The Fire And The Feast Poem by Sumita Jetley

In a city where embers kissed the night,
Lived a chef who danced with fire's light.
His hands, once steady, carved with grace,
Turned hunger into art, into sacred taste.

The world adored his burning flame,
They whispered songs upon his name.
He built his throne on heat and steel,
Yet forgot the hunger that makes one feel.

But the Sufis say, 'The hand that feeds
Must never fall to silent greed.'
And in his kitchen, soft and low,
Betrayal brewed, began to grow.

A brother, trusted, held the keys,
But wove his treachery through the trees.
The gold he counted was never his,
Yet he carved the master's fate amiss.

Then came a woman, silk and grace,
With whispers sweet as stolen lace.
The world soon saw what lay inside—
Not just food, but a secret, denied.

The fire roared, the curtains fell,
The papers burned, the headlines swelled.
His name was ink, his face a tale,
A man consumed by his betrayal.

No throne remained, no voice was heard,
His world undone by whispered word.
So he walked away, unseen, unknown,
A man reduced to dust and bone.

Yet fire does not end the song,
The Sufis hum, 'You rise when gone.'
So in a garden, quiet, bare,
He sat where only silence cared.

The herbs grew wild, the earth was kind,
His hands once more began to find
The art of taste, the gift of heat,
But now, with wisdom, soft and sweet.

He cooked no more for praise or name,
But for the love, not for the fame.
And when the world once more drew near,
They found not fire, but something clear.

For the Sufis say, 'To burn is fate,
But to rise again is choice, not weight.'

And so, beneath the olive tree,
The chef returned, but finally free.

The feast began anew.