In Borrowed Kitchens

 

In kitchens borrowed, scents of spice arise,
Where mothers toil with patient, knowing eyes.
Not queens are they, nor saints in marble halls,
But weavers of a life within four walls.
With hands that knead, and hearts that softly beat,
They stir the pots—a humble, rich retreat.
A whispered prayer in steam begins to glide,
Where love and memory quietly reside.

The stoves are old, the counters chipped and bare,
Yet warmth flows in the seasoned, fragrant air.
These borrowed kitchens—rented, patched, or shared—
Hold roots of love, by hardship unimpaired.
The cow dung walls, the soot on every beam,
The leaking roof that drips into a dream—
No gas, no oil, just twigs or smoky flame,
Yet still they cook, and never once complain.

No extra milk, no butter, fish, or meat,
Just salt and chilies, fired to make heat.
The curry thin, yet served with steady hand,
A feast of care, though hunger stalks the land.
An edge-broke plate, a meal so faint and small,
Half rice-bread, dry—no sugar, none at all.
No jaggery to sweeten weary bones,
Just salted hopes and hunger’s muffled tones.

A child still waits, eyes wide with quiet grace,
For love served warm on mother’s tired face.
And fathers stand, their hands with dust defiled,
But in their gaze, a dignity unstyled.
No crown they wear of gold or precious stone,
But strength within—a kingdom all their own.
The weight of worlds upon their shoulders pressed,
Yet in their silence, many dreams find rest.
With calloused palms, they raise what can't be bought—
A life of meaning, deeply, quietly wrought.

Their children watch, with wonder in their eyes,
As dinner steams beneath the twilight skies.
They learn that greatness does not seek applause,
But rises up for love, without a cause.
The future shaped by apron strings and tools—
Not courts, nor kings, but kitchen heat and schools.

From poverty, a wisdom gently grows—
To share what’s scarce, to care through highs and lows.
It teaches us to stretch each grain with grace,
To make the most in every time and place.
Cooperation blooms in tightened hands,
And brotherhood in hunger’s quiet lands.
Frugality becomes a sacred art,
And hardship binds each soul to every heart.

So let us praise, not names in gilded frames,
But humble souls who build through winds and flames—
The mothers’ hands, the fathers’ steady bend,
The daily grace that none need to pretend.
For in their care, a world of wonder lies,
In borrowed kitchens, where true value flies.