All she ever asked,
did I have my dinner on time or not?
And I would say
Yes, mother, I am done with it.
Deep down she would know I am lying.
And I too knew, she knows I’m lying.

Some days, she would ask, what have I eaten?
On others she would tell stories of her adolescence.
On hearing what I’ve eaten?
And I would tell her my favorite cuisines.
Not the same one twice on a row,
Not the ones that’s difficult to prepare on an induction stove.
Frequent lying has made me a master in this art.
However, nothing can be hidden from a mother’s heart.

She would finally give up and let me feel as if I’ve outsmarted her.
So she would quietly sigh
and tell what she found in the temple stairs
Or maybe her dream of having long conversations
With Gods and goddesses who detest my very existence
But won’t use their powers out of fear

What It is I always wanted to hear from her?
Were the unadulterated stories of youth.
The stories of her innocence,
The stories of her rebelliousness
The stories of her sacrifices
Which she would share quite often,
Things she would say, would feel more real
It’s been years, but details are so flawless, how come?

Things are supposed to be forgotten over time
But she remembers it all
as if singularity of a black hole
I am quite certain, it’s only me who knows it all
For she won’t share with anyone the hardships in her tale
I would listen her and ask
Is she missing all that?
She won’t say a thing would remain quite for a moment
I would know somewhere a drop of tear dropped
Covering the reminiscences of her past

And then I would talk of the new cuisine, I’ve developed
Hoping she won’t ask for a photo op
Of me and my unseen food, which I needed to gulp
A master, did i say?

Memories remain with us forever
We should live as they are
Never try to put them in words
They warm you up from inside, they as well, tear you apart.