There was a time when cooking wasn’t a profession, nor a curated ritual shared through stylised reels, nor a menu signed with names. It was simply life. In the older days of Indian villages, food was not just sustenance—it was a system, an inheritance passed not through ink but through the smoke of kitchens and the rhythms of memory.

From Persian royal courts to street corners of India, the story of jalebi is one of trade, transformation, and timeless taste.

Millets, methi, and more—our culinary roots are growing stronger in the age of sustainability

It starts small. Maybe with the smell of ghee warming gently in a pan, or the familiar cling of a steel ladle tapping against a vessel. Suddenly, you’re not in your adult kitchen anymore. You’re six—maybe eight. You’re standing barefoot on cool mosaic tiles, watching your mother crush garlic with the side of a knife. Or waiting by the door as your grandfather returns from the market, holding a paper bag of golden-brown samosas for the evening snack.

For many decades, dining out was a weekend ritual or monthly staple for countless families. Enjoying a delicious meal in the company of loved ones was one of life’s simple pleasures. However, as we welcomed a new decade, it brought about a wave of change that none of us would have expected.

In an age where food often comes pre-packaged, pre-cooked, or algorithmically recommended, the soul of regional cuisine quietly fades into the shadows. Among the many culinary legacies silently slipping away, the traditional food culture of rural Bengal deserves special attention. It is not simply about lost recipes but a vanishing way of life—of hand-pounded spices, earthy kitchens, community cooking, and seasons reflected in meals. These foods were never just nourishment—they were heritage, memory, emotion.

It’s June in Dehradun, and the local markets are bursting with ripening mangoes. Their sweetness lingers in the air before you even reach for them. Across the city, cafés and kitchens are updating their menus, swapping out spring greens for the hearty produce of the monsoon, adjusting to the heavy, humid warmth that settles in with the early rains.

Some stories aren’t written in ink or typed on a screen. They simmer slowly in kitchens, rise gently with the aroma of spices, and unfold with every shared bite at the table.

When you think of Nagpur, you think of oranges. A basket full of them, golden and loose-skinned. They call it the Orange City of India, and in the winter, when the air chills and the harvest comes in, you can feel it. But the fruit you buy at a market is the last sentence of a long, complicated story. A story that starts not in a basket, but in the heat and dust of the Vidarbha soil.

Reclaiming the flavours, voices and innovations lost to time.