In this excruciating Delhi heat—where even the breeze feels like it’s lost the will to move—I find myself in the thick of work-related travel, pulled away from home more often than I am used to.
But when I do return, I try to reclaim my mornings, stitch them slowly into pockets of calm. I wake up earlier than usual, when the house is still breathing softly. In the gentle hush of those dawn hours, I prepare light but nourishing meals—not grand or elaborate, but full of quiet intention. The tea’s concoction simmers gently, just as I like it, while I filter coffee for my husband, who now swirls his cup with the discernment of a new-age connoisseur.
Side by side, a pressure cooker hisses softly with arhar ki dal—just turmeric and salt. In another vessel, rice bubbles over, like it’s humming an old tune. In a small iron wok, I warm a spoonful of ghee until it sighs, then toss in chopped garlic, onions, and a couple of dried red chillies that crackle to life. Before the tadka meets the dal, I drop in raw mango—its tartness lifts the dal from the ordinary to something quietly indulgent.
As I sort clothes into two heaps—one for the road, one for the wardrobe—I pause. Maybe, I think, I should carry something simple for the journey. Maybe a paneer sandwich? Something soft, cooling. Something real. The food on the Shatabdi doesn’t taste like it used to. Like a ghost of its former self, it arrives bland, lukewarm, detached. And I wonder—why have I been settling for this, when I have two hands, a kitchen, and the memory of better meals? When I could carry a little bit of home with me, the way we used to, tucked in foil and butter paper.
Not long ago, on one of those train rides, I noticed a young girl seated a few rows ahead. She opened a steel tiffin just as the official breakfast trays came around—soft parathas, simple aloo ki sabzi, and achaar. A mid-aged couple across the aisle had packed pooris and what looked like tinda in a rich, glistening gravy. And somewhere in the coach—though I never saw them—I caught the unmistakable scent of bharwa karela. It floated past me like a whisper from my childhood, and I knew instantly: that tiffin belonged to an old lady. The kind who preserves not just recipes but memories. Who folds entire seasons into rotis and keeps them warm, until it’s time to eat.
That morning in the train, I did something different. Instead of scrolling through videos or reading while I ate, I put everything away. I chose to eat the way we were once taught to—as a child would—attentively, gratefully. I found myself savoring every bite. And when I looked up, I noticed more than I usually do. At a small station we passed, a group of children stood near the catering cart, eyes hopeful, watching the tin containers go by. Maybe hoping for leftovers. Maybe just hoping.
It struck me, that moment—that divide. How some of us sit in cool, air-conditioned spaces with five different ways to assemble a meal, while some sweat it out for just one. How we, as a people, pour millions into pre-wedding theatrics while a child on the platform waits for rice and dal.
I was reminded of a video I had watched—Samdish Bhatia, the Delhi-based Youtuber, interviewing a young boy who fixed tire punctures. His name, almost cruelly ironic, was Deshpremi. He spoke quietly about his hunger, his solitude, his invisibility. No one sees him. No one helps. And yet, he wakes up every day to serve a country that has all but forgotten him.
And us? We, the privileged ones, who have the power to notice, to speak, to change—we often look away. We scroll past. We fail boys like Deshpremi every single day.
Perhaps it begins with food. With something as small and sacred as a meal. How we eat. What we choose to eat. Who we share it with—and who we exclude. In their name, maybe it is time we begin to eat more mindfully. More gratefully. More kindly. Because sometimes, the simple act of eating well—and with awareness—can be a quiet revolution.