I’m the onion, the root vegetable with a papery skin that brings tears to the human eye. Hey! I don’t do it on purpose. I’m just made that way—layered and strong. LOL. I come in 3 colors—yellow, red, and white. Do you know the real reason why I make you cry? When you cut me, you begin to cry because cutting releases an enzyme that converts amino acids into a gas called propanethiol S-oxide that generates tears. I begin my life underneath the soil. Hence, I’m covered in moist mud and grow in the dark. One fine day, I’m pulled out, cleaned, thrown into sacks and taken to the markets to be sold. You buy me and take me home to use me in your cooking. I can also be consumed when I’m not fully ready. I’m then called scallion or spring onion. Once I enter your kitchen, I know my days are numbered. I avoid looking at the chopping board. Each time you peel me, tears begin to stream down your cheeks as if I’ve broken your heart. Sometimes, you even leave the kitchen for a break. Sorry,...

I'm   a clear glass jar. When you brought me home, I was full of sweet, flavourful strawberry jam. When the last of the jam had been scraped out and finished, I thought my fate was sealed. I would be trash. However, like many Indian homes, you decided to keep me, and just like that, you saved my life. Ah! Sustainability and reuse! However, I feel like a nomad. One day, I’m sitting on your kitchen shelf, filled with some aromatic masala or pickle; the next, I’m chilling in your fridge full of homemade hummus or letting your oats have a good overnight soak. Then I find myself in your closet in a piggy bank avatar. Who am I? I’m suffering from a full-blown identity crisis. Then I get pushed to the back of beyond for months, lost and forgotten, and suddenly, when you’re on a cleaning mission, you rediscover me and hug me like a long-lost friend and give me prime importance in your kitchen.  On the kitchen shelf, when I'm labelled neatly, I feel important and organised. ...

The kitchen has always been more than a space to cook. It's a space where flavours and aromas stir up memories, love, and laughter. My poem is a tribute to this magical space that blends love with spice.  "For your every dish is a poem," said my father to my mother.   The kitchen is my domain. Queen of all I survey— Pots and pans, Spoons and knives, Jars of spices in proud array.   Turmeric, Chili, Cumin and Teel Flavouring every dish at every meal. Each a different, vibrant hue, With hidden powers, Meant to comfort and heal.   The sizzle of onions, the clatter of spoons A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper— A beautiful harmony On a warm sunny afternoon.   Chop and blend. Bake or fry - There’s an ounce of love In every pastry and pie.   It’s here where soups simmer And pots bubble, And spice meets the soul— That the heart is happy and whole. This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025 Image cre...