The tawa sizzles, and the kitchen’s warm,
A shelter from the world and from the storm.
My mother rolls the dough with expert hands,
She understands what my heart understands.
"I'm full," I say, "I cannot eat one more."
She smiles and shakes her head and shuts the door.
"Just one more, beta, this one's thin and small,"
Her love's a language understood by all.
And in that final, golden, buttered round,
The purest, truest treasure can be found.
It isn’t flour, salt, or oil I taste,
It's her whole heart, so it cannot go to waste.
One day I know that I will crave this bite,
And search for it in the lonely, silent night.
That final paratha, a circle of her care,
A love I'll carry with me everywhere.
Poet's Note
In many cultures, especially in India, food is a primary language of love. This poem is about that specific, powerful gesture of a mother insisting you eat "just one more." That last paratha is a symbol of a selfless, nurturing love that doesn't listen to your words but to your heart. I wanted to capture the bittersweet knowledge that this simple act is one of the most precious things we will ever experience.