v1

The Idly Speaks

To the 8-year old in her appatha’s* home

Why do you cry when you see me? 

I sit here, an empty canvas,

ready to soak in 

the sunshine of sambar

the fire of chutney

the blush of fish gravy

Yet you say I am

Boring. 

You moan – “Idly Again!”

You cannot just dab my edges

so I stay pristine, pale-bordered. 

You need to dunk me with ab-

andon, let the colours seep,

only then will you see

I am NEVER ‘idly again’.

You just need to know

how to paint with me