The black carrot kanji

Soaking in the benign 

winter sun,

lazying over a travelogue 

about sunny southern Spain 

I sip the gut-friendly Kombucha, 

marvelling at the world shrinking 

in to a global village. 

I suddenly find myself

down the rabbit hole 

of a similar winter memory, 

when my grandma would sun herself while 

hand-pounding the Bajra 

and my mom enjoyed 

a balmy after noon as she 

would grind coriander, mint 

and garlic on the weathered 

stone silbatta in to a 

mouthwatering lip smacking chutney 

as we lie down on the dhurries 

drinking by glassfuls 

this tangy magical potion 

brewed and fermented with 

hands unperturbed by the 

relentless march of time. 

Many rows of porcelain jars

bathed in the glorious sun

to deepen the mysterious alchemy with in them 

as the purple of carrots 

waltzed in a delicate dance

with the tartness of red mustard, 

and the savoury rock salt and 

the sharpness of red chilly 

combined curiously

to add colours to the 

toasty winter afternoons. 

And then again with an increased

longing to have yet another

glassful of this drink divine, 

I called my mother up.

- Neha Bansal