MINT CHUTNEY
Arathi Rao

Dad walks from his garden with emerald mint 
leaves cupped in his palms. He will unfold the art 
of mint chutney to me. I fear the taint 
of my hybrid youth, soils the start 
of reclaiming deep Indian roots, as too late. 
"Fry the dhal, Ara." Dad dislikes my nickname. 
I take the raw gems from a stainless steel plate 
and immerse them in water. In our home 
to squander is a sin, since Dad's ties 
to India sprout from a tiny village. 
When I journeyed there children's familiar eyes 
devoured me, like a condiment. A deluge 
of spices, which I can't name for certain, 
crop up and Appa guides me through new terrain.