Baba Yaga
No one but my cousin found it funny, my story about two boys
under the banyan tree being approached by a figure in white
at an ungodly hour; the apparition, as it turned out, was
Baba Yaga, asking if they’d like curd or tamarind rice? What’s
to laugh at, those around pondered, confounded by our inside joke as
we rolled on the floor, repeating the names of those Tamil dishes —
Thayir Sadam. Puli Sadam — in a possessed tone, not caring how
silly we looked. I’d repeat the joke every summer I met him,
always creating the same effect, until a long silence-by then,
we were taller, mature. I moved to another continent
and like a returned bracelet, the witch became all mine to keep;
she’d awaken after some rum, emerge from behind
an Oak, push tiffin boxes under my nose; trembling, I’d bring
a spoonful of rice to my mouth, hear her chuckle in my boyhood voice.