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.