milkwhite lines on my lips, and it's like New Year, and like New Year I can wish for anything.