Cooked Food Is A Drug
- Madhukar Dama
- Aug 30
- 9 min read
Prologue
Every man is born into nature. Fruits, greens, roots, nuts, seeds — these are given ready by the earth, needing no fire, no vessel, no recipe. They are complete. They satisfy hunger, they refresh thirst, and they give strength without demand. But man, restless in mind, discovered fire not only for warmth but also for taste. He burnt his food, boiled it, roasted it, spiced it, and made it into something else. What entered his stomach was no longer food as nature made it, but a creation of his senses. That is how cooked food became man’s first and most accepted drug.
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1. What Makes a Drug?
A drug is not only opium, alcohol, or tobacco. A drug is anything that:
Alters the natural chemistry of the body,
Creates dependence and craving,
Gives a false sense of energy or calmness,
And brings harm when withdrawn.
By this definition, cooked food fits perfectly.
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2. What Happens When We Cook?
When food is raw and alive, it contains water, natural enzymes, and living structures that help the body digest it with ease.
But when we cook:
Enzymes are destroyed by heat.
Proteins are twisted and hardened.
Vitamins are reduced or lost.
New chemicals are created by burning and browning — acrylamides, AGEs, char — none of which nature ever meant for our body.
Thus, cooked food is not the same as food. It is a transformed, chemical-laden substance. This transformation is the birth of its drug-like quality.
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3. Stimulation, Not Nutrition
When we eat cooked food, we often feel “energized.” But notice carefully — this is not the same as the steady strength of raw fruits or nuts. This is a stimulation, a kick, like tea or coffee.
The body senses something unnatural.
It reacts with white blood cell activity, as if fighting an intruder.
The blood rush, the warmth, the satisfaction — these are signs of stimulation, not true nourishment.
Just as a cigarette calms the smoker but weakens his lungs, cooked food pleases the eater but slowly burdens the body.
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4. Addiction and Craving
Cooked food is addictive because:
Heat releases flavors that never exist in nature — caramel, roasting, frying aromas. These excite the brain like perfume excites desire.
Spices further magnify this stimulation.
The tongue becomes conditioned to fire-made taste, and natural fruits begin to feel “bland.”
Try stopping cooked food suddenly — headache, irritability, weakness, and longing appear, exactly like drug withdrawal.
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5. The Indian Mirror
India has always known this truth, though we forgot it.
In yoga, food is divided into sattvic (pure, calming), rajasic (stimulating), and tamasic (dulling). Most cooked foods fall into rajasic and tamasic, while fresh fruits are sattvic.
Jain monks often live on raw foods or boiled water with minimum processing, to avoid intoxication of the senses.
Fasting — the oldest Indian medicine — is nothing but a way to escape this drug-dependence and allow the body to reset.
Our tradition said: “Anna is Brahman.” But what is anna? Not burnt, spiced, oiled matter. True anna is nature’s original offering.
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6. The Burden on the Body
Cooked food behaves like slow poison:
It thickens the blood with waste.
It demands excess energy for digestion.
It stores as fat more easily.
It feeds diseases — diabetes, heart strain, joint pain.
Like alcohol, a little today feels harmless. But the daily habit becomes a lifelong weight.
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7. Why We Refuse to See
Why does man defend cooked food so strongly? Because it is tied to:
Emotion – mother’s kitchen, family meals, festivals.
Culture – curry, biryani, dosa, sweets — all pride of taste.
Comfort – warmth of spice, heaviness that feels like satisfaction.
Thus cooked food is not only a drug of the body but also of society. To question it feels like questioning family, tradition, even love.
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8. Returning to Truth
To say “cooked food is a drug” is not to say man must never cook. But we must see clearly:
Cooked food is not food, it is stimulation.
True food is what can be eaten raw without alteration.
Health, clarity, and freedom return when raw food regains its place in our lives.
Even a shift — one meal of fruits a day, or regular fasting — is enough to experience the difference. The body grows lighter, thoughts become sharper, sleep deepens, and disease retreats.
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Epilogue
Man thinks of drugs as distant dangers — opium, alcohol, nicotine. But the oldest drug sits on his own plate, three times a day. Fire gave him taste but also chains. To see cooked food as a drug is not madness; it is honesty.
Nature does not need our stove. The mango ripens, the coconut cools, the banana sweetens, the cucumber refreshes — all without our hand. When we return to them, we return to freedom. For nature’s food never enslaves, it only nourishes. Cooked food binds, raw food frees. This is the truth, timeless and universal.
Cook Food is a Drug: A Dialogue with Madhukar at Yelmadagi
Setting
The afternoon sun is soft over Yelmadagi. At the edge of the village, where the dust road meets the green fields, lies a quiet off-grid homestead. Mud walls, tiled roof, neem trees casting shade, a well, and a small kitchen garden heavy with gourds, bananas, papayas, and green leaves.
A family of four — father, mother, teenage son, and little daughter — arrive, curious after reading an essay by Madhukar that declared: “Cooked food is a drug.”
They sit on woven cots under a tamarind tree. A clay pot of cool water rests nearby. Birds call from the branches.
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Dialogue
Father: (smiling, but doubtful) Doctor, we read your essay. “Cooked food is a drug.” We could not sleep last night thinking of it. How can you say such a thing? We all grew up on cooked food. Our mothers, our grandmothers — they fed us rice, dal, curries. If cooked food is a drug, then all of India is drugged.
Madhukar: (calmly pouring water into clay cups) That is exactly the truth, brother. When a habit is universal, we stop questioning it. But truth does not bend just because everyone shares the same illusion.
Mother: (protective, slightly sharp) But food is sacred for us. Every festival, every prayer, every memory of my mother’s hand — it is all cooked food. How can that be poison or a drug?
Madhukar: (nodding gently) I never said love is poison. Mother’s touch, family togetherness, the joy of sharing — all that is pure. But what sits on the plate is different from the love that serves it. Fire changes food. And what comes out of fire pleases the tongue, but binds the body. That is what I mean by drug.
Son: (restless) But uncle, if raw food is enough, why did man even begin cooking? Why did every civilization invent stoves?
Madhukar: Good question. Man first used fire for safety and warmth. Later, he discovered that fire changes taste — it makes bitter things edible, hard grains softer. Cooking was not born from health, it was born from survival and later from greed of taste. In the beginning it was occasional, today it is daily addiction.
Father: (leaning forward) But cooked food gives strength. After rice and curry, we feel full, energetic. Fruits don’t give that heaviness.
Madhukar: That heaviness is not strength, my friend. It is the body struggling. Notice carefully — after a heavy cooked meal, the eyelids droop, the body wants rest. After a plate of fruits, you feel light, clear, alert. Which one is true strength?
Daughter: (innocently) Uncle, if cooked food is a drug, then is it bad like cigarettes?
Madhukar: (smiling at her) Not bad in the same way, child. Cigarette kills faster, cooked food kills slower. But both create dependence. Both give pleasure that fades and demand to be repeated. A person who misses his cooked meal becomes irritable, restless. That is withdrawal. Exactly like tobacco.
Mother: (thoughtful now) But fasting is our tradition. Ekadashi, Navratri, Ramadan — all have fasting. Is it connected to what you say?
Madhukar: Yes. Fasting is nature’s medicine. When we stop cooked food even for a day, the body repairs itself. The old saints knew this. They said — by fasting, man comes closer to God. What is God here? It is health, clarity, freedom from chains.
Son: (still skeptical) But uncle, science says cooking removes germs. Without cooking, we may fall sick.
Madhukar: True, science fears bacteria. But remember, fruits and nuts come wrapped by nature — banana in its peel, coconut in its shell, orange in its skin. They need no fire. Grains and meat need fire, but fruits need none. Nature already protects what is meant for man.
Father: (sighs deeply) Then why do we still feel so much joy in cooked meals?
Madhukar: Because every drug gives joy in the beginning. Ask the drunkard — his first sip feels divine. Ask the smoker — his first puff feels calming. But joy that binds is not real joy. Real joy is that which leaves you free, not dependent. Eat mangoes one season, skip them next — no suffering. But skip rice and curry for a week — the body shakes. That is slavery.
Mother: (quiet now) You mean to say, we mistake stimulation for nourishment.
Madhukar: Exactly, sister. That is the heart of it. Cooked food stimulates, raw food nourishes. One is fire, one is life.
Son: (softening) Then what should we do? Stop eating cooked food from tomorrow?
Madhukar: (smiles warmly) No need for sudden war. Begin gently. One meal a day raw. Morning fruits instead of paratha. A basket of cucumbers and bananas instead of fried snacks. Slowly, the body will show you the truth. Then you will not drop cooked food by force; it will drop away on its own.
Daughter: (brightly) Uncle, I like guavas more than chips. Maybe I will start now.
Madhukar: (laughs softly) You are the wisest of us all, little one. Children still hear nature’s voice. Grown-ups have covered it with habit.
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Closing Scene
The sun begins to set behind the neem trees. The family rises. They look at the mud courtyard, the baskets of fruits, the silence of the homestead. Something has shifted in them.
The father folds his hands.
Father: Doctor, today we came with doubt. We leave with unease — but also with a seed. We will water it.
Madhukar: (bowing gently) That is enough. Truth never demands belief. It only waits for experience.
The family walks back toward Yelmadagi, children carrying guavas in their hands, mother quiet in thought, father lost in reflection. The homestead grows still again, only the tamarind tree swaying in the wind.
Cooked Food is a Drug
fire was the first dealer.
not the village drunk, not the wandering fakir,
not even the snake-oil peddler.
it was fire.
it touched a grain,
a root,
a piece of flesh,
and man forgot the raw truth of the mango,
the wild cucumber,
the coconut dripping with cool water.
he tasted smoke,
he tasted warmth,
he tasted a trick.
and the trick felt good.
a drug was born.
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the body never asked for it.
nature gave food wrapped in skin,
scented, juicy,
ready to eat under the sun.
but man wanted more —
more taste,
more heaviness,
more illusion of strength.
so he burned it, boiled it,
and called it a meal.
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from that drug grew the plough.
grains were useless without fire,
they needed grinding, boiling, roasting.
so farming rose,
not to feed man
but to feed the stove.
villages became towns,
towns became cities,
all built on the back of cooked food.
without fire,
rice is bird-feed,
wheat is cattle-feed.
with fire,
it is man’s daily drug.
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listen carefully:
it was not farming that gave cooked food.
it was cooked food that demanded farming.
the addict makes his economy
to serve his habit.
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cooked food built the schedule —
breakfast, lunch, dinner.
three fixes a day.
the kitchen became the temple.
the woman became the priest.
the family bowed to the plate.
not to God,
not to truth,
but to smoke curling from the pot.
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every drug has its culture.
wine has taverns,
cigarettes have cafés,
cooked food has festivals.
diwali sweets,
eid biryani,
pongal rice,
holi thandai.
all devotion, all color,
but beneath the joy
is the same old fire
selling the same old kick.
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the body pays slowly.
heavy gut, tired eyes,
joints that creak like old doors,
sugar climbing like a thief in the night,
hearts clogged,
minds fogged.
and still the hand reaches
for the plate of fire.
because the drug is polite —
it kills slow,
it kills with love,
it kills wrapped in mother’s memory.
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raw food is the rebel.
a fruit is too simple,
too honest.
no spice, no smoke,
just what it is.
and man, addicted,
finds it boring.
he laughs at it,
calls it “snack,”
not “meal.”
that is how the addict mocks the cure.
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civilization stands on a kitchen.
without cooking,
half the crops vanish,
half the rituals collapse,
half the industries die.
steel pots, oil mills, spice trade, gas lines,
all are servants of the drug.
it is the empire nobody names.
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but sometimes,
a man steps back.
he bites a guava,
sucks a coconut,
chews a handful of soaked almonds.
he feels clear,
light,
strangely free.
the drug loosens.
he sees it then —
what he called food
was only fire’s trick.
real food never needed him,
never enslaved him,
never drugged him.
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cooked food is a drug.
the oldest, the most faithful,
the most celebrated,
the one nobody fears.
it built our farms,
our towns,
our families,
our graves.
but still,
the sun ripens mangoes without asking.
the earth spills cucumbers after the rain.
the coconut waits on the tree.
they do not need fire.
they do not need chains.
they only need a hand,
a mouth,
a life that remembers.
