by Tasneem Khan
It’s such a menial act. Mundane really.
With a pestle nestled between my fingers,
I fling a handful of peppercorns into a mortar.
They have no time to settle, no space to jostle; no air to breathe.
Who cares? I proceed.
To bash their heads in.
Unceasingly. As I hear no sounds, other than the satisfying thwack of wood on stone.
I pound pound pound
till their insides are squeezed out of their skins.
And what is left is a fraction of what once was.
With a pestle nestled between my fingers,
I fling a handful of peppercorns into a mortar.
They have no time to settle, no space to jostle; no air to breathe.
Who cares? I proceed.
To bash their heads in.
Unceasingly. As I hear no sounds, other than the satisfying thwack of wood on stone.
I pound pound pound
till their insides are squeezed out of their skins.
And what is left is a fraction of what once was.
I think about them—the peppercorns, the pestle, and the powdery remains
as I glance at the newspaper.
‘Gaza pounded,’ it says.
Sometimes, journalists do get it right.
Tasneem Khan is an elementary teacher and lives in Bengaluru, India.
