Spirits in a Spice Jar

by Sarina Kamini

It’s a talent I have. To stash and seal away disturbed happenings. Ugly experiences.

The truth is that Dad was the figure to frame my belief, but it was Mum who fed my heart.

Dinner was food. Khaana was an emotional language with its own vocabulary that only we understood.

But recipes—recipes are easily stowed in an exiled person’s heart.

To give I must find it in myself, first.

It’s not a fanciful notion, but a universal truth: my children’s behaviour within the family reflects all the pieces of myself that I prefer not to acknowledge;

at some point, refusal manifests its own presence.

instead of being known by the sum of all the things that I am, I have become framed by the sum of all the things that I am not.

In the end a single thought overrides all of my fear. I can no longer stand to be me. With this thought to cauterize my pain I do what I have not been able to so far. I break free of safety, I turn my back on insecurity, I pull out my pots and I cook.