Put your hand in a bowl of rice grains and stir. Follow the rules. Carefully move the grains around with your chilled fingers until the water is milky. Drain it. Add more water and stir again.
I do it all six times. No skimping. What reason do I have to rush? There’s comfort in the repetition of the sequence. A consuming physical task that at once draws your attention and allows freedom of thought. Cravings come in all kinds, but a craving to lose myself in the murky basmati water, to anticipate the smell of popcorn, the savoury taste of each individual grain.
There’s safety in such a simple act. A knowledge that the immediate future will bear fruit. No need to think beyond its completion, but when the rice water is clear and the pot is left to soak, and heat returns to the slow-moving fingers, what is left to hold down the mind?
Leave a Reply