“Every bit of food we waste is a chance we lose to create a fairer and more sustainable world.”
– Unknown
I am Health.
The unseen ally in your daily skirmish,
against lethargy and woes.
As you embody me and
I keep you sustained,
We anxiously await the sacred spread,
only which can satisfy our combined trigger,
called Hunger from eons and bygones.
Today, I stand witness to an epic assembly—
a coalition of warriors, flavors, and textures,
Each sworn to fight for your vitality,
all gathered on the battlefield,
on the greens of a crisp banana leaf,
here comes the world of a Thali
The Rice speaks first, as always.
“All white in the shining armor. I am the foundation, the steadfast infantry. Who else has the bulk to fill the gaps?
No glamour, no spice—just pure, unyielding strength. Without me, this army collapses.”
A pause, then a sniff. “Of course, Lemon rice will claim otherwise.”
From across the aisle, Lemon rice rolls in with a zesty swagger.
“Oh, please, Mr. Plain. You’re a blank slate—I’m the one who adds the zest to life,
The cavalry with citrus flair. Don’t pretend they’d enjoy this meal without my zing.”
Roti, the other towering carb powerhouse elbows in.
“I’m the humble shield every warrior needs—soft yet firm. I hunt in pairs with all the allies to guard against scathing hunger attacks.”
Spinach dal adjusts its tactical stance.
“Enough of this petty rivalry. We’re on the same side.
I bring strength of purpose— mighty iron and protein wrapped in an earthy broth.
You may argue over who gets the credit, but remember, strategy wins wars.”
From the center, Sambhar rears its head, calm but commanding.
“Strategy is nothing without leadership,” Sambhar declares.
“I am the soul of this army—lentils, tamarind, and my own cavalry of spices united in a harmonious surge.
It is my depth that rallies the troops, blending heat with nourishment.”
Garlic Rasam chuckles from the side. “Harmonious? You’re a soup with delusions of grandeur!”
Rasam speaks up, fiery as ever.
“I’m the steadfast scout! Hot, tangy, and immune-boosting. While you all stomp along, I slice through the battlefield with sharp precision. Who else clears the throat and awakens the spirit? But go ahead, Sambhar—lead on, while I do the real work.”
The sabzis, the poriyals chime in—because they must.
Potato Stir Fry nudges Okra. “Can’t have a war without us foot soldiers.”
“We’re not just foot soldiers,” Okra retorts, slicing the air.
“I am the archer, precise and crisp. One bite, and the tongue knows discipline.”
“Fine,” Potato grumbles, “but I’m the reliable one, golden and spiced. Comfort is a weapon too.”
In a corner, Mango Pickle lets out a sharp laugh.
“You call yourselves warriors? I’m the wildest warrior!
Small, yes—but one bite of me, and the battlefield trembles.
I’m not here to nourish; I’m here to shock. Without me, this is just… meh.”
Papad interjects, light and crackling.
“Peace, my friends. Let’s not forget the scouts like me.
I circle the edges, adding crunch to the chaos. A battle without texture? Unthinkable.”
Cucumber chutney, ever the mediator, cools the heated debate.
“Enough bickering, all of you. I am the healer, the balm for fiery tongues. Without me, the war ends in ruins—burned palates and tearful regrets.”
Then, the dessert, Gulab Jamun, pipes up with syrupy smugness.
“Oh, sweet warriors, squabble all you want.
At the end of this battle, I am the victory parade.
The moment of bliss that reminds them why they fight.”
Finally, Buttermilk speaks, calm and soothing.
“I am not part of your battle—I am the afterthought, the gentle breeze that sweeps through the battlefield when the fight is over. I cleanse, I calm, I restore. Without me, your work would go unfinished.”
But wait—two voices echo from beyond the plate.
First comes from kapi, the Indian filter coffee, its aroma weaving through the room.
“Before you embark on a leaf-wrapped wisdom. I am the final flourish,
The jolt of energy that reignites the spirit. Thick, strong, and frothy—
I declare this meal done with a sip that brings clarity and vigor.”
From the corner of the table, beetel-wrapped paan unfurls its fragrant green leaf with a theatrical flourish.
“Do not forget me, for I am the ancient sage, the digestion master.
A single chew, and I soothe your belly, refresh your breath,
And leave you wondering why no other meal feels quite complete.”
I, Health, chuckle as you settle for the first bite.
The Thali stirs, each dish eager and apprehensive. They know their worth,
Yet their squabbles pale in comparison to the greater purpose:
To fuel, to heal, to make me, Health, stronger.
To make you and me live longer.
A sobering thought stirs in the quiet after the feast.
This Thali, abundant and harmonious,
is a privilege—
One that many in this world can only dream of.
For countless souls, even one dish
is a victory against hunger.
This Thali, this feast of life,
is more than a meal—
It is a sacred bond with planet earth,
A gift of countless hands and
the toil of many hearts.
To waste it is to forget,
the hunger that shadows our world.
Eat not with mere appetite,
But with a purpose that transcends our own.
Because the true feast is a world
where every plate is full,
And no soul goes wanting.