Bengaluru winters never storm like Delhi’s. It creeps in like a shy intern: polite, underconfident, but somehow managing to disrupt the whole office. One morning,...
When I was nine, my grandmother made something called ginna from the thick yellow milk a neighbour’s cow produced after calving. It looked strange—custard with...
Some foods arrive with fanfare. Others just show up, do their job, and quietly take over the morning. Bread-omelette belongs to the second category. It...
Long before science wrote theories, culture built habits, and behaviour became data, a simple spoon of curd and sugar carried its own quiet logic—offered without...
Some days, Bangalore doesn’t wake up — it jolts. Autos growl like irritated uncles, WhatsApp groups beep like anxious sparrows, and fear drifts through the...
Last Tuesday, over a simple North Indian lunch that tasted more of memory than masala, a friend of mine—techie, 50, California resident, ex-Amazon, start-up survivor,...