The women bending and pounding in rhythm was a vibrant bucolic sight. The long wooden pestles were powered by the human current. While grinding raw rice, they stopped to rest, and to crack jokes, which were embellished with erotic connotations, and were worthier than today’s TV humors. They made turmeric and coriander powder, when their delightful nasal tunes vibrated through the powdering thunder. Chili particles provoked their nostrils. Sneezing was soothing. They crushed herbs and roots, medicinal wonders. Their minds, too, were muscular. The mortar and the pestles have been discarded in a nook of the present. The modern ladies prefer powder packets, albeit adulterated or preserved in poison. First published in The Literary Hatchet.