War has finally arrived at our dining table. Not with tanks, not with soldiers marching past our windows, but with something far more terrifying — the possibility that tomorrow morning, our kitchen gas cylinder might refuse to cooperate.

Nothing unites a nation faster than the fear of uncooked food.

Until yesterday, we were all international experts on the war. Every uncle in every housing society had a strategic opinion. In parks, on trains, and in WhatsApp groups, people spoke with the confidence of retired generals. Iran should do this. America must do that. Israel should respond immediately. Russia should intervene. Ukraine should hold its ground.

Everyone knew exactly how wars should be fought.

But suddenly, the news arrives that LPG supplies may be affected.

And immediately the conversation changes.

The same uncle who yesterday wanted missile strikes is now staring anxiously at his gas stove and saying softly, "Maybe diplomacy is better."

War is very heroic until the gas cylinder runs out.

For most of us, war has always been something that happens on television. We watch it between two advertisements for cooking oil and detergent. There are maps, arrows, and serious-looking experts pointing at countries we could not locate last week. It feels distant. Almost educational.

But imagine the people actually living there.

Imagine sitting at home and hearing a loud explosion outside. For one brief second, you might think someone is bursting a Diwali rocket. Then you realise that rockets during Diwali do not usually flatten buildings.

Imagine children suddenly learning the difference between thunder and artillery.

Imagine a mother wondering whether the next sound she hears will still allow her family to remain a family.

And suddenly our missing LPG cylinder begins to look like a very polite inconvenience.

Perhaps that is the strange gift of this little domestic crisis. When our breakfast threatens to become a fruit salad instead of a hot omelette, we begin to understand a tiny fraction of what war really means.

So, tomorrow morning, if you find yourself bravely chewing an apple because the stove refuses to light, take a moment.

Think of families in Iran, Israel, Ukraine, Russia and other places where the problem is not uncooked food but shattered homes.

Let our fruit diet become a protest diet.

As we bite into bananas and papayas, let us also raise our voices against war. All wars. Every war. Because the moment war enters the kitchen, the dining table suddenly becomes a place of deep philosophy.

The truth is very simple; nobody really wants war.

But only when war reaches the kitchen table, do the bravest WhatsApp generals suddenly remember that peace is the only recipe worth cooking...