I'm almost running out
Of pulusu podi,
Nani will be here
In a few days,
(As I write this,
The US candle burns,
The never clean clothes
Whir around the machine
For one last wash cycle)
Yes, running out of pulusu podi
Requires me to ask ammi
To send it across with nani
(Harshi's butter cookies are a hope too!)
Asking for pulusu podi refill
Is yet another attachment here,
Away from home, another home.
Its a hopeless thing to do -
If that plastic dabba replenishes
It's another small reason to stay.
If things get all done here,
Could I go back home forever?
So not asking for pulusu podi
Is the only bridge
Between me and home.
As a compromise, I ask for it in despair
And here I still stay.
Nani and pulusu podi
Amongst other homely
Things and ideas reach.
Things and ideas stay
But nani returns home.
The next time they come
The people of my home
I will offer them
Pieces of broken tiles
In exchange of their presence
It will be peaceful then.
I sit here in a bright kitchen
Right across the wretched
Pulusu podi dabba, glass jars
And other very homely things.
The US candle burns,
The washing machine whirs
It's one Sunday of the week
And I want to do too many things
Some week soon I'll go home
It will be peaceful then.
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