Let me begin this week with the heartiest wishes of the harvest season. Whether you are marking Baisakhi, Vishu, Bohag Bihu or Noboborsho, there is a shared truth that binds them all. It is a day of abundance, of gratitude, of tables laid out with care. Few moments capture India’s agricultural diversity as completely as this one, and there could be no better time to speak of something that feels increasingly urgent.
But before that, let me tell you why this has always felt personal.
Growing up in Dehradun, my earliest memories of Baisakhi are tied to the gurudwara, where my father would take me along for langar seva. I remember the reassuring rhythm of the space, the clang of steel thalis, the scent of slow-cooked dal, the quiet pride in doing even the smallest task. We would serve kadhi, chole, aloo sabzi, stacks of rotis brushed with ghee, and kheer that felt like celebration in a bowl. There was gratitude in every gesture, not as an idea but as something lived and shared. The harvest was not abstract. It was right there on the plate.
When we moved to Assam, the nine-year-old me discovered Bohag Bihu, and with it an entirely new language of celebration. The air carried the smell of pitha being made at home, til pitha and narikol pitha, rice cakes filled with jaggery and coconut, laru rolled by hand, and the comforting familiarity of doi and chira. The joy felt instantly recognisable, even if the flavours were new. The harvest had changed its expression, not its spirit. Home-chef Snehalata Saikia, a resident of CR Park points out, “people in Assam eat a particular dish on Bohag Bihu that is cooked with 101 varieties of leaves and herbs”.
Marriage brought me into a Bengali household, where Poila Boisakh unfolded through elaborate meals that felt almost ceremonial. And because I am vegetarian, there was always an added layer of care, an insistence that the table must feel just as abundant for me. Dishes would be planned with intention, not as substitutions but as centrepieces in their own right. There would be shukto, slightly bitter and deeply comforting, chhanar dalna with its soft cottage cheese dumplings in a light gravy, aloo posto that was both simple and indulgent, and mocha’r ghonto, slow-cooked banana blossom spiced to perfection. On special days, there would be luchi paired with chholar dal, fragrant with coconut, and mishti doi to end the meal on a sweet, familiar note.
It never felt like I was missing out. If anything, those meals taught me that vegetarian food, when rooted in tradition, carries its own sense of occasion, just as rich and celebratory as anything else on the table.
And then there was Vishu, which came to me through friendships that felt like family. The Vishu sadya, served on a banana leaf, was an education in balance and abundance. Avial, thoran, olan, sambar, rasam, pachadi, and the inevitable payasam, each dish rooted in what the land had to offer at that moment in time. The order of eating, the variety, the attention to detail, everything spoke of a deep, intuitive relationship with the land.
What differed across these celebrations was not the intent, but the plate. And that is where something clicked for me, even at a young age. What we ate was inseparable from where we were. Seasonality was not a trend. It was instinct. Regionality was not curated. It was inevitable, but two decades on, that instinct feels eroded.
Today, our food has lost a part of its identity to convenience, technology and scale. Climate change is no longer a distant concern. You can feel it in the sharpness of this summer, in the unpredictability of seasons. Soil diversity is thinning, water tables are under strain, and what this has quietly created is a sameness that sits uneasily on a country built on difference.
We are eating tomatoes that taste the same across cities, mangoes that arrive earlier than they should, greens that no longer respond to the rhythms they once did. The plate is full, but something essential is missing. Eating local has become a privilege. Eating seasonal has become a conscious choice, often influenced more by what we see online than what arrives at the subzi mandi. The irony is hard to miss. What was once the most natural way to eat now requires intention, sometimes even effort.
And in the middle of this, something unexpected is happening. Unseasonal heroes are stepping in, filling gaps, reshaping menus, and quietly altering the way we understand produce. Which brings me back to why this moment matters, and why this conversation cannot wait.