"Hindi is a beautiful language and proverbs are its jewel... " boomed Mr. Nageshwar, our language teacher as he taught us in his old high voice. A real pain to ear as I like to call it. I must say ironically to my current job as a writer, I was not a big fan of language.
What kept me interested in class was Jiya, my high school crush. I could spend hours staring at her and it would pass by as minutes. I could ......
"Mr. Simple Man what are you busy with this time " yelled Mr. Nageshwar in my ears as he called me out from my sweet little dream. "Answer the question !! What is the meaning of too many cooks spoil the broth"
I, at that time was terrible at language, and did not know the answer and aftermath could be an easy guess.
Well whatever, but you know why I told you this story because now years after, I know the answer which leads us to today's adventure!!
A Proverb
Part one
Too many cooks spoil a broth,
That is an ancient saying,
However in the pages of history it lost its saying,
It was as I remember too many cooks spoil the soup,
Well not much change but enough to irritate this simple man.
One of you may ask how I came to know this world changing fact,
Well it is a long story,
You see I am not particularly fond of leaving my house,
But when it comes to a three-day two-night paid package to kerala it is a different story.
It was a gift from one of the sponsor of our generic English newspaper,
Anyhow not to get off track I landed in Kerala,
It is a beautiful land, the god's own land as some may say,
But ofcourse how can I have an encounter so normal and so beautiful,
After all, normal incidents don't make an adventure,
What made my tour so different was a rikshaw wala.
Rikshaw walas are known for their chitchats and overpriced charges,
But no, my Rickshaw wala was not an ordinary one,
He was a philosopher and he preached me his teachings,
He taught me how the devils rise, how the gods die, and how cook fries soup.
Wait what, what, what,
How cook fries soup?
My sleepy self woke to full attention,
As his words made no-sense.
Part Two
He started to tell me a story of Kalinga Empire,
He told me of its greatness and how it conquered all of India,
He particularly told me about this king Kalinga,
King Kalinga was the bravest king,
In all one hundred and thirty-four battles he fought,
He lost none,
He killed an angry elephant with nothing but a sword,
He fought a forty-armed man using only one hand,
But it is not his bravery that intreasted us,
It was his fondness for food,
He liked to devour over all the lavish food a monarch can have,
He would eat every kind of food he was offered,
He devoured not like a king but like an army
He would not eat one or two plates but around twenty of them.
One time he wondered what would the best soup in the world would taste like,
And hence, the master chef and his hundred subordinates were given a task,
As ridiculous as it was impossible,
I mean what kind of soup is the best,
It is just a matter of taste,
But to explain Monarch is like explaining a rock,
Whatever we only care about the story,
So lets forget logic—this is a story of soup, not sense.
Part Three
The cooks were stressed as to what would fulfill the stomach of the Monarch,
What would taste the "best."
Well, they landed on a difficult yet daring thought—
Why not add every good ingredient in the soup,
So many skilled cooks, yet such a foolish thought,
The old cook brought spices fiery and bold,
The lean cook added honey, like liquid gold.
A third fat cook suggested the tang of lime,
While a fourth young cook poured in wine.
The choas brewed with every clash of ingredients,
Each cook believed their touch was the best.
A pinch of this, a dash of that.
And the "poison" was ready to kill at best
The Monarch’s chamber was filled with the scent,
And soon to the hall the soup was brought,
But when King Kalinga took his first sip,
His face contorted, his brow did dip.
"What madness is this?" the Monarch roared,
It was a subtle call that the chefs were as good as dead,
The king was to declare a death sentence,
But before he could do that his face turned pale,
His hands trembled,
His health deteriorated and he started to puke blood,
He started to crawl and convulse,
He cried but alas he died.
The tale of the soup’s disaster,
Spread across lands ever faster,
Becoming a lesson in every nook,
Of how too many cooks can ruin the soup, yet in strange irony, preserve their lives.
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