The plates are cleared, the meal is at an end,
But on the table sits a single friend.
A triangle of gold, a king so proud,
The last samosa, calling to the crowd.
The eyes all meet, a silent, tense attack,
There is no friendship now, there's no way back.
My cousin shifts, my uncle clears his throat,
We're all contenders on this final vote.
"No one wants it?" someone asks with a lie,
With hungry, hopeful glances on the fly.
"You have it," I say, with a noble sigh,
A strategic move to make them pass it by.
It is a battle, not of sword or gun,
But of who hesitates before they run.
And then my father, with a hero's grace,
Divides it into four and saves the place.
Poet's Note
I've always been amused by the silent negotiations and mock-battles that happen over the last piece of a beloved food. This poem is a celebration of those small, humorous moments that define our relationships. The samosa isn't just food; it becomes a trophy in a gentle war of politeness and desire. It’s a warm-hearted look at the funny, unspoken dramas that play out in every family, where a simple act of sharing can make a hero.