My Bread: The Tiffin Prayer
It is given to me, it is only for me but.
I have a dream to share to my best,
I know well, If I keep only I could taste.
I could keep it in my bag though,
I am urged to stand, but I love it more.
Every time I checked, if it’s here,
He and I will be happy if I could share.
I promise to my mum it is only may tiffin,
I can’t wait to share with, when the time begin.!!
You know, sometimes an image doesn't just enter your mind; it takes root in your soul. For me, that image was of a little girl. I can still see her so clearly. Standing in her school prayer line, a sea of uniformed children, but she was in her own world. Her head was bowed with a sincerity that only a child possesses, her small hands pressed together. But it was her secret that moved me to my core, the gentle bulge in her pocket. It was a single, precious roti.
That image just wouldn't leave me. It was the wellspring for this poem.
When I wrote, "I am afraid if I could share it or not," I was trying to give voice to her silent, trembling heart. That roti wasn't just flour and water; it was her mother’s love, kneaded into dough in the early morning light. It was her warmth for the day, her security. It was given to her, and her alone. To hold onto it was to hold onto that love. To even think of sharing it must have felt like a betrayal, a letting go of something so deeply personal. The line, "If I keep only I could taste," is the raw, honest ache of a child's hunger, the simple, desperate need to have something that is just hers.
Her pocket was her sacred space, the "bag" I wrote about. And in the hushed quiet of that prayer, I imagined her mind racing, her little hands perhaps instinctively checking on her treasure.
But the prayer... ah, the prayer is where everything changes. Standing there, amidst the drone of the assembly, she wasn't just reciting words. She was having her own, much quieter, much more profound dialogue. That is when 'He' enters the poem. In that moment of pure childhood faith, she's speaking directly to God. And a new, beautiful truth dawns on her, a whisper in her soul: the greatest happiness, the one that would make both her and God truly happy, wasn't in the having, but in the giving. It was a realization so big it could barely fit in her small frame.
Suddenly, that roti in her pocket was no longer just a meal. It became a "tiffin," an offering. The promise she made to her mother to eat it was overshadowed by a new, divine promise she was making to a friend she had in mind, a friend who might be just as hungry as her.
The fear and conflict I described in the beginning simply dissolved, replaced by a feeling so light and joyful it was almost unbearable. When I wrote, "I can’t wait to share with, when the time begin," I was trying to capture that bursting anticipation in her heart. The prayer was no longer a chore; it was the countdown to a moment of pure grace.
So, you see, the poem is my humble attempt to honour her. It’s about the silent, beautiful battle and victory that took place in a child's heart. It's about how the most profound acts of love and divinity don't happen in grand temples, but sometimes in a school prayer line, with a hidden piece of bread and a heart that chooses to share its only meal.
Yours, with all my heart,
Ramji Acharya
