We eat with our hands,
feeling steam rise from a mound of rice,
mashing dhal and vegetable korma,
trusting fingers, not eyes or mouth,
to judge texture and temperature.

A conversation unfolds
between touch and sustenance, undisturbed
by porcelain clashing with metal,
drowning out gratitude
for the earth’s bounty,
hands completing the arc
from harvest to mouth.

I remember Mother mixing rice and sambar
with a swirl of ghee, working warmth
with her curved fingers, molding
bite-sized planets, guiding each one
to my open mouth.

Later, my own fingers learned
the dialects of rice—
soft sponge of idlis,
golden crackle of dosas,
cool comfort of yogurt rice.

Our tradition endured long before
and long after the British arrived,
declaring our forefathers
in need of refinement, marching in
with armies and cutlery,
forks glinting like small daggers.

In the mirrors of polished spoons,
centuries of memory erased,
we glimpsed our warped faces
and answered with quiet rebellion—
our rooted hands tearing naan, chapatis,
pooris, parathas, refusing
to surrender to steel.

Though scattered across continents,
seeds borne across oceans,
hands remembering
what tongues forget—
receiving the earth’s offerings
in cupped palms, lifting them
to our mouths,
a gentle blessing into the soul.