When Rasam Was Basically a Hug
You don’t need to be from the South to understand rasam. You just need to have had a day where…
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The Smell of Jeera at 5 PM
It wasn’t the alarm clock, the school bell, or even the door creaking open that told me I was home.…
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Mom’s Khichdi vs. Mine
Khichdi isn’t supposed to be complicated. That’s kind of the point. It’s the food of recovery days and rainy evenings.…
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Aloo Sandwiches on Exam Day
There was a rhythm to exam mornings. The scribble of sharpened pencils, the rustle of last-minute notes, and somewhere in…
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Butter on Parle-G Meant You Were Loved
Somewhere between breakfast and nothing, between hunger and nostalgia, lies the humble act of spreading butter on a Parle-G biscuit.…
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My Uncle’s Unspoken Biryani Rules
Everyone in the family made biryani. Some added potatoes, some refused. Some used basmati, some swore by seeraga samba. But…
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That Mango Stain Never Came Out
It started with one bite. A perfectly ripe mango, held in both hands, split open like treasure. The pulp was…
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First Time I Burned the Dal
The first time I burned dal, I wasn’t a child playing with pots or a teenager trying to help in…
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When You Return the Box, But Keep the Smell
In every Indian home, there exists a silent, sacred tradition: the returning of boxes. Sweet boxes, tiffin boxes, steel dabbas…
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Masala Dabba as Archive
In every Indian kitchen, there’s a single object that quietly holds together not just flavor, but memory, lineage, and logic.…