Somewhere between breakfast and nothing, between hunger and nostalgia, lies the humble act of spreading butter on a Parle-G biscuit. Not Nutella. Not jam. Just a knife—sometimes a spoon, sometimes a finger—dragging salted Amul butter across that fragile, chalky surface, turning a factory-pressed glucose biscuit into something personal. Something tender. Something that, in the quietest of ways, said: you are loved.
In our house, Parle-G was always there. A yellow-and-white packet with a crinkled plastic wrapper that felt like it hadn’t changed since before I was born. It was stored in bulk—bottom shelf, left of the stove, slightly soft from the heat. Everyone ate it. Dipped in chai. Crushed into katori halwa. Crumbled over milk when someone had a cold. But butter on Parle-G? That was a special category. A ritual reserved for when someone noticed you were too quiet. Too tired. Too “not okay.”
The Most Modest Luxury
It wasn’t fancy. The biscuit cracked half the time. The butter, straight from the fridge, took effort to spread. And yet, when done right—just the thinnest, shiniest layer—it became indulgent. A two-ingredient therapy session. The salt hit first. Then the biscuit’s sweet dullness. Then the melt. It wasn’t about flavor complexity. It was about timing. About care. About someone taking a moment to say, “I see you. You don’t want a full meal. You just need this.”
My grandmother made it for me when I came home from school exhausted. My father made it when I was sick and refusing khichdi. My mother made it silently on days she didn’t have words. It was never offered with ceremony. Just placed beside your chai, or slid across the table during a lull in conversation. Not a big deal. Which made it everything.
The Slowest Snack
Unlike most biscuits, you didn’t rush a buttered Parle-G. It demanded gentleness. Hold too tight, it crumbles. Bite too fast, the butter slides off. You had to pace yourself. Let the salt linger. Allow the grainy edges to soften against your tongue. The snack became a pause. A chance to sit still, to stare out the window, to feel seen. It wasn’t a treat. It was a gesture.
And yet, it wasn’t universal. You didn’t offer it to guests. It was too intimate. Too humble. Too easy to misunderstand. You made it only for those whose silences you could read. Siblings. Best friends. Yourself, on days when the kitchen felt too far away and your heart too loud.
The Legacy of a Soft Gesture
I’ve eaten fancier things. Cheese-stuffed buns. Pain au chocolat. Imported shortbread. But nothing feels quite as grounding as that first buttery bite of Parle-G. Maybe because it came from a place of unspoken knowing. Because in the chaos of growing up, it was the food that didn’t need explaining. Didn’t need presentation. Just presence.
Now, in my kitchen in Austin, I keep a packet hidden at the back of the pantry. Not for chai. Not for nostalgia. For emergencies—the emotional kind. I bring it out when the homesickness creeps in, when the rain won’t stop, when life feels jagged. I take two biscuits. Spread a little too much butter. Sit on the floor and eat slowly. No plate. No plan. Just that quiet, familiar mix of salt and sugar, and a memory that smells like 4 p.m. light and home.
Because in a world full of loud affections and scheduled calls, butter on Parle-G is still the softest way I’ve ever been told: you matter.
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.
