Calories disappear. Memories don’t. Food isn’t eaten here—it is dissected, celebrated, criticized and occasionally put on trial.
There are very few things that can claim to have influenced Indian civilisation as profoundly as the humble paan. It has been a digestive, an aphrodisiac, a social lubricant, a post-prandial ritual, a status symbol, a conversation starter, a cinematic icon and, unfortunately, one of the country’s most accomplished muralists. My earliest memory of paan…
There was a time when an airport lounge spoke in whispers. Not literally, of course. Nobody walked around hushing fellow passengers. But there was an unspoken understanding that once you crossed those frosted glass doors, the airport remained outside. Boarding announcements became distant, conversations softened, chairs invited you to sink into them, newspapers still mattered…
I have often wondered why our Constitution forgot to mention Maggi. It speaks eloquently about justice, liberty, equality and fraternity, but somewhere between the Fundamental Rights and the Directive Principles, somebody should have quietly inserted one more sentence: “Every citizen shall have the right to two-minute noodles.” No food in modern India has done more…
Poor Khichdi. No other dish in India has suffered such a spectacular branding failure. The moment someone announces, “We’re having Khichdi tonight,” the room falls silent. Children assume they are being punished. Teenagers instinctively reach for food delivery apps. Adults nod politely, as though accepting an unavoidable medical procedure. Nobody has ever exclaimed, “Fantastic! Khichdi!”…
I have a theory. Never judge a city by its skyline. Judge it by its breakfast buffet. Long before museums open, stock markets ring their bells or politicians begin lying for the day, a city quietly reveals its personality over breakfast. Architects build skylines. Governments build roads. Hotel managers, quite unintentionally, reveal the soul of…
There are breads. Then there are flatbreads. And then there is the North Indian parantha. Everything else is merely trying. If wheat ever decided to nominate an ambassador, it would undoubtedly choose the parantha. Not the roti. The roti is the dependable civil servant of Indian kitchens—efficient, punctual and entirely without drama. The naan is…
There are only two kinds of people in this world. Those who eat mangoes. And those who know how to eat mangoes. The difference is enormous. The modern world has reduced the mango to a fruit. It isn’t. It is a season. It is a ritual. It is an annual festival that quietly arrives every…
I have always believed some cities are destinations. Others are moods. Kolkata is a mood. Every generation discovers Kolkata through a different storyteller. Mine discovered it through Amar Prem. Even today, when someone mentions Kolkata, I don’t think of Victoria Memorial or Park Street. I see Rajesh Khanna in a dhoti, his head resting in…
