A Paper Cone of Memories: Street Food, Train Journeys, and the India We Remember

 A few days ago, I bought a paper cone of jhaal muri from a local street vendor. It had been almost two decades since I last ate it from a roadside stall. One bite was all it took.

Suddenly, I was no longer in the present.

I was back in my childhood.

The sharp aroma of mustard oil, the crunch of puffed rice, the bite of green chilies, and the freshness of chopped onions transported me to a different time, one filled with long train journeys, crowded marketplaces, and evenings spent exploring local food stalls with family and friends.

Perhaps what I miss most is how different train journeys used to feel.

Long-distance travel by train was never just about reaching a destination. The journey itself was an experience. Every major station brought with it a new aroma, a new vendor, and a new local specialty waiting to be discovered.

As children, we would eagerly wait for the train to slow down as it approached a station. Vendors would walk through the coaches carrying tea in kettles, samosas in baskets, cutlets wrapped in paper, and local delicacies unique to that region. Their familiar calls echoed through the platform and became part of the soundtrack of Indian travel.

Nobody thought twice before buying a cup of chai, a packet of jhaal muri, hot puri-sabzi, or freshly fried snacks from a vendor. There was an unspoken trust. The food was simple, freshly prepared, and somehow became part of the journey itself.

Railway stations were not merely transit points; they were windows into local culture. A train journey across India was also a journey through its food.

Today, train travel is more organized and perhaps more hygienic. Meals arrive in sealed packaging, can be ordered through apps, and come from approved vendors. While this offers convenience and reassurance, it has also taken away some of the spontaneity that once made travel memorable.

I still remember the anticipation of watching a station approach and wondering what local food awaited us there. Those moments taught us that travel was not just about where we were going, but about everything we experienced along the way.

The same feeling comes back whenever I think about Bank More in Dhanbad.

For those who grew up around Dhanbad, Bank More was more than a busy commercial area. It was a paradise for food lovers. Long before food delivery apps, restaurant chains, and online reviews became part of our lives, Bank More offered a culinary experience that was authentic, affordable, and unforgettable.

The streets were lined with vendors serving food that appealed to every craving. There were pani puris bursting with spicy and tangy flavors, sizzling plates of chowmein tossed on giant iron tawas, crispy aloo tikki chaat topped with generous helpings of chutney, and giant hot gulab jamuns fresh from the kadai.

Frankie rolls wrapped in paper made for the perfect evening snack. Dosas emerged golden and crisp from roadside griddles. And no visit felt complete without ending it with a chilled serving of faluda kulfi.

None of these places were famous brands.

There were no logos, no marketing campaigns, and certainly no social media influencers recommending them.

Yet people knew exactly where to go.

The vendors themselves were the brands.

Their reputation was built one plate at a time. If the food was good, customers returned. If it wasn't, word spread quickly. Trust was personal, local, and earned through consistency.

Today, things are different.

We have become more cautious about eating outside food. We look for hygiene ratings, branded packaging, online reviews, and familiar names. Somewhere along the way, trust shifted from people to corporations.

Perhaps some of that caution is justified. We know more about food safety than we did years ago. News reports and social media constantly remind us of the risks. Yet I sometimes wonder whether we have lost something valuable in the process.

The food of those days had personality.

Every pani puri tasted slightly different. Every chaat vendor had a unique blend of spices. Every jhaal muri seller added a personal touch. The food was not standardized, but it was memorable.

What struck me most after eating that jhaal muri was that I wasn't simply remembering the taste.

I was remembering a place, a time, and a version of myself.

Food has an extraordinary ability to preserve memories. A familiar aroma or flavor can transport us across decades more effectively than photographs or songs. In that paper cone of puffed rice were countless evenings spent with friends, family outings, train journeys, crowded marketplaces, and the simple joy of discovering great food around every corner.

As I stood there finishing that jhaal muri, I found myself wishing for something beyond nostalgia.

I wished that we could somehow bring back the trust that once existed between communities and their food vendors.

Not by ignoring modern concerns about hygiene and safety, but by rebuilding the confidence that local food can be both safe and soulful.

There was something beautiful about a time when neighborhoods gathered around the same food stalls, when vendors knew their customers, and customers knew their vendors. A plate of chaat or a kulfi was more than a transaction—it was part of a shared community experience.

Perhaps progress and tradition do not have to be at odds.

Perhaps there is a way to preserve the character, authenticity, and human connection of street food while embracing the standards and awareness of the modern world.

Because what many of us miss is not just the food.

We miss the trust.

We miss the familiarity.

We miss the sense of belonging that came from eating at the same stalls that had served generations before us.

A branded meal can satisfy hunger.

But sometimes, a humble paper cone of jhaal muri can do something far more profound.

It reminds us where we come from.

And for a few precious moments, it takes us home.

 

A warm cup, A reminder of what matters!!!!

 

A Cup of Tea or coffee, A Reminder of What Matters!!

Relationships are like morning tea or coffee—depending on one's preference. Some may call it an addiction; I prefer to call it a necessity.

In life, you will encounter very few people who truly value you and genuinely care about you without any vested interest. The bond may be rooted in love, respect, admiration, friendship, or inspiration, but its sincerity is rare.

Even fewer people have the ability to offer warmth like family, people who stand by you through different phases of life, celebrate your successes, support you through failures, and simply make the journey a little easier.

When you find such people, don't let familiarity reduce your effort. Some relationships are too precious to be sustained by assumption alone.

In this digital age, communication has never been easier, yet genuine connection seems to be fading. We spend hours scrolling through endless reels, posts, and updates, but often struggle to find a few moments to truly connect with the people who matter. We are more connected than ever, yet many relationships feel less nourished.

Perhaps that is why tea/coffee means more than just a beverage.

A cup of tea is a reminder of something deeply human. It invites us to pause, to sit together, to listen, to share stories, laughter, worries, and silence. Like meaningful relationships, it brings warmth, comfort, and familiarity.

Tea/coffee is not an addiction; it is a ritual. A necessity. A small daily reminder that life is not measured by the number of interactions we have, but by the depth of the connections we nurture.

Just as a day feels incomplete without that familiar cup of tea, life feels incomplete without the people who bring warmth to it.

Cherish them. Reach out. Make time.

Because real connections, like a good cup of tea, are meant to be savored, not taken for granted.

A warm cup to gently begin the day.

A source of comfort when you're tired and energy when you're exhausted.

A reason to pause amidst life's rush, to sit down, connect, and catch up with friends, family, or colleagues.

Much like tea or coffee, relationships are not always about grand occasions. Their true value lies in their quiet presence, the warmth, familiarity, and comfort they bring to ordinary days.

And perhaps that's why the best relationships, like the best cup of tea or coffee, are not the ones that impress us once, but the ones we keep returning to, day after day.

Just like Sunday!!!!

Imagine a day in the week when you wake up in the morning and don’t have to think about getting ready for work. You freshen up, walk into the kitchen, prepare tea and breakfast, and then sit comfortably on the sofa, enjoying your meal without any hurry while watching television.

In moments like these, it feels tempting to wish every day were the same, that we didn’t have to wait six long days just to experience the comfort of one peaceful morning. But as the saying goes, if every day felt like Sunday, then Sunday itself would lose its charm.

Life works in a similar way. The excess of anything availability, care, love, attention, or even food,  slowly begins to lose its meaning when it is constantly present. Perhaps value exists not only in having something, but also in occasionally missing it.

We humans are very complicated when it comes to relationships, whether at home or at work. That is why emotional intelligence is so important. It helps us understand not only our own emotions, but also the emotions of others. More importantly, it teaches us how to create healthy boundaries, where care and understanding can exist without losing ourselves in the process.

It’s not that we care less, love less, or are unavailable. It simply means that, just like Sunday, emotions too are better understood and appreciated when they are earned, valued, and not constantly taken for granted.

After breakfast, I prepared a delicious mutton curry to make the day feel even more special.

Life is similar in many ways. There are only a few people with whom you can experience the comfort of a Sunday, the kind of peace where you can simply exist without hurry, pressure, or pretence. Such people are rare.

Never undervalue or undermine them. Make them feel special, just like Sunday.

 

The Aroma of Nostalgia!!!

Food That Takes Us Down Memory Lane – Part 2

My love for food seems to grow stronger as I grow older. In our home, everyone, including my little chipmunks , eagerly waits for Sundays. Sundays are special because every meal, from breakfast to dinner, becomes a celebration, mostly prepared by me.

In fact, the excitement begins on Saturday evening itself. My super-duper hi-fi bestie — as my little daughter lovingly calls me,  comes to me innocently and asks, “What special meal are you going to make for me tomorrow?” Her eyes sparkle with excitement the moment I say Chicken Curry or Chicken Biryani , her absolute favorite.

Watching the happiness and anticipation in my children’s eyes for that one special day of the week fills me with nostalgia and takes me back to my own childhood.

The only difference is that, during my childhood, every day felt special.

All thanks to my mother and the delicious meals she lovingly prepared for us every single day. I have never seen anyone cook with as much love and warmth as my mom did. Perhaps that is the reason why food holds such a special place in my heart even today.

I belong to a hardcore non-vegetarian Sindhi family, & was born and brought up in Dhanbad among Biharis and Bengalis. Given that background, it is only natural that fish became one of my favorite foods.

You might wonder where this deep obsession with food comes from. There’s a beautiful reason behind it.

As a child, I was carefree and simple. After school, I spent most of my time with my mother. And since she was always in the kitchen creating magic with her cooking, I naturally found my place there too. Beside our kitchen was a small storeroom, and I would sit at the boundary between the kitchen and the storeroom ,studying while quietly watching my mother cook.

That was my cooking school.

I learned cooking simply by observing her. Though I must admit, I had a very pampered childhood. My parents raised me like a princess, so I hardly ever cooked myself back then. But those moments spent watching my mother in the kitchen became some of the most precious memories of my life.

Life was so simple then. A good meal was enough to make one happy.

Even today, one of my all-time favorite dishes is Bengali-style fish curry, lovingly known as macher jhol. And trust me when I say this: no one makes it better than my mother. It is truly unmatched.

Back then, I never imagined that life would change so much that I would sometimes have to wait years to eat my favorite childhood meal again. But that’s life. And perhaps that is why, whenever I finally taste those familiar flavors, a wave of nostalgia washes over me.

I still remember returning home from school every day, wondering what special dish Mom might have prepared for lunch. Just the thought of a good meal could make me happy.

And honestly, that remains true even today.

So, when I look at my children and see that same spark and excitement in their eyes today, I realize that even now, it is the simplest things in life that bring the greatest happiness.

Although we are far more technologically advanced today, true happiness still lies in the traditional way of living , in home-cooked meals, family conversations, shared laughter, and the warmth of togetherness. In a world racing towards modernity, perhaps the soul still longs for the comfort of simple moments and familiar Flavors.

Because at the end of the day, all it takes is a good meal, loving people, and beautiful memories to make life feel complete.

In the aroma of spices, memories stay,
Carrying childhood along the way.
A mother’s love in every bite,
Turning ordinary moments bright.

The world may change, the years may fly,
Skyscrapers rise and time runs by.
Yet happiness still softly gleams,
In simple food and family dreams.

For hearts don’t seek a life so grand,
Just warmth, love, and a caring hand.
And through every meal, old memories prove
The simplest things are made of love.

Maternal Bonds — The Purest Form of Love Beyond Relationship

 

Maternal Bonds — The Purest Form of Love Beyond Relationship

The word “mother” is one of the oldest and most universal words known to humanity. It traces back to the ancient Proto-Indo-European word “méh₂tēr,” which later evolved into Mater in Latin, Mātṛ in Sanskrit, Mutter in German, and eventually Mother in English.

Across cultures and languages, the word often begins with soft sounds like maa, amma, mama, or ma. Linguists believe these were among the very first sounds spoken by infants making “mother” perhaps humanity’s first expression of comfort, trust, and love.

But over time, life teaches us that a mother is not defined only by biology or a relationship. A mother is a feeling , a presence that nurtures, protects, supports, and loves unconditionally.

Anyone who cares for us selflessly, stands beside us in difficult moments, celebrates our happiness, protects our peace, and becomes our emotional strength carries the spirit of a mother within them.

It may be the woman who gave us life, mother-in-law who helped us build a home, an elder sister who raised us with care, a friend who never left our side, a grandmother whose warmth healed our hearts, a teacher who shaped our path, or even modern-day fathers who nurture with tenderness, patience, and unconditional love. Motherhood is not confined to one gender, one role, or one relationship — it lives in every act of genuine care.

That is why no two mothers are the same, and neither is their love. Some love loudly, others quietly. Some express it through sacrifice, some through guidance, some through silent strength, and some simply by always being present. Their love should never be judged, compared, or measured against expectations because true care does not need validation or certificates to prove its purity.

In many ways, people who nurture others are God’s greatest blessings in human form. They hold families, friendships, and relationships together through kindness, patience, resilience, and warmth. They become safe spaces in a restless world.

Perhaps that is why the word “mother” feels so sacred , because it does not merely describe a person; it describes the purest form of love and humanity.

A Poem for Every Soul That Mothers

Not every mother gives us birth,
Yet they become our greatest worth.
Through gentle hands and hearts so wide,
They stand with love right by our side.

In silent strength, in selfless care,
They heal our hearts just by being there.
For the truest blessing we discover,
Is a soul that loves us like a mother.

An Era of Music, A Legacy of Souls

“An Era of Music, A Legacy of Souls”

“Abhi na jaao chhod kar…ke dil abhi bhara nahin…”

Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle, two legendary voices of Indian music, gifted us countless melodies across decades. Their soulful songs not only defined eras but also gave Hindi cinema its very heart and life.

With the passing of Asha Tai, an entire generation comes to an end, 
a generation that created songs for every mood and every emotion, unmatched even today.

Their music lives on, timeless, unforgettable, and forever etched in our hearts.

When voices become memories, they never truly fade,

They echo in every note, in every गीत ever made.

From joy to sorrow, from love to pain,

They sang our lives… again and again.

 An era may pause, but the music stays,

In silent nights and golden days.

For legends don’t leave, they softly remain

In every heartbeat, in every refrain…

“Naam gum jayega… chehra yeh badal jayega…
Meri awaaz hi pehchaan hai… gar yaad rahe…”

Realized late, but realized well!!!

All my life, I had been a firm believer that hard work, sincerity, dedication, constant availability, a positive attitude, and teamwork were enough to earn visibility. After all, what truly matters in an organization is teamwork, not individual goals. I believed that if you were deeply involved in your work and did it with honesty and dedication, you wouldn’t need to fight for visibility. The organizational setup, the hierarchy, the system itself would eventually recognize your efforts.

For more than 17 years of my professional career, I lived by this belief. I immersed myself fully in my work, trusting that the system would take care of me. After all, organizations are built by people, and we often assume that people look out for each other.

But it saddens me to admit that the modern workplace often feels very different. Today, professional environments seem to reward visibility and noise more than quiet value and meaningful contribution. Sometimes it feels like you must fight even for your basic professional recognition, because the system does not always take care of you on its own.

The system is made of people, yet many of us are so busy that we rarely pause to understand what someone else might be going through. The hardest truth is this:

silent work is rarely valued—neither for its merit nor with the empathy it deserves.

Perhaps this realization came late for me. But it came clearly.

I labored in silence, steady and true,

Believing that effort would carry me through.

With quiet sincerity, with patience deep,

I planted the seeds I was hoping to reap.

 

I stayed when called, I gave my share,

I carried the weight with thoughtful care.

In teams I stood, though in shadows still,

Certain that virtue alone would fulfill.

 

But seasons passed, and slowly I learned

How often the silent worker is turned—

Not for lack of heart or honest art,

But for the absence of a visible part.

 

For in this age of voices loud,

The work unseen is lost in the crowd.

And merit alone, though steady and wise,

Needs light to be seen by watching eyes.

 

Yet what cut deeper than silence or sight

Was not that the work stayed out of the light,

But that the hands who labored side by side

Never paused to see who stood at their side.