A few days ago, I went to the cinema after what felt like a lifetime, to watch the much-acclaimed Homebound by Neeraj Ghaywan. The film has been drawing global praise, and I was curious to see what made it so special. What I found was a story that stayed long after the credits rolled. Homebound felt heavy, not because it aimed to be, but because of how unflinchingly real it was. The weight of its silences, its glances, its unspoken words lingered even after I had left the hall.
One image from the film has refused to leave me: the biryani. Ghaywan uses it not merely as a meal but as a symbol. Its many layers and flavours mirror the shifting shades of Shoaib and Chandan’s friendship, revealing tenderness, conflict, and quiet defiance. Their shared love for biryani becomes a small act of rebellion, a gesture of unity against the caste and religious divides that seek to pull them apart. And in the film’s closing moments, as Chandan lies ill on their long journey home, Shoaib’s promise of returning to have biryani becomes a symbol of homecoming, of memory, and of the hope that love might still outlast the boundaries imposed by the world.
There are flavours that never quite leave you. They linger in memory, tied to people and places, to fleeting moments of belonging. Some remind you of joy and warmth, of times when life felt safe. Others shift in meaning entirely, taking on the shape of loss or longing because of the people they are bound to.
During my years as a student in Delhi, I ate one thing every single day for three years: arhar ki dal and chawal. The tadka was my own invention, never made that way at home — ghee, cumin, garlic, onion, tomatoes, green chillies, sambar powder, red chilli powder, and just a hint of sugar. I ate it from the same deep steel bowl every evening, never a plate, while watching Grey’s Anatomy. In those uncertain years, that bowl of dal and rice became my anchor. It was simple, repetitive, familiar. It held me together quietly when I was falling apart.
Some time ago, Chittaranjan Park-based home chef Snehalata Saikia shared a memory that has stayed with me. She had recently lost her mother and spoke of her with tenderness. “My mother’s favourite dal was bilahi diya maati dail,” she told me — dhuli urad dal with local tomatoes. “We do not get that dal in Assam, so she would ask me to bring it from Delhi. When she passed away, I made sure to include it in her thirteenth-day kaaj. It is a simple dish with just a tempering of fenugreek seeds in mustard oil and tomatoes added to the boiled dal.” She also spoke of muri ghonto, fish head cooked with moong dal, prepared differently from the Bengali version. “My mother used to take great care with it,” she said softly. “She would boil the fish and remove every single bone with her hands before cooking it. I have never seen this preparation in any other house. I miss her food — not only for its flavour but for the care it carried, for how she cooked differently for children and for the elderly in the family.”
And then there are memories that arrive quietly, like the sound of a ladle hitting the edge of a kadhai or the soft hiss of oil meeting spice. Preet Vihar resident Kishi Arora told me, “I used to hate tori and moong dal, but ever since I lost my father it has been something that I find comfort in, because he used to find comfort in it.” Perhaps it is the same comforting yellow hue of the dal, the faint sweetness of the tori softening into it, or the gentle rhythm of stirring — that everyday sound that once filled their home — which now carries his presence.
Listening to these stories, I thought again of Homebound, of biryani, of my own dal, of how what nourishes us is rarely just food. Each dish becomes an archive of care, of habit, of love that persists beyond absence. It is a language that does not need words, a form of remembrance passed down through taste.
Food, after all, is not only about eating. It is about returning — to a memory, to a person, to a version of ourselves that once felt at home.
