Dal Fry Poem by Sumita Jetley

In the city's heart, where the buildings rise,
A kitchen hums with quiet surprise.
A woman leads with hands so wise,
Her short hair silvered, like the skies.

She teaches of lentils, turmeric, and salt,
The basics, she says, where we must start.
But then she holds the herbs aloft,
A touch of green, a work of art.

"You could skip this, " she softly says,
"And still, the meal would fill your days.
But without these leaves, what's left is plain,
No joy, no depth, no sweet refrain."

She chops the herbs with practiced care,
And as they fall, they scent the air.
"In this rush of life, we often forget,
The smallest things, our hearts have met."

She stirs the pot, the steam, it swirls,
Like city streets, with rushing curls.
"In life, just like in cooking here,
It's the tiny things that bring us near."

She serves the dal, the lesson clear,
In every bowl, a bit of cheer.
"For in this world so fast, so bright,
It's the little things that bring delight."

So, don't forget the herbs, my friend,
In every moment, they defend,
The joy, the spark, the hidden gem,
That turns each day to something grand.