When I think about Sundays in Mumbai, it’s impossible not to picture a steaming plate of chole bhature. The crispy, golden bhaturas and the spicy, tangy chole, generously topped with fresh coriander and a squeeze of lime—this wasn’t just food; it was a ritual. A Sunday staple that carried the promise of indulgence, comfort, and connection to a heritage that was as much about family as it was about food. But moving to Toronto, with its long, bitter winters, meant that Sunday rituals would have to migrate, too.
In Mumbai, the streets on Sunday morning smelled like frying dough and simmering chickpeas. The chole bhature stalls lined the roads, the air thick with the scent of garam masala, hing, and fried oil. It was a typical Sunday scene, one that almost felt sacred. It was more than just eating; it was about community—about families gathering around the food, laughing and chatting. The joy of Sundays was in the anticipation of the meal, the sounds of dishes clinking, and the familiar chatter around the table.
Transplanting the Tradition
Fast forward to Toronto, where winter winds cut through you like a thousand needles. The first time I spent a Sunday here, I found myself aching for the warmth of Mumbai’s street-side chole bhature stalls. I realized quickly that in this frigid city, Sundays would no longer be about strolling down the road to a nearby vendor. Instead, I would need to recreate the experience in my own kitchen—because it’s not just about the food; it’s about keeping the tradition alive, even when the setting is completely different.
The ingredients were easy enough to source at the local desi grocery store—chole masala, flour, and the all-important chickpeas. But making chole bhature was never about just following a recipe. It was about the sensory experience—the feel of the dough as you knead it, the sizzling sound when the bhaturas hit the hot oil, and the tang of the chole as it simmers slowly on the stove. It’s a process that demands patience, and in that patience, the magic happens. It’s about more than just feeding your stomach; it’s about feeding your soul.
As I stood in my Toronto kitchen, dusting flour on the countertop, I felt that familiar rush of nostalgia. It didn’t matter that the snow outside was piling up or that the temperature had dropped to an all-time low. What mattered was that I was creating the same meal that once marked the highlight of my Sundays back home. It was my way of transplanting a piece of my old life into my new one.
Weekend Rituals as Anchors of Identity
Food has this magical way of anchoring us, particularly when we find ourselves far from home. I’ve come to realize that rituals like Sunday chole bhature are not just about the food itself—they are about maintaining a thread that ties us to who we are, where we came from, and the values that shaped us. As immigrants, we all have certain traditions that hold deep personal meaning, and they become even more important when we’re trying to make a new life in a foreign land.
In the midst of this bustling, sometimes impersonal city of Toronto, Sundays have become a way to reclaim a little piece of my identity. As I knead the dough, I can almost hear my mom’s voice in the kitchen back in Mumbai, guiding me to perfect that golden bhatura. When I serve the chole, the spicy tang that fills my senses reminds me of the warm streets of my hometown, where chole bhature would be served with a smile, a joke, and a sense of familiarity that only family can provide.
The act of making chole bhature every Sunday has become a small rebellion against the harshness of the Canadian winter. It’s my way of making my world feel a little smaller, a little more like the world I once knew. It’s not about nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake; it’s about finding ways to honor the parts of ourselves that come with us, wherever we go.
The Comfort of Home in a Bowl
There’s a certain kind of comfort that comes with the familiarity of a favorite meal. And while chole bhature will always be a comfort, it also brings something else—joy. Joy from the little things: the perfect puff of the bhatura, the rich and aromatic flavor of the chole, the quiet moment of savoring a meal that tastes like home. For me, it’s become more than just Sunday lunch. It’s a reminder that, even in a new city, a part of me is always at the table with my family, sharing stories, laughter, and food.
But, as with all comfort food, it isn’t just the taste that lingers. It’s the memories, the conversations, and the warmth that these rituals bring. I have now recreated this Sunday tradition not just for myself, but for my friends here in Toronto—those who, too, long for the foods that remind them of home. The joy of sharing this meal with others only amplifies its meaning. Every bite is not just a celebration of a dish, but of the community that surrounds it.
And while the snow may fall heavily outside, inside, the smell of chole bhature will forever signal that it’s Sunday. A day for family. A day for comfort. A day for joy. A day for chole bhature—even in freezing Toronto.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
