One day, my dad promised me

He’d cook Maggi Noodles for school lunch.

He said he’d wake up extra early

And make it, just for us.

 

My sister isn’t a morning person

She mirrors him in personality and looks

So, yes, his promise felt like a stranger

Swaying its legs on the tip of my tongue.

 

The next morning, 17-year-old Chitta Gupta

Stumbled into the hesitantly

Sunrise tinted kitchen

In a t-shirt that was at least –

15 years old.

 

23-year-old Chitta Gupta

Took up a knife and started chopping

Onions, smooth hand motions

Practised from daal sandwich jitters but

Picked up from 9-year-old Chitta Gupta’s

Affinity for skipping rocks, back in sedimentary

Phulbari and mastered by

49-year-old Chitta Gupta who hasn’t been

Back for more than 2 weeks in 30 years

But still feels the swing deep within his veins.

 

And 17-year-old me

Watched 49 years of ages echo through

Laminated plastic time, swaying around

The edges as each Chitta flicks his wrists

As if it wasn’t the knife he was holding

But the pages of the Bhagavad-Gita

That he had only just understood,

40 years after first picking it up.

 

My dad finished up the cooking,

Trudging his way back to bed.

I just couldn’t help but feeling

That the Maggi noodles were the most sacred.