Hot and cold

Dinner has been heated. The plates sit, upturned, waiting to be turned over and slathered with curry. The food rests in covered containers.

He sits at a distance, looking away. The smell of food is distinct. The rumble of the stomach is unmistakable. Hunger is here.

Another sneak attack by retching is what he fears. Without warning. Without asking. Blowing doors open.

The containers on the table remind him of the bodies on the pyres. Not an inch of place left on the table. Pyres as far as the eye can see.

Steam rising here. Smoke rising there.

For now, he stays put, looking away. The clouds roll by as the sun sets.

Eventually, hunger will demand to be fed, however sneaky or wretched the retching. The body knows what it needs to survive and will do what it must.

Dinner may go cold, but life is blowing hot.

Published by appamprawns

soni writes about children and people in controlled spaces, in his quest for appam stew. homi writes in the hope of being able to buy prawns to make patiyo.

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