CAULDRON: Sunita Jugran

Sunita Jugran

Ever since I heard of the story of Draupadi's magic cauldron 

I always believed, my mother had one as well.

There were four of us siblings

And dad's students who always came

On pretext of extra study

But stayed for dinner...

There were dad's acquaintances from far off villages

Who would march in without invitation

With their coarse, homespun coats

And dusty shoes

Tobacco smell clinging to their rough hands

With which they would pull our cheeks

And ruffle our hair...

Then there were those unfortunate ones

Who missed the only evening bus to the city

And the way to their village was only through the dense forest

They came to my father

And he never refused them food and shelter

And my mother

She never objected...

I always saw her preparing tea and serving it with a sweet smile

I never saw her tired....

Never angry..

And that magic cauldron

It was almost always there

On top of burning firewood in the mud chullah 

There were two of those cauldrons, in fact

That were put one behind the other on top of that chullah

And mom added her secret ingredients in them

Which at times sputtered

At times, hissed

At times sizzled

But always smelled so good

Palak ka saag always turned out deliciously green

Green mango chutney was always deep brown

Sidu were always fluffy

And daal was never dull

Virtual rainbows

Would sit serenely 

In our plates 

She would serve dinner to all..

First of all, to the kids who were our guests 

Then to elders

Then our turn

And often dad and she at last

And her cauldrons were never empty

Till she had eaten

I remember

Asking for a bite or two from her plate

Because it tasted better from her hand

I always looked for any tiny grain of food

Sticking to the sides of that magic cauldron 

But never found any

As mom always washed it meticulously 

May be

That's why I still feel hungry even after a big meal

There's no more those morsels of love from mom's plate

Disappearing in my mouth.

Now

I have many cauldrons, pots, pans

Better stove

Bigger home

But nobody comes in uninvited.

Magic is lost

But the memories remain

Of the crowded home

Of mom's face glowing by the fire in the chullah

Of tobacco smelling hands

Of those cauldrons

And their magic. 

***

Sunita Jugran, M.Sc.

I have edited a few poetry books of my friends. Other than that, I write poetry and short stories. I also write for children. I have written a lot on social media but have taken a break from all that for now. Presently, I live in Ghaziabad, Uttar Pradesh.

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Setu, June 2022