Back home in Mumbai, 4 p.m. wasn’t just any time of day. It was Pakora Hour. There was a certain magic to that part of the afternoon—when the sky was just beginning to darken, and the air, still warm from the afternoon sun, carried a slight chill. At that hour, a little hunger would creep up, and that hunger demanded only one thing: pakoras. The simple joy of dipping crispy, fried vegetables (or even better, paneer) into chutney, all while sipping on a hot cup of chai—it was as much about the moment as it was about the food itself. It was a ritual, a tiny slice of daily life that marked the transition from day to night. But now, living in Austin, I find myself asking: Where did all the pakoras go?
Somehow, in the hustle of life, I’ve lost touch with that glorious afternoon snack. There are no more pakoras on the balcony while the evening light softens the city. The sharp, crispy crunch that once interrupted the monotony of work, the tangy, spicy chutney that kicked off my evening relaxation, has disappeared. And it’s not just me—I’ve noticed that the 4 p.m. snack seems to have disappeared from the collective rhythm of my daily life. It’s as if the world decided that no one needs a proper snack anymore. But I can’t help but feel like something is missing—because, let’s face it, lunch and dinner are no longer the only meals that define our day. Snacks have always held a special place in the Indian culinary calendar.
The Choreography of Cooking: From Breakfast to Midnight Leftovers
In India, food isn’t just about filling up—it’s about routine, it’s about timing, and, above all, it’s about how food can give shape to the day. The first thing you do when you wake up: chai. The last thing you do before you go to bed: leftovers, or maybe a midnight snack if you’ve got a late-night craving. In between, there’s a structured choreography to your meals. You don’t just eat; you live in relation to your food. And right there in the middle, like clockwork, is the 4 p.m. snack.
Growing up, I didn’t even need to check the time. As soon as the clock would hit 4 p.m., the familiar sounds of my mother preparing pakoras would fill the kitchen. The sizzle of the oil heating up, the faint hum of the radio in the background, and the smell of spices wafting in the air—it was a ritual. Pakoras, in all their fried glory, weren’t just a snack. They were a punctuation mark in the sentence of my day. They helped me shift gears, they provided a little escape from whatever was happening around me, and they became a small but cherished moment of joy in the midst of life’s ordinary chaos.
The Power of Pakoras
Let’s talk about pakoras for a moment. They aren’t just deep-fried snacks; they’re symbolic of so much more. Each bite, crispy on the outside, soft and flavorful on the inside, carries layers of comfort, nostalgia, and a sense of connection. A good pakora is the kind of food that warms you from the inside out. Whether it’s a simple aloo pakora or a more adventurous onion, spinach, or paneer variety, the food feels like home, no matter where you are.
The magic of pakoras lies in their versatility. You can toss almost anything into the batter—seasonal vegetables, leftover bits of food, or even bits of cheese. But, above all, it’s the texture that gives pakoras their soul. The crunch. That’s the part I miss most. That satisfying sound as you bite into it, followed by the delicate warmth and spice of whatever ingredients you’ve paired together. It was the food of togetherness, of sharing, of community. It didn’t matter if you were having them alone or with others—pakoras had a way of connecting you with the moment.
The Disappearance of the Snack
But as I reflect on my routine now, I realize how easily the 4 p.m. snack slipped away. When did I stop making time for it? It wasn’t a conscious decision. Life just got busier. Workdays became longer, and dinner started to be eaten earlier to accommodate tiredness from a long day. And, let’s face it, the convenience of just grabbing something pre-made or skipping snacks altogether crept into my routine. But that’s the thing—snacking wasn’t just about filling the stomach. It was a ritual. It was about slowing down, giving yourself a break from the grind, and connecting with something simple yet fulfilling.
Pakoras were never meant to be rushed. They were a deliberate pause in the day’s relentless march forward. You didn’t just eat them to stave off hunger; you ate them because they marked the transition between work and relaxation. You dipped your pakora in the chutney, took a bite, and for a moment, the world slowed down. That’s what’s missing now—the pause. The deliberate, unhurried enjoyment of food.
Reclaiming the Snack
As much as I want to blame the chaos of life, the truth is, I miss the pause, and I miss the pakoras. And I’m not the only one. I’ve had conversations with friends in Austin who, after hearing my nostalgic rant about pakoras, told me they also feel disconnected from those small daily rituals that anchored their routines back home. It’s easy to lose those anchors in the rush to “move forward,” but it’s also possible to reclaim them.
So I’ve decided to bring the 4 p.m. snack back. Maybe not every day, but enough to remind me of what I’ve been missing. It’s time to stop seeing food as something I need to consume just to get through the day, and instead, embrace it as the ritual it’s meant to be. And what better way to begin than with a crispy, golden pakora, a steaming cup of chai, and the kind of stillness that only a good snack can bring. I don’t want to wait for the next life milestone to give me back my pakoras. I’m bringing them back, one afternoon at a time.
The 4 PM Snack, Not Just a Meal, But a Reminder
In the end, the 4 p.m. snack isn’t just about food; it’s about pacing, about slowing down, and about finding space for joy in the small things. As much as I enjoy a meal at any time of the day, there’s something special about the casual, unceremonious 4 p.m. snack. Pakoras, or whatever your go-to snack is, have the power to reset the day. They don’t just nourish the body—they feed the soul. And in a world that’s constantly moving faster, maybe it’s time to bring those snacks back. Because in the end, it’s the simple things that remind us of what truly matters.
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.
