Long ago, I thought I hate cooking;
First three golden decades of my life did n't expect me to be a pro cook;
Once in a while when I cook, It's like a romantic date kind of an affair;
And whenever I am on the job, a whole bandwagon was there to assist in the most important job "cutting";
Now, that hell made me cook day in and day out thanks to its Mess and semi-cook Raju the great;
I took you into my hands, you gave me such an immense confidence; You said Girl, cooking is a genetic property to you, don't you worry, You are only worried of my deliverable. That day I fell in love with you, "my Knife."
A slender look, with light orange and black combo (no racism or misogyny intended seriously) , you always looked tip-top. The moment I took you into my hands, you are on the job. What a precision you had; my initial days were filled with amazement on your sharpness, precision, and the way you do your job.
What are all the occasions you saved me, endless; boy loves Macaroni, the girl is fond of Pav Bhaji, Raju loves Chole and sliced onions in umpteen dishes made all the time. You made my life easier even when I dealt with "frenemy" onion. You helped me cut hundreds of onions without many tears, and endless numbers of tomatoes, potatoes, cabbages, carrots, capsicums and cauliflowers ...... what not.
And, the final day came unexpectedly. Why on earth it should have happened. You should help me cut, how come you can allow cutting happen to you? Why you allowed yourself to be broken into two pieces? Though I have got half a dozen more knives on my desk, my love is only "you"; how do I deal with those either rough or the sharper ones unlike you, the RIGHT one. I would miss you dearly "my knife". Maybe now cooking is no more fun without you. Hope I would soon get a twin of yours to help me around. Even then you would be dearly missed. Love you "my knife"
