Pensive penny

Food is often believed to be about spices, recipes, and perfect techniques—but I have learned that its true magic lies elsewhere. For me, taste is never created by masala alone; it is born from love, from belonging, from the people with whom we share a meal. Food is not merely something I eat—it is a feeling, one that gives me the deepest pleasure. I am, without doubt, a passionate foodie, but only in my own city, where every bite feels familiar and safe, where every street carries a memory. When I lived away from home for my studies, life felt different. The weight of academics sat heavily on my shoulders, and with it came a constant fear—fear of falling sick, fear of street food, fear of anything unfamiliar. Even though I had financial freedom and could eat whatever I wished, I chose restraint. I leaned towards healthy meals, carefully measured and thoughtfully chosen. The desire was there, but the courage was not. Somehow, that carefree joy of eating could never follow me outside my...

The first day of January arrived with an illusion of celebration. The city breathed loudly, restlessly, as if every house had emptied itself onto the roads. Markets spilled over, traffic stood still, and the evening air carried the impatience of thousands moving nowhere. My mother wanted to go out. The plan had been for the afternoon, but the day dissolved into domestic rituals—meals prepared, time quietly consumed—until dusk arrived unannounced. Still, we stepped out. A flower show had opened nearby, and I drove my scooty with my mother seated behind me, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders. The road offered no welcome. Cars formed unmoving walls, e-rickshaws pressed forward with stubborn persistence, bikes and scooties wedged between them like thoughts trapped in a restless mind. Winter had reached its peak. Children clung to their parents on two-wheelers, small bodies folded into borrowed warmth. Some people were dressed in festive elegance, as if the road itself were an invita...