Rajesh

“Confined to the Kitchen!” It sounds like a punishment, doesn’t it? A sentence. A shackle. A slogan thrown at generations of women. But wait—who called the kitchen a jail? Who planted that thought? It wasn’t always like this. The kitchen was once a sacred space. A place of nurturing, of healing, of love. But somewhere along the way, someone—some system—started calling it confinement. And why? So we’d want to break free. And in that pursuit of “freedom,” what did we really walk into? We stopped cooking. We started eating out. We hired help. We outsourced nourishment. But here’s the irony: we didn’t stop confining. We just started paying others to do what we used to do with love. Does payment ensure dignity? Does it guarantee care? Is there love in that meal from a packet, a drive-thru, or even a high-end restaurant? Our culture says: We are what we eat. Food is not just fuel—it is energy. Vibration. Intention. What we consume shapes what we become. If the food is grown with chemicals, cooked in anger, served for profit—what does that make us? But if the food is grown by our hands, cooked with our love, served with joy—what kind of human does that nurture? Yet today, food is controlled by corporations. The same hands that sell us processed meals also profit from the diseases they cause. They run the food chains, the pharma chains—and the media chains. It is the media that repeats the story: “Confined to the kitchen? Break free!” But who truly benefits from that message? Us? Or them? Let’s be honest. Yes, many women were forced into kitchens, denied dreams, denied choices. That must never be dismissed. But there are others—like me—who bought into the narrative. I believed I was escaping bondage. I believed work meant freedom. But now, I can’t cook. I don’t have the time to learn. Because I work—for someone else. To spend my own money, I need permission. To spend time with my family, I need to apply for leave. So I ask: What is real slavery? Serving a corporation? Or serving my family? Today, the trap is deeper. We no longer fight the idea that the kitchen is a prison. We just ask that our husbands share the sentence! But not everyone sees it that way. Some women love their kitchens. They see it as their sanctuary, their space of creation and contribution. And now they are judged: “Are you really happy being confined to the kitchen?” As if joy in nourishment is backward. As if service born of love is shameful. I envy these women. I admire them. And I resent that we’re told to look down on them. We need a new story. This is not about being “confined to the kitchen.” This is about reclaiming it. It’s about transforming it—from a supposed cage to what it truly is: Sita’s Kitchen. A place of strength, of care, of intentional living. A place where food is sacred, and love is the main ingredient. A place where health begins, where families are nourished, where culture is preserved. Let us stop vilifying the kitchen. Let us start sanctifying it. Let us cook love, serve love, and become love.