second year srija sengupta

Gather your ingredients on a clean workplace, they said.

Three small potatoes, a handful of spice, oil, and a clear head.

This is pointless, isn’t it?

I mean look at these— these ugly little spuds.

All I’m eating just to make sure they don’t go rotten.

Here’s a thought—

If the world was a potato, do you think it’s rotten by now?

Slice up your potatoes, and mind your hand, my dear.

Put the slices in the microwave, watch them twirl around like your fear.

There is a thought in my mind,

Like the crusted tomato sauce stain,

On the back of the microwave.

It will not leave,

No matter how much I chip at it.

It turns and burns, scalding and freezing and scalding again‚—

Where does it end? Where does it all end?

Pour in the oil (not too much), and turn up the cooking flame.

Pour in as well your chopped potatoes, your regrets, your shame.

Mama always said, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Eff that! Life’s no chocolate box,

To be picked over and over and only find sweetness and sugar.

No no no— life is more like sauté-ing potatoes:

Hot, miserable, and always pushing things.

Push in one direction and run the other way when the potatoes burn.

Push out, push in, but always, always push.

Stirring slices never provokes stirring feelings, no matter how much garlic you put in there.

Add your parsley, your sage, your thyme.

This isn’t a love song, but that doesn’t mean it won’t rhyme.

Variety is the spice of life, or so they say.

May you live in interesting times, or so they also say.

We do live in interesting times, crackling with a garlic-ginger aftertaste.

So much variety… does it really matter what we do?

Lay off the flame, put your spatula down.

Plate your potatoes, garnish them with the feelings you’ve drowned.

“What’s the point?”

I rummage for a fork and come up with a half-clean spoon.

“It will have to do,” I think, setting it on the plate with a clatter.

“What’s the point?”

My hand smarts where I put it too close to the pan.

Nothing a bit of cold water won’t fix— later.

“What’s the point?”

The counter is full of bills, bills, bills with little room to sit.

I sit anyways— the bills fall to the floor like discarded feathers.

“What’s the point what’s the point what’s the point—”

I eat a bite of potato, and it all stops.

I sigh.

“I should really eat earlier next time.”

Ode to Potatoes: The Harbingers of Existential Crises