Angshuman Das

On a recent weekend, as the smell of asafetida and cumin, plus curry leaves, sizzling in a tadka, wafted from the kadhai (Indian wok), I stood in my 35-degree Celsius kitchen, cooking a broth. I walked the road back to my boyhood. The same flavors emanating from my next-door neighbor’s kitchen from some 40 years ago filled me with wistfulness.

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