Feed me nihari: spice and salan, sprinkled
with dhanya, lahsan, and the crunch 
of brown onions. Feed me jalebi,

fresh out of oil, lick syrup off my fingers.
Feed me your voice, tell me about 
your morning jog, about the leaves 

as they turned from green to yellow,
the way the wind whistled past.
Fill me with art, doodles scribbled 

between margins, in the crevices 
between your fingers. Give me your warmth,
gentle kisses upon my lips. Soft, honeyed,

rosy, a box of gulab jaman.

Manahil Bandukwala