The Facebook videos screech,
in the midst of the 'planned' chaos around her:
A freshly prepared dough, allu with turmeric
spread across the tabletop, burning oil, and a hungry child.
She dips her hand in water, and carefully, very carefully shushes me out.

I peek in through the square window in the kitchen’s door.
She takes the yellowish potato with the green things,
I don't like it. I have told her. She still puts it inside the birthday hat-shaped maida.
That is not healthy, she lectured last night. She still puts it.

Take, fill, wrap, again and again. Until she finally gets up.
The hungry child had been tugged away to the paint next.
The fleeting aroma of fried food turns my feet and they sprint towards the window.
They are ready, I barge in! 'No, wait beta, they are hot', it seems.

I clock faster than her speed inside. That says a lot.
Finally, she brings a plate with my red sauce and my samosas.