The other day I found myself at Chittaranjan Park in Delhi, and the festive buzz was impossible to miss. Pandals were slowly taking shape, readying themselves for the arrival of the Devi in just about two weeks. Handloom saree exhibitions were drawing women eager to put together their festive wear. At the Kaalibari, the murtis were nearly finished, their faces waiting to come alive, while outside the temple, jhalmuri carts had already taken their places, promising the flavours that make this season so special. The city felt as if it was holding its breath, waiting for something beautiful to unfold.
And yet, in the middle of all this joy and anticipation, there is also a quieter rhythm at play. These are the days of shradh, when families remember those who are no longer with them and seek their blessings. It is a pause before celebration, a time when the air feels layered with both longing and gratitude. In the same streets where colour and laughter are gathering, there is remembrance too, a reminder that festivals are not only about what is to come, but also about who has been and who we continue to carry in our hearts.
Food becomes the bridge between these two worlds. In mourning, one often turns away from indulgence, but shradh unfolds differently. The meals cooked are satvik and light, yet deeply indulgent in meaning. Often they are centred on the favourite dishes of the departed, as if to say that love can still be served at the table even when someone is absent. Flavours become a vessel for memory, sometimes carrying back a presence more vividly than words ever could.
For Kishi Aroa, a resident of Preet Vihar, shradh is a day when her family comes together to remember her grandparents and her father. The menu always reflects what her father loved most — Gobhi Aalu, ghutwa kaddu, poori that her mother insists makes a complete meal, kheer prepared just the way he liked it, and dahi bhalla or ghiya raita with kishmish. Because he loved ghiya so much, it is always included in some form. She admits that while the day is filled with emotion, food is what connects her most deeply to her father, not just on shradh but in her daily life.
In Noida, Nitika Sood Kuthiala speaks of her Himachali traditions. For her family, shradh meals are satvik, pure, and vegetarian, yet they are also deeply personal. Some dishes are essential across households — dahi bhalla, pumpkin, puri, kheer, kabuli chana, and seasonal vegetables like ridge gourd. What makes the ritual meaningful for her is the belief, carried in folklore, that the shradh meal should reflect the preferences of the departed. Her grandfather loved spice, so his plate always carries that touch of heat.
Writer and home-chef Ayandrali Dutta speaks of the Bengali tradition where Mahalaya marks the beginning of Durga Puja. The day of Tarpan is when families honour their ancestors by offering water to their souls. At her home, the food for the ancestors is prepared in copper or peetal vessels and served on banana leaves. Rice, dal, kheer, and vegetables like labra are cooked in ghee and sendha namak. She recalls how rituals would unfold — the performer in a dhoti, bare-chested, offering pinda-daan, a cow and a dog being fed, meals offered to Brahmins, and finally, the family sharing the food together. For her, Mahalaya carries both remembrance and renewal, and as it closes, it ushers in Devi Paksha with the invocation, Ma eshe gelen, the Goddess has arrived.
It is in this movement from shradh to festivity that the season finds its balance. On one hand, there is remembrance, the act of cooking what a loved one cherished most, keeping them alive in the tastes and textures of a meal. On the other, there is celebration, colour, and community gathering to welcome the Goddess. Between the two lies the truth of our festivals — that joy and grief often sit side by side, that food is both memory and offering, and that what we prepare in our kitchens has the power to hold together the past and the future.