Priyadarshini Khan

My Dear Diners…

My dear diners,
our restaurant :our pride, our legacy,
is in danger.
For generations, we have served the same dish:
boiled dreams, plated with precision.
We called it tradition.
We called it excellence.
We called it :The taste of growing up
But lately,
some children ask for flavor.
A few want color in their curries,
a little fire in their bread.
They speak of recipes that do not exist on our menu.

Let me remind you, these are dangerous appetites.
Too much taste breeds thought.
Too much heat wakes the tongue.
if the tongue wakes–
it might start to question the chef.
It might stop licking the spoon of approval
as they start cooking for themselves.
We cannot allow that.
Our ancestors simmered this recipe till it forgot it was alive, till it forgot it's pulse.
They offered blandness to the deity of safety 
and we have sworn to serve the same.

Still, there are those
who sneak salt into the stew,
who write poems on napkins between bites.
Some hum while stirring the pot.
Some leave fingerprints of art
on spotless silver plates.
They are the threat.
They are the smoke, the chef despises.
We will tighten the recipes.
We will scrub out the stains of imagination.
We will lock the spice racks and praise discipline instead.
And when the last meal tastes of nothing at all,
we will raise our glasses high and say,
“The restaurant is safe again.”

Inside, someone drops a spoon.
The sound cuts through the room like truth.
Heads lift. Eyes meet.
And for a mere second, just one–
everyone remembers
they were born hungry.
Then the waiter appears.
Picks up the spoon.
Smiles.

The chewing starts again.

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