A Taste of Home

There’s an undeniable magic to Indian food, a direct line connecting it to my very being. It's not just about eating, it's about comfort, memory, and who I am in every bite. The scent of sizzling cumin, the crackling of mustard seeds in hot oil, and the slow simmer of dhal filling the kitchen it wasn't just a collection of aromas and sounds, it was both nostalgic and incredibly comforting, it's what made home, home.

Growing up in the UK, food was always the thing that kept me connected to my roots, even when everything else felt distant. No matter how British my surroundings were, dinner was always Indian. A plate of hot rotli and shaak, dal that tasted like warmth itself, and a kitchen that smelled like my childhood.

Food is where culture survives. It’s in the recipes passed down without measurements, the unspoken rules about which dishes belong to which occasions, the way we instinctively reach for the dahi to cool down a spicy bite. It’s in the way our grandmothers knead lott with practiced ease, the way our mothers insist no one leaves the table hungry, the way every meal is a reminder of where we come from.

And yet,despite my love for it, despite knowing how much it means,I’ve never truly learned to cook. Maybe I’ve taken it for granted, assuming the food will always be there, that someone else will always make it. But I know that if I want to keep this connection alive, I need to learn.

Because food isn’t just about eating. It’s about carrying forward a piece of home, no matter where in the world we are. And I owe it to myself, and to the generations before me, to make sure that piece never gets lost.

the heartbeat of heritage

There’s a moment at Navratri, just before the music begins, when everything feels electric. The dandiya sticks are clutched tightly in our hands, the air is thick with the scent of incense and anticipation, and in those first beats of the tabla, suddenly, the whole room is alive. Feet move in perfect rhythm, ghagras swirl, and voices rise in unison. In that moment, I don’t just feel Indian, I know I am.

Growing up in the UK, being Indian has always felt like a balancing act. There’s the life we live every day, where our names are mispronounced and our culture is often misunderstood. And then there are the moments like this, where being Indian isn’t just a part of me, it’s all of me.

Navratri is more than just nine nights of dance, it’s a celebration of resilience, devotion, and community. It’s about stepping into a hall miles away from Gujarat and feeling completely at home. It’s about elders watching proudly from the sidelines, about little kids trying to keep up with the fast-paced garba circles, about aunties adjusting their chunni's as they break into a flawless raas routine. It’s about the unspoken understanding that no matter where we are in the world, our culture will always find a way to thrive.

It's in moments like these that I feel a deep, undeniable pride. To be Indian. To be Gujarati. To be here. To belong to something so vast yet so personal. Because no matter how far from home we might be, we carry it with us. In our music, in our traditions, and most of all, in each other.