Meghana Harikumar

Bengaluru: For a city that practically pioneered the modern, high-velocity vegetarian dining culture through its legendary, bustling tiffin rooms and iconic neighborhood darshinis, Bengaluru has long maintained a curious, lingering gap at the absolute top end of its culinary ladder.

Bengaluru: How we remember the past is never a neutral act. For centuries, mainstream narratives of Indian history have suffered from a distinct double-blindness—they have remained overwhelmingly centered on the grand, imperial courts of the global North while pushing the sophisticated, multipolar world of the Deccan Sultanates to the periphery.

Bengaluru: There is a highly specific, deeply frustrating tragedy that occurs every weekend in Bengaluru. You wake up at 11:30 AM, your brain still fuzzy from a long week of corporate hustling, craving nothing more than a pristine, runny-yolk egg preparation. You wash up, battle through the city traffic, step into a beautiful café, and glance at the menu only to be met with those devastating words: “Breakfast timings are over. We are now only serving lunch.” It feels like a personal rejection.