When someone dies, the house fills with silence first. Then with people. Then, slowly, with food. Plates of cut fruit,…

You never really drank Frooti from the box at home. The tetra pack was for travel—train journeys, birthday return gifts,…

You don’t need to be from the South to understand rasam. You just need to have had a day where…

It wasn’t the alarm clock, the school bell, or even the door creaking open that told me I was home.…

Khichdi isn’t supposed to be complicated. That’s kind of the point. It’s the food of recovery days and rainy evenings.…

There was a rhythm to exam mornings. The scribble of sharpened pencils, the rustle of last-minute notes, and somewhere in…

Somewhere between breakfast and nothing, between hunger and nostalgia, lies the humble act of spreading butter on a Parle-G biscuit.…

Everyone in the family made biryani. Some added potatoes, some refused. Some used basmati, some swore by seeraga samba. But…

It started with one bite. A perfectly ripe mango, held in both hands, split open like treasure. The pulp was…

The first time I burned dal, I wasn’t a child playing with pots or a teenager trying to help in…