TASTE THE HUNGER

Taste The Hunger

Written By : Sanjay Shharma

I wake up to a quiet that isn’t empty—it’s full. 

Full of the slow rustling of leaves, the distant murmur of a hidden brook, and the soft whisper of the wind as it drifts over the mountain peaks. 

The clouds float lazily, brushing past my balcony, dissolving into the crisp morning air. The sun, just waking up, stretches its golden fingers across the sky, painting the snow-capped peaks in warm hues of orange and pink. 

It’s a morning that doesn’t demand anything from me. It just is.

I step outside, inhaling deeply. The air is pure, untouched, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and pine. A moment like this should be complete in itself. 

Yet, something is missing.

It’s hunger. Not just for food, but for something familiar, something comforting.

Back home, this would be the time my wife would be in the kitchen—the sound of the rolling pin tapping against the counter, the tempting aroma of parathas sizzling in ghee filling the house. Aloo paratha, crisp on the outside, soft inside, with a generous dollop of homemade butter melting over it. I can almost hear her voice—"Aur lenge?"—even before I finish the first bite.

But here, alone in my mountain cottage, I have no paratha, no warm chai, no conversation floating around the breakfast table. Just hunger. 

And today, I let myself feel it.

Not just the physical hunger that a rushed meal could fix. But the deeper hunger—the one for warmth, for togetherness, for the taste of home.

I take another deep breath. The mountains stand tall, timeless, indifferent to my longing. The sun climbs higher, unconcerned with my empty stomach. The world moves at its own pace, unaffected by my hunger.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the lesson.

We have stopped tasting our hunger. At the first sign of an empty stomach, we order in. 

Tap, swipe, pay. Meal delivered. 

A knock on the door, a faceless hand handing over a bag, a meal in a cardboard box. Neatly packed, precisely measured, but utterly soulless.

No waiting, no anticipation, no shared laughter at the table. Just silent chewing in front of a screen, a family scattered across rooms, each eating alone. 

Food has become a transaction. No nourishment, just a mechanical act.

As children, we knew hunger. We waited for lunch, sniffing the air as daal simmered on the stove. We ran in from play, washed our hands, and sat together, passing bowls, fighting over the last roti, sneaking extra ghee when no one was looking. Food wasn’t just nourishment. It was a ritual. A moment of togetherness.

And now? We’ve fed our stomachs but starved our souls.

A house full of people, yet everyone eats separately. Different orders from different apps, different cravings met at different times. The dining table, once the heart of the home, is now just a piece of furniture.

When did we stop feeding the hunger for togetherness?

And worse—when did we become afraid of hunger itself?

A slight pang in the stomach, and we panic. Snack. Biscuit. Coffee. Another meal, another mindless bite. 

Have we forgotten that hunger has a purpose? 

That it teaches patience? 

That it makes food taste better? 

That it reminds us what it feels like to be human?

For a moment, I think of those who wake up hungry—not in the luxury of a mountain cottage, but in the dusty corners of a slum, on a footpath, in a home where there isn’t enough to go around. 

They don’t have the privilege of fearing hunger. They live with it.

And here we are, ordering impulsively, wasting shamelessly, stuffing ourselves without thought.

We don’t let hunger rise. We kill it before it births.

When did we stop tasting hunger?

Today, food is no longer about hunger. It’s about cravings, temptations, showing off, indulgence, excess. We never wait. We eat in moving cars, in aircrafts, on dining tables as we scroll on the phone, watching some reels made in a fake kitchen studio.

We don't sit quietly and wait for the smell to grow and linger and whisper to our soul that food is being made with care.

Most of us don’t even taste what we eat anymore. We eat as we talk. As we watch. As we click and share. Food is no longer food. It’s a post, a picture, a background.

I wish we tasted hunger again. I wish we let hunger rise and make a home inside us before we silenced it with a sandwich.

Hunger is not just an emptiness to be filled—it is a signal, a reminder, a balance. 

Our ancestors knew this well. Fasting has been part of our culture for centuries—not just for religious reasons, but for health, for discipline, for gratitude. Skipping a meal once in a while, not indulging in every craving, feeling hunger without rushing to end it—that is nourishment too.

Imagine waiting for your mom to serve you dal-chawal. Imagine smelling what’s cooking in the kitchen and guessing what it could be. Imagine sitting and watching her pour love into the food.

Because true nourishment is not just about what we eat. It’s about how we eat.

It’s about pausing before the first bite, feeling the hunger, respecting it. It’s about eating together, about waiting, about sharing. It’s about food that is cooked with love, served with warmth, eaten with gratitude.

I look at the mountains again. They have seen centuries pass, yet they stand unmoved. They know that everything comes in its own time. 

Hunger, too, is a rhythm of life. It makes us humble. It connects us to the world beyond our own comforts. It teaches us patience.

Maybe, instead of rushing to fill every hunger, we should learn to taste it.

After few days , when I go home, I won’t eat alone. I will sit at the table. I will wait for my wife to serve that paratha with love. I will listen to her stories. I will share mine.

Because food is not just about feeding the body. It’s about feeding the hunger that truly matters.

And maybe, once in a while, we should stay hungry—just long enough to remember what hunger really means.

Because only when we taste hunger, do we truly understand nourishment.

About the Author

Sanjay Shharma is an engineer, management graduate, and second-generation entrepreneur with over 35 years of experience in building products, markets, teams, and institutions. Deeply rooted in Indian culture and a firm believer in the power of self-awareness, he integrates ancient wisdom with modern challenges. Passionate about community development, conscious living, and personal well-being, he shares insights drawn from life experiences, encouraging readers to live with more ease, joy, and fulfillment.