As a divorcé, my son and I have to be our own chefs
during Modi’s lockdown
since we’re not allowed to go out of our apartment.
Scrambled in the mornings,
sunny side up in the afternoons,
an omelet with mushrooms at nights.
My ex would have taken pity on me
if she could have seen me hunched over the stove.
It’s a pity I wasn’t taught cooking
when I was a kid.
Every day, my son pushes his plate away
and we have a push-of- war
until he stops moving it
and forks the fluffy yellow pieces into his mouth.
I pretend I’ve never tasted anything so good
and point to his plate with my fork to make him finish.
I know I’ll never eat another egg
after the pandemic is over,
if I survive.