Spice In The Sevai – Not all spice burns — some bloom between people.

What’s Simmering?

Katu rasa, the pungent taste, doesn’t arrive quietly. It’s a jolt — sometimes sharp, sometimes playful — but always enlivening. In poetry, pungency can be the heat of effort, the friction of surprise, or the spark of realization that something (or someone) has more power than we gave them credit for.

In this post, we explore how pungency finds its way into kitchens and verses — not just through chilli powder, but through unexpected tenderness, muscular effort, and unspoken mischief.

Featured Poem: Spice in the Sevai

Yesterday evening, Priyam came home,
hopping around, smelling the roses,
plucking the lone jasmine from the creeper,
her bangles tinkling louder than the wind.

In her usual chirpy self, she asked
for the recipe of authentic sevai —
our traditional South Indian hand-pressed noodles.

I laughed.
“It’s not for the faint-hearted,” I said.
“Requires strength — arm work, heavy pressing.
Why not try something easier?”

Not losing a breath of enthusiasm, she replied,
“Adi loves it, and I want to make it for him.”

I looked at her — thin, frail wrists,
new to our ways of soaking and steaming.
I offered instead,
“Come next Sunday. I’ll make it for you.”

But she stood her ground,
with that childlike stubbornness
I never could say no to.

So I walked her through it,
step by step:
“Soak the rice for four hours,
grind it smooth, like wet cream.
Add salt, place a cloth in idli plates,
pour ladles of batter over it,
steam it gently.

Take it out when still warm, not hot —
and press it through the sevai nazhi
while it still breathes softness.”

She scribbled every word,
smiling as if it were a family heirloom.
I didn’t think she’d manage it.

But this morning, when I stepped out
to water my garden,
I found the two of them —

laughing over the mess
they had created in the kitchen.

She was trying to hand him warm idlis
as he quickly placed them in the sevai nazhi,
showing off his muscular arms
with a wink as he pressed it down.

She stood beside him,
picked a warm strand,
rolled it around her finger,
and slurped it up — teasing him.

And in that moment, I knew —
this otherwise bland, white sevai
had turned spicier
from their love.

I left the garden quietly.
The roses could wait.

What’s Sizzling Beneath the Surface?

Pungency of the Unexpected

The poem turns when the speaker’s assumption — that Priyam couldn’t manage the laborious process — is upended. Katu rasa often arrives through surprise and reversal.

The Heat of Togetherness

Domesticity becomes flirtation. The couple isn’t just cooking; they’re co-creating. The sevai becomes a symbol of partnership — effort folded into love.

The Speaker’s Quiet Exit

The speaker fades out — a subtle recognition that what’s blossoming isn’t hers to stir. A final line like “The roses could wait” leaves the rasa lingering.

Writing Prompt: The Spice I Didn’t Expect

Write a poem where someone (yourself or another) surprises you — not with perfection, but with effort, grit, or unexpected intimacy.

Prompt Starters:

• “She wasn’t supposed to manage it…”
• “The batter wasn’t perfect, but the moment…”
• “He winked, and the steam rose…”
• “I offered to do it — but she insisted…”
• “The pressure in the kitchen had nothing to do with the stove.”

Tips for Writing Katu Poetry

Let the spark be small but transformative.
Katu poems don’t need conflict — just a shift in perception.

Use contrasting textures.
Soft idlis, hot steam, cold roses — let your imagery pop.

Let playfulness carry depth.
Mischief can hold meaning. Let the humour come with heat.

End with a pause, not applause.
A lingering moment — a sideways glance, a closing door — is enough.

Final Bite

Pungency isn’t always about spice levels — it’s about what stirs us into feeling more awake.
Sometimes, it’s a couple pressing sevai together.
Sometimes, it’s an old belief melting quietly.
And sometimes, it’s knowing when to step aside — because love, like mustard seeds in hot ghee, knows how to sizzle on its own.

Final Spoonful: Wrapping Up the Series

Over five posts, we’ve tasted the five rasas — madhura, amla, lavana, tikta, and katu — not just as flavours, but as emotions that bring poetry to life.

Through each post, I’ve offered:

• One original poem
• A deep-dive into how rasa works beneath the surface
• Prompts and writing tips for you to cook up your own poems

Poetry, like food, works best when shared.

Try the prompt?

Write your own poem and share it in the comments or email it to me at promisingpoetry5@gmail.com
The best ones will be featured in the Collaborative Poetry section — where shared words find their flavour.

Want feedback on your poetry?
I’m happy to offer 1:1 feedback and poetry editing services.
Reach me at promisingpoetry5@gmail.com to get started.

This Bitterness Didn’t Brew Next Door: Some flavours cross the wall. Others surface from within.

Bitterness in poetry is rarely about the food itself. It’s about the aftertaste of comparison, the quiet ache of not measuring up, the fatigue of watching someone else’s rhythm while yours unravels.

Tikta rasa, the bitter flavour, brings to the surface what we often avoid: disappointment, regret, self-judgment — and the effort to keep going despite it. In kitchens and in verses, bitterness doesn’t always scream. It settles like a residue, sharp and lingering.

Featured Poem: This Bitterness Didn’t Brew Next Door

By 5:00 a.m., the vessels start chattering,
and by 5:30, the whistle of the pressure cooker
slips through the glass panes
of the neighbouring flat — and mine.
It wakes me —
an alarm that never goes wrong. 

I lie still, listening:
chutney in the grind,
mustard seeds cracking in hot oil,
someone else’s discipline
wafting into my mess.

In their kitchen,
the day begins like clockwork —
in mine, it coils like clutter.
Last night’s dishes
still holding shadows
of half-eaten dinners.

The bitter truth brews
not from burnt coffee,
but from the ache
of routines I can’t keep,
standards I never chose,
and a life being lived
too loudly next to mine.

By 6:00 a.m.,
she serves breakfast with sambaar.
I chew my guilt
with a slice of dry toast.

What’s Brewing Beneath the Surface?

Bitterness as Comparison:

It’s not about sambhar vs. toast. It’s about how our self-worth can get tangled in the routines of others.

Sensory Soundscape:

The poem leans heavily on sound — vessels chattering, whistles, grinding chutney — a chorus of productivity that invades the speaker’s stillness.

Kitchen as Metaphor:

• Their kitchen is clockwork, hers is clutter.
• Their food is complete, hers is reheated regret.
  A quiet but powerful contrast.

The Real Bitter Taste:

“The bitter truth brews / not from burnt coffee…”
This couplet is the emotional pivot. It’s not about food, but the ache of inadequacy.

Writing Prompt: The Taste You Didn’t Choose

Explore a moment when another person’s rhythm made you aware of your own disorder, fatigue, or self-doubt — and how that emotional flavour lingered.

Prompt Themes:

• Comparing your routines to someone else’s.
• The feeling of being “behind” before your day begins.
• A small trigger — a sound, a smell, a sight — that uncovers something larger.
• Bitterness that wasn’t aimed at anyone — just quietly surfaced.

Prompt Starters:

“Even my guilt was reheated.”

“Their day began with whistles. Mine… didn’t.”

“I heard the oil crackle through our shared wall…”

“By the time I rose, she had already served…”

“The toast was dry. But not as dry as…”

“I waited for silence to start my day.”

“The smell crossed into my space, uninvited.”

Tips for Writing Tikta Poetry

Bitterness is not rage.
It’s reflection, disappointment, fatigue — let it simmer quietly.

Use contrasts in setting or routine.
What others manage vs. what you can’t — this creates internal tension without blame.

Leverage the senses.
Let sound (alarms, kitchen clatter) or smell (burnt or sharp) act as triggers.

End with vulnerability, not judgment.
The best Tikta poems don’t point fingers — they uncover quiet truths.

Final Sip

Bitterness is often a taste we don’t choose — but one we grow into. In food, as in life, it lingers longer than sugar. In poetry, Tikta rasa offers us a space to sit with discomfort, with comparisons, with our quieter selves — the ones who don’t wake up at 5 a.m., and sometimes need dry toast to cope.

Try the prompt?

Write your own poem and share it in the comments or email it to me at promisingpoetry5@gmail.com
The best ones will be featured in the Collaborative Poetry section — where shared words find their flavour.

Just Enough Salt – Not too much. Not too little. Just enough to say everything

What’s Stirring?

Lavana rasa is the quiet, grounding taste — the one that lingers beneath everything else. Not flashy like spice, not bright like sour — just essential. It’s the taste of presence. Of things — and people — who show up again and again, not with grandeur, but with consistency.

This rasa often appears in poems that honour the unspoken: a parent’s daily gesture, a routine act of love, a dish that’s been simplified over time but still carries emotional weight. Salt, like love, isn’t usually named. But you know when it’s right. And you always know when it’s missing.

Featured Poem: Just Enough Salt

My mother’s sambar has turned softer —
no longer tangy, spicy, or thick.
Tamarind now replaced by tomatoes,
like her pattupudavais swapped for cotton sarees.

The spice has faded,
like her vanishing desires.
The sambar grown thinner,
like her frail, quiet frame.

Yet when she serves me sambar,
after two years abroad,
the taste of home
returns in the salt —
just right.

Her love, undramatic,
flows not through grand gestures,
but in the proportions
of the everyday.

What’s Beneath the Taste?

Salt as Steadfast Love

Salt becomes a metaphor for love that’s consistent and grounding. The kind of care that doesn’t announce itself — but you always know when it’s missing.

Ingredients as Identity

Tomatoes replacing tamarind. Cotton replacing silk. These small changes show us a woman who has aged, adapted, softened. But not disappeared.

Thinning Sambar, Thinning Body

There’s a quiet ache in how her sambar has grown thinner — not just in texture, but in vitality. Her frail frame mirrors the thinning broth.

The Familiar in the Ordinary

After years away, the daughter returns to find the dish different — and yet, the salt is still just right. It is through flavour, not words, that the mother says: “I still love you like always.”

Writing Prompts: “The Ordinary That Held Me”

Write a poem that honours subtle acts of care — gestures that weren’t loud, but linger.

Prompt Themes:

• A dish you were served again and again, quietly.
• A daily ritual that held emotional weight (packing lunch, oiling your hair, folding clothes).
• A homecoming after long years, where something had changed — but something else remained steady.
• A parent, grandparent, or caregiver who never said much — but showed up through action.

Starting Line Ideas:

“I didn’t notice it then. I do now.”Writing Prompt: “The Ordinary That Held Me”

“It wasn’t spicy anymore, but…”

“She no longer made it the old way, yet…”

“The proportions had shifted, except for…”

“Nothing looked the same — except the way it tasted.”

“A pinch of salt, and suddenly I was eight again.”

“Even her silence had flavour.”

“She stirred in something more than spice.”

Tips for Lavana Poetry

Let small things carry big weight.
A pinch of salt. A measured act. A casual word. Use the small to say the unsaid.

Use contrast in textures and tones.
Soft vs. sharp. Strong past vs. fading present. These deepen the rasa.

Let the final image be quiet but whole.
Don’t end on drama. Let it linger — like the aftertaste of home-cooked food.

Avoid declarations. Show, don’t summarize.
Instead of “Her love never changed,” show how — like in “the salt was just right.”

Final Taste

Salt never tries to steal the spotlight — yet it’s the one thing that ties it all together. Lavana rasa reminds us that love is often made not of grand moments, but of proportion, care, and familiarity.

Even when life changes — the ingredients, the body, the home — some part of love always stays just right.

Try the prompt?

Write your own poem and share it in the comments or email it to me at promisingpoetry5@gmail.com
The best ones will be featured in the Collaborative Poetry section — where shared words find their flavour.

Written as part of the #BlogchatterFoodFest

The Ripened Reminder – Not all ripe things taste sweet

Sourness in poetry is often misunderstood. It’s not bitterness. It’s not anger.
Amla rasa is the taste of awakening — the tang of change, the sharpness of memory, the unexpected jolt that tells you something’s not as it once was.

This poem explores that subtle dissonance — between appearance and reality, past and present, sweetness and surprise. A box of mangoes arrives as a thoughtful gesture, golden and ripe. But as the speaker bites in, what should taste sweet triggers something else entirely. Not because the fruit is off, but because the world has shifted.
She has shifted.

Featured Poem: The Ripened Reminder

A box of Banganapalli,
golden, plump with promise —
certified organic,
a luxury gift from my husband,
a week into our new life
in this city of malls.

He bites first.
His eyes confirm:
sweetness.

But my tongue travels home —
to my native town,
to mango summers
and the thrill of tree trunks.

I was young,
bold enough to scale branches,
pluck green mangoes
before the squirrels,
sink my canines
into their crisp skin,
let the sourness spread
like fireworks on my tongue.

A joy so sweet,
it lingers still.

And here I am,
older, softer,
biting into ripeness —
and finding it sour.

What’s Beneath the Bite?

Sourness as Awakening:

This isn’t just about mangoes — it’s about becoming aware. The shift from childhood thrill to adult adjustment is felt not in what’s said, but in how something familiar tastes different now.

Unspoken Emotion:

There’s no open declaration of discomfort. No line that says, “I miss home.” But the contrast is vivid. That’s the art of Amla rasa — it nudges, not shouts.

Setting as Contrast:

The “city of malls” stands sterile and still. In contrast, the native place lives — full of tree bark, squirrels, and bold limbs. The emotional landscape mirrors the physical one.

Sensory Layers:

The poem succeeds because it lets us feel the mango:

• Its firmness in the hand
• Its snap between the teeth
• Its fire on the tongue
  All these stand in for what words don’t need to explain.

Writing Prompts: “What Looked Sweet but Tasted Sharp”

Prompt Theme:

Write a poem that begins with a gift, gesture, or situation that seems sweet — but turns unexpectedly sour, not because of malice, but because of memory, growth, or change in self.

Prompt Angles:

• A kind dish reminds you of a time you were struggling
• A festival sweet takes you back to an unexpected goodbye
• A fruit you once loved now tastes strange in a new home
• Someone else enjoys something you no longer relate to

Starting Line Ideas:

• “There was sweetness in the box, but…”
• “He bit into it first. Said it was perfect.”
• “It tasted like home. But not mine.”
• “I expected ripeness. I got memory.”
• “The tang hit me first. Then the ache.”
• “I used to love this. Until I didn’t.”
• “The peel was gold. The taste, a jolt.”
• “The gift came ripe. My smile, delayed.”

Tips for Writing Amla Rasa Poetry

Don’t villainize sourness.
Sourness is not about negativity — it’s a sensory awakening, a shift in perception. Use it to show clarity.

Let contrast lead.
Place old vs. new, expected vs. real, or past vs. present side by side. The sourness lies in that space.

Use crisp, sensory verbs.
Words like sting, snap, tingle, cut, burst — these carry the physical punch of Amla rasa.

Make the last line linger.
Let your final image or taste do the emotional work. Sourness stays — your poem should too.

Final Bite

Change doesn’t always arrive with ceremony.
Sometimes, it enters through a ripe mango that doesn’t taste the way you expected.

Amla rasa reminds us that growth isn’t always sweet, and the things that once thrilled us may surprise us in their absence.
But there’s poetry in that too — in noticing what no longer tastes the same, and writing from the aftertaste.

Try the prompt?

Write your own poem and share it in the comments or email it to me at promisingpoetry5@gmail.com
The best ones will be featured in the Collaborative Poetry section — where shared words find their flavour.

Written as part of the #BlogchatterFoodFest

Milk & Mends – Poetry brewed in milk and memory

Sweetness in poetry is rarely just sugar. It often hides something deeper — a hint of ache behind the warmth, or the quiet effort behind a small gesture. When we speak of Madhura rasa, we’re not only speaking of taste but of emotion: affection, pampering, delight, and the tender instinct to care.

This poem was written last year from the warmth of an experience I’ve often felt drawn to: someone trying, thoughtfully, to create a moment of sweetness in an everyday kitchen.

The kitchen in this poem is a mess. The milk has boiled over.
But two tiny cups, dressed in rose petals and cocoa dust, hold more than just milk — they hold intention.
They hold love.

Featured Poem: Milk and Mends

He whispered in my ear,
"There's a gift awaiting in the kitchen."
I rushed to our little haven,
To be welcomed by
The burnt smell of milk cream,
Spills marking a map to a world unknown.

Oh wait, I see a little waterfall
Forming a puddle under the granite slab,
And four tiles away from it,
Two small cups half-filled with milk,
Rose petals on a royal bath,
Pampered with a sprinkle of cocoa powder.

Stirring Beneath the Surface

Emotion:

This poem carries thoughtfulness and a soft kind of love — not grand or dramatic, but expressed through quiet action. Someone has tried to make something simple and beautiful. It’s lovely, even when imperfect.

Domestic Symbolism:

The kitchen becomes a stage for gentle expression. Spills aren’t failures — they’re signs of effort. The milk trails become a kind of devotion map.

Sensory Imagery:

You can smell the burnt milk, follow the splash under the granite, and see the care in how the cups were finished. It’s sensory, but calming — not chaotic.

Line That Holds It All:

“Spills marking a map to a world unknown.”
This moment is bigger than the mess. It speaks of discovery, of trying something new for someone, of emotion surfacing through food.

Poetic Techniques:

• Enjambment mimics the spill of milk and the flow of thought.
• Contrast — the burnt beginning and the soft cocoa-petal finish — mirrors how love often arrives through effort.

Prompts for You

Prompt Title: “Sweet Mess”

Write a poem about someone trying to do something kind or thoughtful for you — and how that gesture, even when imperfect, became unforgettable.

Prompt Variations:

• A child tries to recreate your recipe.
• A friend brings you something homemade — badly.
• A dish is ruined, but the effort redeems it.
• Someone recreates your comfort food — but forgets the spice.
• A loved one prepares something carefully, quietly — just for you.

Starting Line Ideas:

• “He said, ‘Don’t enter the kitchen yet…’”
• “The smell hit me first — burnt, but bold.”
• “It wasn’t perfect. But it was for me.”
• “She stood there, flour on her nose, beaming.”
• “This was love: two cups, still warm, half-spilled.”
• “I never taught him this, but he tried.”
• “He whispered, ‘I hope it’s edible.’”

Writing Tips for the Madhura (Sweet) Rasa

Let the emotion surface through action.
Avoid saying “I felt loved” — instead, describe the gesture that made you feel it.

Contrast is your flavor booster.
Sweetness shines best after small stumbles — like overboiled milk or clumsy fingers.

Use soft rhythm and gentle imagery.
Madhura poems flow — they don’t jolt. Think silk, not sirens.

Don’t sugarcoat.
Let reality and sweetness coexist — like cocoa over milk, or warmth over a little burn.

Final Sip

Madhura rasa isn’t about grand declarations.
It’s about soft gestures that show care through effort, not perfection.

In Milk and Mends, the sweetness isn’t just in rose petals or cocoa —
It’s in the burnt cream, the puddle on the floor, and the intention behind it all.

Poetry, like love, often begins in the kitchen.
And sometimes, the mess is what makes the moment stay.

Try the prompt?

I’d love to read your version! Share your poem in the comments or email it to me at promisingpoetry5@gmail.com.
Selected entries will be featured in the Collaborative Poetry section — where we celebrate sweet, messy, meaningful moments through your words.

Written as part of the #BlogchatterFoodFest