An early morning, after a night which went on for too long,
As we look at our cups of coffee,
Always looking down, eyes never meeting,
Despite the morning chill.
We wait together, fingers lost in motion,
We look around, but never at each other.

I ask if you are hungry,
You look at the plum blossoms and nod absently.
Our fingers brush briefly, and tingle our senses,
But we never acknowledge the touch, and continue in our voids.
The food gets cold, the Paris chill strong,
But we never eat, just wait, wait for the time to heal.

I hear voices around, but they mean nothing to me,
But I keep hearing, hearing the unknown.
My questions remain unanswered, my feelings lost,
I wait for you to talk, to help me understand,
But you remain silent, lost in your thoughts.

Its time to leave our transit point,
But our life remains still.
We leave the coffee table alone, leaving everything intact.
We move, but do not move,
Just two souls,
Lost in our own worlds.

Her skin was alabaster pale against the scarlet sheets. The air was redolent with the smell of sweat and sex.

He lay on his side without looking in her direction.

She took a cigar out of the holder and lit it. The pungent smell of the Cuban inflicted itself on the warm air in the bedroom.

She raised her hand and ran it across his lower back possessively, ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

He shook his head, the movement barely discernible with his glossy blonde hair shimmering in the half lit room.

She rose from the bed, the sheet falling off her body and headed towards the kitchen. Black coffee simmered hot and fresh. The cups and saucers had been left freshly washed for her. The maid always knew what to expect when she wore that lil red number, she smilingly thought to herself.

She poured out the coffee into two cups and took them out on a tray with the spoons entwined.

She stopped at the bedside and asked again, ‘Coffee cher?’ The boy looked up at her, his near black eyes glowing with dislike. ‘I said no, how many times should I say no to you? Last night was bad enough!’

She took a step back. She hadn’t expected this. Last night had started harmlessly enough. A one night stand – some fun, flirting, sex. Just a girl having some fun. Simple right?

Apparently not. The coffee tray fell as if in slow motion. Her fangs came out as she leapt on the boy.

The melted chocolate was poured in the batter. The batter mostly included of well kneaded flour with butter and baking soda. She used the hand-blender to mix the two together. The two adapted the dark color of the chocolate.

My mouth watered. My hands trembled.

————–

Khichdi! I think that was my first favorite food. One of the staple diets of an average Indian family, it is given mostly when a person is unwell. It consists of nothing much more than rice, pulses, turmeric powder, bit of chilies and of course, the mother of all ingredients, salt. You take all of them, boil them together and the healthiest fast food is ready.

And then my as I grew older the range widened. From south Indian dosas to Italian pastas, to American style pizzas to Chinese noodles; I gobbled them up with utmost delight. And not just from my plate, but from plates of people who couldn’t finish their meal.

I took special liking to anything with meat and cheese. I ate these with almost anything. Bread, rice, chapatti or sometimes even if there was no main dish.

And just when, my friends began to come to the conclusion that there can be no bigger food lover than me, I met her.

——————–

She buttered the sides of the baking tray before pouring the batter into it. That is done to avoid the cake to stick to the sides of the tray. Very neatly she laid out the dark brown colored batter. Then very carefully, she placed the tray into the pre-heated oven.

Following this, she took some of the cooking chocolate and kept in a bowl over a pot of boiling water. Even from my amateurish culinary skills, I assumed that you needed to apply indirect heat to the cooking chocolate.

I played a quiet spectator to all of this. My hands shook as if the temperatures were very low.

—————-

I don’t think I ever heard her say no to food. Anything you give her she eats with up great pleasure. In fact, when she is eating, nothing much can distract her. So much so, that once her baby sister went missing, while she was busy munching on French fries and sipping hot chocolate on the snow clad peaks of the Alps.

Over the years her love for food has spread over across to other aspects of her life as well. Nothing proves this statement more than the fact that she actually worked on a thesis on THE PSYCHOLOGICAL IMPACT OF FOOD.

I took a liking to her at once. Besides food, we did share interests in other fields like books and films. But whenever we have met, we have had quite interesting food items. Kati rolls, tiger prawns, pork, beef steak, carrot cake and many other delicacies.

———————

She couldn’t reach out to the smaller baking tray perched on top of the cabinet. With a slight stretch of my arms, I fetched it down, glad that my height came to some use.

She took the tray and kept it aside, not acknowledging my heroic deed. She checked on the pressure cooker placed on the second flame of the stove.

Then she took the smaller tray and laid out the remaining batter into the small tray. I took a step towards her, my hands trembling ever so slightly.

By now I was inches away from her. She laid out straightened the batter in the second tray. No one was there in her house. The only thing I could hear was the sound of my breathing and she patting on the batter to smoothen it out.

My hands continued to tremble.

With great concentration she straightened out the batter. I asked her to look at me, with a slight twinkle in her eyes. She glanced upwards.

I waited only for a moment before moving. But the moment seemed longer than a lifetime. All the past memories came flooding back into my head. The first time I saw her. The first time I touched her. The first time she hugged me. The trembling hands. The sweaty palms. Within that one moment it all flashed in front of my eyes.

I took in a breath. I bent down. She stopped her work. The batter in the oven bloated up . The cooking chocolate in the pan began to melt. The whistle blew on the pressure cooker. Our lips met.

My hands stopped trembling.

the scene:

two spoons,
crossed lovers

still filled cups
tasty crumbs
and stems of plum

heavy, heady
scented
rising to heaven

abandoned
for the easy feel
of you and me

buttery crumbs
brushed from laps
and lips

pursed, locked
hearts in sync
the ticking of a clock

mais oui, mais oui,

time
for you and me
‘a Paris

the feel, the need
mais oui, mais oui
mais we