Curd waits in the blender
Its life is over.
A ceremonious end
Skinned shallots weep
Curry leaves sail directionless
Green chillies brave the pain silently,
Ginger is but shattered.
Salt reminds the sore fate
And the purpose of life too.
To transform self into selflessness
Leave a life lived in comfort
Whisked to be the cool buttermilk
And vanquish the hot mid noon of March
When thirst will no longer feel mighty
dominating the throat.
More like a mirage somewhere
Now the curd is no longer there.
The tanginess and melting butter remain
Tastebuds remember the curd
Gone, reborn in a cup of freshness.