by Moniza Alvi
The bottom of the pan was a palette -
paprika, cayenne, dhania
haldi, heaped like powder-paints.
Melted ghee made lakes, golden rivers.
The keema frying, my mother waited
for the fat to bubble to the surface.
Friends brought silver-leaf.
I dropped it on khir -
special rice pudding for parties.
I tasted the landscape, customs
of my father's country -
its fever on biting a chilli.
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