Pahalgam, Kashmir — 10:37 AM
The pink kahwa nearly spills
Onto the half-cut tangerine rind.

Maa slices it into portions—
Forefinger pressing sideways,
Tongue rolled under broken teeth.

Baba reads the akhbaar,
Papers sitting on his belly.

The men mull over politics,
Biscuits dipped in tea...
Ladies sit by the kitchen— 
Hands dried in flour.

1:37 PM — The Squeezed Tangerine

The seething kettle
Stings my salt-crusted skin.
Citrus juice pricks
Open a healed slit.

I squeeze the tangerines
Pressed between brass spoons
And rub the juice—
A tang of copper scent.

One whistle.
Three exhales.

I keep thinking. 
About shikaras.
About the snow.
About running away from
Crockery and pickle jars.

I soak the brown rice.
And look at the mirror. 
I don't know whom I see.

She looks like laundry—
Rumpled and creased,
Her fingers still smelled
Of last night's lentil curry.

 2:10 PM — The Tangerine Smile.

Maa was a dancer.
Years before I came. 
Her silver now—
Tarnished in sulphide green.
She serves the stew.
'Too salty' — voices huff.

She stops.
A gasp. A sigh.
And eats on the ceramic—
Baba's leftovers.

She looks at me
Holding the crescent rind,
Offering me a handful of
Savoury slices.

I pull its strings and 
The pulp ruptures…
As I watch the citrus juice 
Set free.

2:37 PM — The Peeled Rind. 

The whistles hiss.
Sssh. Sssh. Sssh.
I come out of the attic—
Dusty silver in my palms.

Maa gets up.
I clean the rust with
A tiny soda-sponge—
The green flaky patches 
Now falling,
Just like the mellow peel.

Baba notices the tangerine—
Halved and fresh on the wood.

He glances at us…
And looks at Maa.
No silver. No smile. 
Old saree. Burnt kohl.

For the first time,
She looks in his eyes. 
Straight. Unflinching. 
He feels a sting. 
Not from the kettle.

Picking up the fruit,
He sits down to peel.
As he cuts piece by piece,
Wet knife thrums—
Snip. Snip. Snip.

The tangerine's flesh falls—
like dust off the silver.

He tries to bisect it—
A little clumsily,
His hands still used to 
The grip of news.

10:37 PM — The Fruit…shared. 

Maa tries to dance—
Her feet smitten 
By the deodar rungs.
 
I sip the pink kahwa
As I pick up the pen.
The whistles hiss again.
Maa still dances. 
I still write.

Baba tries to fix the salt.
Sometimes he adds too much.
Sometimes he doesn’t.

.    .    .