The night before the news broke, my husband and I had gone out for a modest date night—no occasion, no celebration. Just a gentle pause carved out of the everyday. We stepped into one of the finest restaurants in the country, tucked away in a quiet corner of Colaba.
Now settled as journalists in Delhi—a city that, over the past decade, has become more than just a workplace or a postal address—we’ve built a life shaped by the rhythm of headlines and deadlines, late-night edits and early morning coffees. Delhi, with all its noise and nuance, has become a kind of chosen belonging. But Mumbai is different. In Mumbai, there are roots. There’s family and friendship, and memories tucked into every lane.
That evening, as we entered the restaurant, an old acquaintance spotted us. “A special occasion?” he asked, smiling. “No,” we replied, smiling back. “Just the two of us. Just because.”
He found the sentiment endearing—the idea of turning an ordinary night into something quietly meaningful. And in that moment, it struck me too: how far we’ve come, not just as individuals but as a country. Once, an evening like this—a leisurely dinner overlooking the Taj Mahal Palace—felt aspirational, almost cinematic. Now, it sits within reach. The extraordinary woven into the everyday.
The evening ended with a soft rain, the kind Mumbai is known for. As we drove from the city’s southern tip back to my parents’ home in the suburbs, the streets shimmered with reflections. The moment stretched out like a sigh—unhurried, luminous, full.
But morning arrived heavy.
I woke with a sinking feeling—something primal, something in my gut. News had broken of surgical strikes across the border, retaliation for a horrific attack on civilians in Pahalgam. The headlines were loud. But all I could feel was a quiet dread.
They say the gut knows before the mind can make sense of things. Mine had already begun its silent protest. It wasn’t just the horror of what had happened—it was the fear of what might still unfold.
For many who came of age in quieter decades, war is a story from another time. But for those of us who remember the early ’90s—or the tension and breathlessness of the Kargil conflict in 1999—this unease is all too familiar. The tremor in the breath. The ache that settles deep in the bones. The knowledge that peace, however cherished, is never permanent. It is a thread—fragile, fraying, too easily forgotten.
In moments like this, everyday pleasures begin to feel strange.
Can one still think of food—what to cook, what to serve, whether to invite friends over?
Is it irreverent to talk of cake and celebration when grief hangs in the air?
Can we still gather, still laugh, still light candles for dinner, even as something inside us quietly unravels?
I was seven when the Kargil War began. We were living in Dehradun then, a leafy, quiet town known for its boarding schools and military cantonments. Many of my classmates were army children.
I remember it was break time when Aditya was called out of class. We were busy unwrapping tiffins, licking jam off our fingers, arguing over who got first go on the swing. His departure was quiet. Later, we learnt his father had been martyred. That was the day I realised that war wasn’t just on television, or confined to the sombre columns of the newspaper. It could enter your classroom. It could sit beside you at lunch.
To this day, I associate aloo ka paratha—one of my favourite comfort foods that I eat at home in Delhi—with that moment. With the confusion of a child, the silence that followed, and the realisation that not all stories have happy endings.
Food, they say, is comfort. But sometimes, trauma is louder than appetite. The joy of cooking slips into silence. Hunger becomes something mechanical. In those moments, food stops being a celebration and becomes merely a means of survival.
And yet, food remembers. It carries memory in every grain, every bite. A whiff of cardamom can summon a childhood Diwali. The slow simmer of a curry can conjure someone long gone. For some, these memories arrive like a warm shawl. For others, they land like a bruise.
To cook, to eat, to feed others—these are not just acts of nourishment. Sometimes, they are our softest expressions of resilience. A way to remember, even as we carry on.