19/11/2025
๐๐ก๐ข๐ฅ๐ ๐ ๐ซ๐จ๐ฐ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฎ๐ฉ, ๐ก๐๐ฌ๐งโ๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ ๐๐ฅ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐๐๐๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐จ๐ง๐ ๐ฏ๐๐ ๐๐ญ๐๐๐ฅ๐ ๐จ๐ซ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ก ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐๐ฌ๐จ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ญ๐๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐๐ญ๐๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐โ๐ฉ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ก๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ ๐, ๐ซ๐๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ญ๐ก ๐๐ซ๐๐ฆ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ฏ๐ข๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐งโ๐จ๐ง๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐จ๐ซ ๐ข๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ข๐๐ญ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ ๐๐๐๐ค ๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐จ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ค๐ข๐ญ๐๐ก๐๐ง, ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฌ๐จ๐ฆ๐๐ก๐จ๐ฐ, ๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐จ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ก๐๐๐ซ๐ญ?
Every winter, my mom would place a steaming bowl of her light Bengali chicken curryโpacked with raw papaya and carrots and alooโin front of me I would hesitate to have that, but I still remember the way the aroma filled the room, warm and earthy. But still then Iโd wrinkle my nose and push it away, insisting I didnโt want โvegetables in chicken.โ She would laugh, knowing Iโd come around someday.
Today, as the chilly breeze drifted in, I found myself recreating that very dish. As it simmered, the same gentle favours wrapped around me, pulling old memories to the surface. And when I finally sat down to eat with some Bhaat ( rice), I realised I wasnโt just savoring the dishโI was reliving a piece of home.