Canons of Maternal Love

Canons of Maternal Love Whirled pestle like a dervish, a meter long wooden rod, in a mortar of clay. Body swayed in rhythmic moves as her feet anchored mortar. Jingle of bangles added harmony. Lunge of pestle into mortar pressed condiments to exude and perfuse sauce with fragrance. Oh! The aromatic bouquet, redolent of mother’s kitchen. Fingers measured blend of spices– cloves, cumin, pepper, coriander, cinnamon and a glint of turmeric gold. Her dawns began with cock’s crow. She milked buffalo, churned yogurt and skimmed the spume of butter. Coaxed us into eating breakfast of Paratha, suffused with love, enough to last our two–mile walk and a day at school. When we returned the house was clean, floor was scrubbed and clothes hung on the line. She heard our stories with love and attention. Our selfish wants never acknowledged, years were taking toll. But she remained a center pole, holding the tent– built of canons of motherhood.