Today’s paneer.
Cow’s milk
           (warm)
           (dried too).
Some handfuls
slivered almonds
pistachios
saffron
           (stranded)
sugar
           (powdered)
cardamom
rose
ghee.

                  Iron
                  a heavy bottom
                  pan cheese cloth lemon

                  juice or lime.

                           Ma’s wooden
                           moulds, smooth
                           in her hands.
                           Fish.
                           Flower.
                           Leaf.
                           Shell.

                                   Use what’s left,
                                   what I tucked into
                                   light bags, dragging

                                   dark water.

Empty immigrant cupboards
don’t know these smells.

Sandesh.
Your favorite.
Eat it.
It’s special.

Hip high North
Carolina sun sucks
shadows from brown
fingers. There’s a big

old backyard tree.
I’m crunching leaves.
My sisters are some
where upstairs, curled in
shell books, each other’s
hair. Thakurma’s in the
kitchen. I whine
I’m hungry. Watch careful
hands pour water-colored
rose into its tiny aluminum
cap.

Tissue
paper fingers
blot sweaty
child forehead.

Roll a fish
shaped sweet into
a greedy small mouth.

I turn back to the yard, smiling,
chase leaves in buttered light.
Ignore the sore
belly.

Sandesh.
Your favorite.

A treat after months
away. I feel the grit in
my teeth, remember the
bitter feeling when
we tried our hands
when Thakurma
passed, how our sandesh
was too sugared, dead.

Your favorite.

Before my insides started to turn.
Before we realized what we couldn’t digest.
What do we have left?

And yet
a love letter to our grandmother.

 

 

 

 

Copyright © Anjoli Roy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Curator's Notes:

Allison Adelle Hedge Coke: "Memory steeped in savory flavor, shaped by loving preparation, Anjoli Roy brings us to the table of familial love then delivers us from grieving with "Sandesh."