A mother cooking exclusively for her child might be preparing

Host: The evening light spilled through the half-opened window of a small apartment kitchen, painting the air with shades of amber and quiet smoke. A pot simmered on the stove, its aroma gentle, humble — rice, and something sour-sweet, like buttermilk. The sound of a train echoed in the distance, fading into the rhythm of boiling water and cutlery tapping faintly.

Jack sat at the wooden table, sleeves rolled, his grey eyes following the slow swirl of steam rising from his cup. Jeeny, across from him, leaned on her elbows, her dark hair tied carelessly, her expression soft, but her gaze steady — as if her thoughts had been cooking longer than the food.

Jeeny: “You know, Ilaiyaraaja once said — ‘A mother cooking exclusively for her child might be preparing just rice and buttermilk, but it will be immensely tasty. Fast food, on the other hand, may be very tasty, but it has not been prepared exclusively for you.’”

Jack: (smirks) “Ah, so we’re comparing love to culinary skill now?”

Jeeny: “Not skill. Intention. The heart behind what’s done.”

Host: The flame flickered as the wind pushed softly against the windowpane. A faint scent of rain drifted in. Jack leaned back, crossing his arms, his voice dry, his mind sharp like a blade testing softness.

Jack: “Intention doesn’t season food, Jeeny. Salt does. A chef in a fast-food joint may not know your name, but they can make something perfectly balanced. Isn’t that what we actually crave — something that works, something consistent?”

Jeeny: “Consistent, yes. But not alive. There’s a difference between perfect taste and personal warmth. A mother’s meal carries her soul, her care, her memory of you — that changes the way it feels, even if the ingredients are poor.”

Jack: “That’s just sentimentality. You’re confusing nostalgia for nutrition. The body doesn’t digest love. It digests food.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and deliberate. The room’s air grew heavier — not from heat, but from the weight of disagreement. Jeeny lifted her cup, blew gently over it, her eyes glimmering with something — not anger, but conviction.

Jeeny: “Jack, you ever wonder why when people lose someone, they talk about their cooking? Not their car, or their job, or their logic — but how they used to make dal, or how the kitchen smelled at dusk. Because that’s where care becomes memory, and memory becomes meaning. It’s not about food. It’s about belonging.”

Jack: “Or maybe people just romanticize what they can’t have anymore. Memory distorts. That’s why nostalgia sells so well — the illusion of warmth.”

Jeeny: “You really think it’s illusion? When a child comes home from school and their mother’s been waiting with a simple meal — you think that’s a trick of the mind?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer right away. The sound of the boiling pot filled the silence, each bubble bursting like a thought unspoken. He finally stood, walked toward the window, and looked out at the streetlights flickering on.

Jack: “Look, Jeeny. I’m not saying love doesn’t matter. I’m saying efficiency runs the world. You can’t cook for everyone like a mother cooks for her child. That’s why we have systems — restaurants, supply chains, machines. Love doesn’t scale.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the problem, Jack. Maybe the world keeps getting faster, colder, because we keep asking it to scale what’s meant to stay small — human warmth.”

Host: Her words hung like smoke, curling into the dim light above them. Jack turned, leaning against the counter, his shadow stretching across the floor. His eyes softened, just slightly — a storm not yet breaking.

Jack: “You know, during the war, soldiers used to get canned food — uniform, tasteless, mass-produced. But when they came home, they’d say nothing ever tasted like home again. You think that’s love too?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because home isn’t about taste, it’s about presence. When someone cooks just for you, they’re saying, ‘You exist, and you matter.’ Machines can’t say that.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But people starve waiting for love to feed them. Isn’t it better that something, even if soulless, keeps them alive?”

Jeeny: “Alive, yes. But not awake. We’ve mistaken survival for living. Just because fast food keeps you breathing doesn’t mean it keeps you human.”

Host: The rain finally began — slow drops against the glass, gentle but certain. The smell of earth rose up, grounding everything. The pot hissed quietly as the flame died.

Jeeny stood, walked to the stove, and served the rice into two small bowls. She sat opposite Jack again, sliding one toward him.

Jeeny: “Taste it.”

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) “Is this the part where I’m supposed to be transformed by love?”

Jeeny: “No. Just — notice.”

Host: Jack picked up the spoon, hesitated, then took a bite. The flavor was simple, almost plain — but there was a quiet warmth, a strange weight to it, as if the room itself breathed through the meal. He swallowed slowly, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “It’s… good.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s present. Because it was for you.”

Jack: (sighs) “You always have to win the argument, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Not win. Remind.”

Host: The rain quickened, drumming softly, as the two sat in the dim light. Jack set the spoon down and rubbed his temples, his eyes distant, like someone tracing old memories.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my mother used to make bread. Nothing fancy — just plain, dry, but she’d always press my hand to it, like she wanted me to feel its warmth. I’d forgotten that until now.”

Jeeny: (softly) “See? That warmth doesn’t fade. It just waits to be remembered.”

Jack: “Maybe Ilaiyaraaja’s right then — maybe exclusive love makes the ordinary extraordinary.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The rice and buttermilk weren’t special because of what they were — but because of who they were for. It’s the same with music, with words, with every act. If it’s made for everyone, it loses its face.”

Jack: “But can’t something universal still carry love? His music, for instance — he wrote for millions, yet people feel it’s theirs alone.”

Jeeny: “Because he meant it that way. He played like a mother cooks — for every listener as if they were her only child.”

Host: The storm outside deepened, but the room felt warmer now. Two bowls, two voices, two worlds meeting in quiet understanding. The camera of the moment lingered — on hands resting near steam, on eyes that saw more than disagreement, on truth quietly shared.

Jack: “So maybe love doesn’t need to scale. Maybe it just needs to stay honest — even in small portions.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like a home-cooked meal — never grand, but always sincere.”

Host: The lights flickered, the rain softened, and the last train passed beyond the window. The air smelled of rice, earth, and something unspoken — the taste of memory. Jack leaned back, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, watching him with a kind of peace that only silence could carry.

Jack: “You know what, Jeeny? Maybe you were right from the start. It’s not about food. It’s about who’s waiting at the table.”

Jeeny: “And who you’re cooking for.”

Host: The steam faded, the flame gone, but the warmth lingered — an invisible thread between two people, woven not from reason or recipe, but from the oldest ingredient of all — care. The night closed softly around them, like a mother’s hands tucking in a child, whispering that the simplest things, when made with love, never truly end.