Tangerines And Tea
by Thejashree Gandhamaneni, India. First place in the Writory International Poetry Contest, April 2026, scored 93 out of 100.
Tangerines and Tea The Poet's Note: From mother's silver to father's hands, tangerines are best when they are peeled together and not just passed down. Pahalgam, Kashmir — 10:37AM The pink kahwa nearly spills onto the half-cut tangerine rind. Maa slices it into portions— forefinger pressing sideways, tongue rolled under broken teeth. Baba reads the akhbaar, papers sitting on his belly. The men mull over politics, biscuits dipped in tea... Ladies sit by the kitchen— hands dried in flour. --- 1:37 PM — The Squeezed Tangerine The seething kettle stings my salt-crusted skin. Citrus juice pricks open a healed slit. I squeeze the tangerines pressed between brass spoons and rub the juice— a tang of copper scent. One whistle. Three exhales. I keep thinking. About shikaras. About the snow. About running away from crockery and pickle jars. I soak the brown rice. And look at the mirror. I don't know whom I see. She looks like laundry— rumpled and creased, her fingers still smelling of last night's lentil curry. --- 2:10 PM — The Tangerine Smile. Maa was a dancer. Years before I came. Her silver now— tarnished in sulphide green. She serves the stew. 'Too salty' — voices huff. She stops. A gasp. A sigh. And eats on the ceramic— Baba's leftovers. She looks at me holding the crescent rind, offering me a handful of savory slices. I pull its strings and the pulp ruptures… as I watch the citrus juice set free. --- 2:37 PM — The Peeled Rind. The whistles hiss. Sssh. Sssh. Sssh. I come out of the attic— dusty silver in my palms. Maa gets up. I clean the rust with a tiny soda-sponge— the green flaky patches now falling, just like the mellow peel. Baba notices the tangerine— halved and fresh on the wood. He glances at us… and looks at Maa. No silver. No smile. Old saree. Burnt kohl. For the first time, she looks in his eyes. Straight. Unflinching. He feels a sting. Not from the kettle. Picking up the fruit, he sits down to peel. As he cuts piece by piece, wet knife thrums— Snip. Snip. Snip. The tangerine's flesh falls— like dust off the silver. He tries to bisect it— a little clumsily, his hands still used to the grip of news. --- 10:37 PM — The Fruit…shared. Maa tries to dance— her feet smitten by the deodar rungs. Baba tries to fix the salt. Sometimes he adds too much. Sometimes he doesn’t. I sip the pink kahwa as I pick up the pen. The whistles hiss again. Maa still dances. I still write. Baba tries to get up. END.
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