Showcase: The Taste Of Borrowing + The Returned Rhythm + A Small Escape To Memory Lane + Spring

Edited by Sebastian Elanko

Welcome to this week’s showcase where I want to focus on borrowed heritage. When we think of heritage we often think of grand things – ancestral land, family jewels, historical documents. My borrowed heritage lives in quieter places. It lives in how I cook, how I dress, how I welcome others into my home, how I nurture my family, how I serve the food to my guests and more.

I still cook with the old clay pots for certain native recipes. They say “the clay remembers”. It holds the heat differently. It whispers to the food in a language my grandmother’s grandmother taught it. I use a bamboo tube and Palmyra leaf woven steamer to make “puttu” – a dish that tastes of mornings from my childhood. The steam rises through the leaves, and for a moment, I am seven years old again, watching my grandmother’s hands move with the same rhythm I use now.

The mortar and pestle made from tree trunk still sits in the kitchen corner. It has ground spices for weddings, for births, for everyday meals. When used, we borrow the strength of the tree and the labour of the hands that came before ours. And then there are the celebrations. I proudly wear traditional clothes for special cultural occasions. The fabric holds stories. The patterns are a language I am still learning to read. When I wrap it around myself, I borrow the dignity of my ancestors. When someone enters my home, I place both palms together in front of my chest and say “welcome.” It is a small gesture. But it is borrowed from a tradition of hospitality that says: you are not a guest. You are family or a friend I have not yet met or have not seen for a long time.

These are only a few things. There are many more. But they all share the same truth: borrowed heritage is not about owning the past. It’s about carrying it carefully into the present, so someone else can borrow it tomorrow.

This week’s showcase reflects on borrowed heritage in its many forms. I hope these pieces remind you, as my clay pots, my traditional clothes, and my joined palms remind me, that what we borrow with love is never truly ours – and that is exactly why we must pass it forward. I chose pieces that sing to my heart of borrowed heritage. All are unique and yet powerful in their own way. Borrowed heritage is not one thing. It is a taste. A pulse. A gesture. A memory. A recipe passed down through generations.

The first selection come from Pournami, a heartfelt and delicate piece exploring borrowed heritage in our everyday life and sustenance — not in grand gestures, but in everyday acts. It is about preservation of the past in our present. It is about legacy. It is about how love can be measured in a single sip.

The Taste Of Borrowing

I dropped my bag like a heavy coat after returning home from a long shift. Sinking into the chair, I expected to hear the clink of a saucer to break the silence. I opened my eyes to the sudden realisation that I was miles away from home. To wash away this exhaustion, I trudged towards the kitchen, seeking to borrow my grandmother’s recipe.

My hands were searching for tea powder instead of instant tea bags, hungry for a memory. To prepare this special, authentic drink, I leaned on a ritual passed down through generations. In this ancient alchemy, the initial step was infusion. I added the dark tea grains to a pot filled with water and watched them dance in the rising heat. The fragrant keys in this recipe were the crushed spices, including the cardamom pods and ginger. Like a secret spreading through the room, an aroma began to bloom. I slowly poured milk, watching the white colour turn into rich, glowing amber. The cold walls of my London kitchen seemed to dissolve into the sun-drenched courtyard of my childhood as the first sip hit my tongue. Borrowing a recipe from your loved ones is an act of preservation that keeps a legacy alive.

© Pournami Mohan, 2026

Connect with Pournami on LinkedIn: Dr Pournami Mohan

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The next short story is quite different from the first one. I like the way it was written— neither suspense nor thrill— but how it embraces the borrowed heritage. Nice’s creation explores borrowed heritage not as bloodline, but as something deeper, more intimate, and more unexpected. What do we inherit from strangers? What legacy arrives without warning? Nice reminds us that heritage is not always where we come from. Sometimes, it is what we carry without ever making a conscious choice.

The Returned Rhythm

The scar on his chest faded, so had his sense of gratitude. Days and nights were soaked in the smell of drugs and smoke. His miraculous, gifted, second life drifted away without smiles, without purpose, without love, without kindness, with not even a slightest hesitation. She came without any warning. For a moment or two she stood silently by the door looking at him.

“My sister…” she began softly, “…her heart beats within you.”

He said nothing. She continued, her voice steady despite the weight it carried: “She was a joyful, vibrant, pure soul who loved her life to the fullest.” Her voice cracked. For a split second, she was lost in memories. She didn’t talk much. She couldn’t. Leaving behind a heavy silence, she walked away. For the first time in months, he gently ran his fingers through his chest. While feeling the rhythm underneath, the words echoed repeatedly.

“Her heart beats within you.”

He had not felt the depth of the beat ever before. He could sense the rhythm of the borrowed pulse. Restless, he moved to his room. Unexplainable emotions kept flashing through his mind until he found an old, dust-covered Bible at the corner of his room. He opened it without a second thought. His eyes got hooked on a verse.

“If the grapes are not crushed, there can be no wine…”

He read it again. Suddenly an undeniable truth settled within him. His life was a result of someone being crushed. He stood still.

The room was the same. The smell of smoke still lingered in the room. But something had been transformed within him.

Guilt … pain… gratitude…

He was unable to name the emotion. The life was not simply his. It was borrowed. A sudden spark of purpose flickered within him. Borrowed ……. not to be wasted, but to live.

© Nice Roy, 2026

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Next piece of work continues with borrowed heritage. not inherited land or heirlooms, but something quieter —recipes, endearments, the way spice jars are organised. Zahan shows us that heritage is carried in small acts of love. We borrow them from the past. We hold them in the present. And one day, we pass them forward.

A Small Escape To Memory Lane

It’s been nearly two years since I have been living far away from my mother, slowly chasing a dream, a better life that we once shared over evening snacks.

Growing up, I never spent a single day without her. She has been my first best friend, my first human diary, the first person I run to for anything and everything. Whenever I had a bad day at school, I knew it would feel better once I hugged her. The one soft line, ” Don’t worry, mamoni (a Bengali endearment term), everything will be fine,” covered with motherly warmth, could pull me up from any depth I was falling into.

Now we are living not just across cities but across time zones. I do not get to hug her when it feels like everything is falling apart. I do not see her waiting for me by the door when I reach home. I do not smell the aroma coming from the kitchen, because my mother always knew I would love to see my favourite meals spread out after a hectic day. Moments like these make me realise that we can never call it home unless there is a mother. Without a mother, it is just a house, not a home.

Today is one of those days when the world feels heavier on my shoulders, and I’m almost losing myself in this run. I am lying on my bed with an empty stomach, imagining lying on her lap, her hands stroking my head. Moments my soul has borrowed from the past.

Now I am standing in front of my kitchen cabinet. The spice jars are kept organised with names written on them, just as she prepared before going back to make sure I do not have to find them while cooking. Oh, I forgot to mention, she was here last month to celebrate my graduation day, a dream she has seen through my eyes, believing in me at every step.

I am trying to make chicken curry, following her style, while being on a video call with her. It would surely not taste the same. But I would imagine she prepared it for me, feeding me with her hands, wiping my mouth every time I take a sip from the water mug.

Borrowed memories that keep me going. Moments that my heart is carrying from the past.

© Zahan Ferdous, 2026

Connect with Zahan on LinkedIn: Zahan-Ferdous or Instagram: @zahan_mou

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I could not finish this week without Liz’s poem on borrowed heritage from nature. A heritage we all universally share that is boundless and we need to preserve for generations to come. She finds sacred in the ordinary, the turn of a season. Reminds us that the seasons are loaned to us. Longer days, warm air, blooming flowers. We borrow its light and hope, knowing winter waits. Spring is borrowed heritage: a gift we hold briefly and return too soon

Spring

The season turns in quiet transition.
Animals stir from hibernation.
Flowers begin to bloom.
Faces lift from winter gloom.

Spring means longer days.
Vitamin D rises with the sun.
Time to replenish, rejuvenate,
Make the most of the warmer climes.
Walks in the park,
Birds tweet, tweet, tweeting.
Trees and bushes grow new leaves,
Tulips, daffodils
Sprout far and wide.

I’m loving this time of year. Breathing in fresh, open air. Light triumphs over dark.
Winter takes a back seat.
Warm climes set to autopilot.

© Liz Mingo, 2026

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Thank you for spending time on borrowed heritage and how our lives are shaped by what we carry forward— recipes, rituals, heartbeats and quiet presences. As a showcase editor, it has been a pleasure compiling these pieces for you and I look forward to joining you next week for my last Showcase.

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