The Lost Supper

That glorified space,

the sanctum sanctorum of every home.

A safe abode.

A recreation space.

A workstation.

A social hangout.

And above all,

a temple for women 

for centuries.

A place that churned out a thousand meals,

fed a million hearts,

and catered to countless more.

Like an Akshaya Patra-

endless, giving, divine.

It was an art.

It was healing.

It was grace itself.

What a soul-satisfying joy it was,

to watch someone’s eyes light up

as they savoured a meal you made.

That happiness,

purer, deeper,

than even taking your own share.

They say you can reach a man’s heart

through his stomach.

But what happens

when he forgets

the heart behind the food?

Then came a dreadful time -

dark, uncertain,

when the world retreated indoors,

and fear sat at every doorstep.

The “new normal,” they called it -

a time that tested us all.

What used to be three meals a day

became meals at every hour.

The world sought comfort -

in food,

in routine,

in small pleasures that softened the panic.

The clings and clangs,

the sizzles and whistles -

they echoed endlessly.

Day after day.

Meal after meal.

Those dark years are long gone,

but they’ve taken something precious along -

the joy of cooking,

the art of slowing down,

the quiet pride in creating warmth.

A civilization that had taken generations

to help women step out of the kitchen

found itself pushing them back in.

Back to the heat,

the sweat,

the cycle that never paused.

“What do people even eat this often for?”

a weary heart wondered.

There was no teamwork this time,

no shared effort, no gratitude.

Just one woman,

ruling that space

that no longer felt like hers.

The love for the process

slowly began to fade.

What was once therapy

had become labour.

What was once a holy shrine

now felt like

a furnace in disguise.

“Service to family is service to God,”

they said.

Of course it is.

Until service begins to taste like slavery.

Then came the add-ons,

chaos within chaos.

Diabetes or BP,

special diets and “superfoods,”

recipes “curated” by YouTube or GPT,

each more complex than the last.

When phobia replaces fact,

the kitchen becomes a panic zone,

anxious hearts sautéing fear,

one meal at a time.

Then comes a moment

when you yearn for a hot meal,

cooked and served just for you,

bringing back memories of home,

of mom,

of love that needed no garnish.

But that time is gone, my darling.

Long gone.

Add to that the customized lunch and snack menus

sent from school,

listing items you’ve only heard of,

and things your little one

will reject at first glance.

So what’s the point?

Now we fix quick meals.

We save time.

We outsource.

We numb.

Here’s to all the women

who served and cared

a little too much,

until they stopped caring altogether.

To those who endured pain,

sore knees, strained backs, sleepless nights,

and still stood strong

until they finally sat down,

and didn’t rise again.

This one’s for you,

the unseen priestesses

of 'The Lost Supper'.

________________________________________

Author’s Note:

The kitchen has always been more than a place, it’s been a legacy of care, sacrifice, and silent endurance. But love should never come at the cost of self.

The 'Lost Supper' is a reminder to pause, to be seen, and to serve yourself a plate of rest and recognition, for once, without guilt.