grocery lists

milk

fruit 

tea leaves

wafers 

detergent

nothing gets as intimate as grocery lists.

in all its plainness and simplicity, stark in contrast with the plenty of things in everyday life that can get twisted beyond recognition so ruthlessly, so unprompted, it is but hasty scribbling on a piece of paper. quintessentially utilitarian, apparently meaningless. 

i remember how in my childhood, my mother made monthly grocery lists. she always asked me if i had paper scraps, discarded out an important school project where i had gotten the slant of the cursive wrong or misspelt a noticeable word in the heading or dozed off while writing and extended the cut on the 't' a bit too much till the pen dropped from my limp hand and in doing so ruined the labour of the previous ten minutes. the backside of printed notices, cavalier with blank space and newspaper clippings where two columns were placed just enough inches far apart. she could never be persuaded to tear a pristine white page from any notepad for something so trivial and disposable. "what a waste!", she would exclaim. soon i found myself saving such paper, rolling them into bundles till they got too thick and the rubber band that bound them together snapped, only in hopes they might find use later, only for her to make them into grocery lists.

i remember asking her why she didn't just have a template, after all, it's a bit repetitive, listing the same dozen things over and over periodically. "but the items are different each time, albeit slightly. what if i have leftover flour from last month? what if i need to switch the brand of soap i get? and if i can't remember to put baking powder on the list, i shouldn't really buy it." she said. no matter how inconsequential changes seem in the short term, they must be made and accumulate and lead to bigger shifts. out of the many contradictions, opinions on display, i am taught to ration my choices. to take only what is needed to grow deep roots, the rest is noise.

eventually, however, my idea got to her as her days turned busier and she started to keep a dummy list of essentials and tweaked it around every month to finalize the requirements. that's how she found middle ground, meld the best of both together. thoughtfulness came naturally to her, she was soft without being unfirm. for the longest time, she checked items off with pencil and after careful tallying of the goods, used an eraser on it till the ink bled at edges. sometimes, she'd misplace that paper and had to struggle in patience to conjure up things she had previously memorized. nevertheless, she valued my suggestion and kept up the practice. just like years later, i would cancel all my weekend plans once in while and fly home glad to see her. not sacrifice, but the accommodation of the other, scooting aside in your seat in a crowded bus just because you care enough not to. the kindness you extend to help navigate your world which is as foreign to them as it is familiar to you.

the true appeal of grocery lists though, lies with the margin notes. personal touch peppered like the annotations on your dogeared copy of your comfort book or the extra teaspoon of cumin in your favourite recipe, mastered over time. a secret language unlocked you've unlocked with a vocabulary that made sense only to you. the margin notes are always there even when they are not visible. scrawled on mind, through memory. each word serves to jog ten thoughts which in turn spawn new thoughts and then more thoughts, a frenzy of them. similar to the build-up of a chain reaction in the core of stars. let hearing oneself come as easy as air for it's the one voice that is here to stay. 

milk (for cookie dough)

fruit (oranges, seasonal, vitamin c)

tea leaves 

wafers (snacks coz, why not)

detergent (last one left lint on woolens)

ultimately, the milk gets sipped in warm mugs before bedtime and the wafers never make it into paper bag because they didn't quite have the flavour you were looking for and nothing goes according to plan but the grocery lists remain, unchanged and reminding, stashed away in the depths of some cabinet drawer or a car's glove compartment long after the trip to the store. 

the last time i saw my mother, we met after and when i had rested, the topics of discussion- exhausted, she clasped my hands and showed me her phone to ask if i would go fetch some things. she had graduated to using google notes. the list contained the ingredients for her special caramel pudding that i was so fond of. an anchor to the past in the sea of transience. i smiled and nodded. 

" bring me your pain love, spread it out like fine rugs, silk sashes, warm eggs, cinnamon and clove in burlap sacks. "

- Ellen Bass, Basket Of Figs