It was a laddu for breakfast, lunch, breakfast.

If granny was away, steal and break fast.

The menu was paysam, halwa, laddu.

The compromise was jalebi, cham-cham, kalakand.

They made, bought, exchanged laddus.

My baby brother arrived,

gave him a name as long as a train,

shaved his head, my head, their  heads,

fed him his first meal of

plain rice and ghee balls,

feasted as if he was India’s shiniest baby,

or, perhaps there were none coming after him.

They cooked and distributed laddus as

my marks reached the two digits.

Today at fifty I’m being hung by medical

Practitioners for being a sweet guy.

You can’t eat, can’t even whiff, only

Salivate if you miss the king of sweets.

They promote Chocolate, covered with

colored paper for a dash of glamour,

ignore my grandmother’s recipes,

stuffed in dalda tins, in jars kept on the

topmost hated shelves of Granny’s kitchen !

I ate a laddu with my meal, after my meal,

and to perfect my mom’s happiness’

she lobbed one into my mouth.

I now get a birthday cake,

half an inch square,

with  the alien vanilla.

I refuse in protest, for my heart

desires my wife’s fresh laddu’s!