I am a Gujarati by birth, but having spent most of the growing up

Host: The evening hung soft over Mumbai’s streets, a mosaic of noise, neon, and nostalgia. The rain had just ended, leaving the air thick with the smell of wet earth and fried spices from the corner stalls. Lights from rickshaws and shopfronts danced on the puddles, turning every reflection into a painting.

Inside a small, old-fashioned café on Marine Drive, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, their table cluttered with plates — a fusion of cultures: pasta, paneer tikka, pad Thai, and a bowl of steaming dal.

The radio played a Himesh Reshammiya tune from his early years, faint and melancholic. The quote hung between them like the steam from the food:

“I am a Gujarati by birth, but having spent most of the growing up years in Mumbai, I can eat all kinds of food, from pizza to Thai, but given a choice, I want to stick to Indian.”

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I love that line. It’s not really about food, is it?”

Jack: “No. It’s about identity — about the taste that stays with you no matter how far you travel.”

Host: The ceiling fan whirred, lazy and old, its rhythm mixing with the sound of the city outside — horns, laughter, the distant train. Jeeny stirred her tea, watching the circles form, then fade.

Jeeny: “Still, I think there’s something beautiful about being able to taste the world and yet still long for home. It’s like… modern life distilled into a plate.”

Jack: “Or it’s just nostalgia disguised as preference. You know what I think? We don’t miss the taste, we miss the time — the people, the smells, the way our mother used to serve us. You could make the same dal anywhere, but it never tastes the same because the memory isn’t in the food, it’s in the moment.”

Jeeny: “You always analyze everything to death, Jack. Why can’t it be both — nostalgia and preference? Maybe some flavors just belong to your soul. Like how a song takes you back, or how a language feels like home even when you haven’t spoken it in years.”

Host: Jack leans back, his grey eyes reflecting the neon glow from outside. He smiles, but it’s a wounded smile, the kind that knows the cost of movement.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I’ve lived in five cities, worked with people from ten countries. But when I get sick, I don’t want soup — I want khichdi. When I’m celebrating, I want biryani. Maybe Himesh was right. You can learn to eat the world, but your gut — it never forgets where it belongs.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because your gut is honest. It doesn’t care about fashion or influence. It remembers what comforts you, what restores you. Identity isn’t about exclusion; it’s about recognition.”

Host: The waiter arrived, a smiling boy with a tray of hot rotis that smelled of ghee and smoke. The aroma wrapped around them like a memory.

Jack: “You ever think about how food is the most peaceful form of belonging? We argue about religion, politics, language, but when you serve someone home-cooked food, none of that matters. It’s like saying — here, this is who I am, and I want to share it.”

Jeeny: “Yes… and it’s also how we survive in a world that keeps trying to homogenize us. Every airport, every mall, every menu — they’re all starting to taste the same. But the tongue still rebels. It remembers the spice your mother used, the way your grandfather chewed paan after dinner. That’s heritage, Jack — not in books, but in taste buds.”

Host: Her words were soft, but they hit like truth. Jack took a bite of the paneer tikka, chewed, then nodded, almost to himself.

Jack: “You know, I used to think cosmopolitanism meant erasing the local, becoming a citizen of everywhere. But now I think real freedom is when you can choose your roots, not just your routes.”

Jeeny: “Beautifully said. Because being global doesn’t mean you stop being local. It means you carry your flavor wherever you go. Like how Himesh, even after singing in London or Bangkok, still talks about his Gujarati thali with affection.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

Jeeny: “Of course I have. I’m from a village near Madurai. The first time I had sushi, I smiled — not because it was exotic, but because it reminded me of the banana leaf meals back home. Different ingredients, same intention — to honor what you grow and what you share.”

Host: The rain began again, slowly, rhythmic, as if the sky was applauding their conversation. Drops slid down the window, blurring the lights outside into colors that looked almost edible — orange, green, crimson.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, there’s a kind of identity crisis that comes with mobility. You start to feel like a guest in every place, even the ones you once called home.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why choice matters. Like Himesh said — given a choice, he wants to stick to Indian. That’s the anchor. In a world of constant drift, it’s a way of saying — this is where I belong, even if I’m everywhere.”

Host: The crowd noise from the street grew louder, but their table felt like a quiet island, floating between past and present. Jack removed his jacket, relaxed, and for the first time that night, his shoulders unclenched.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I used to mock my father for always ordering the same dish — dal fry, roti, lassi. Wherever we went. I used to call him boring. Now I get it. He wasn’t being predictable. He was being faithful — to his own taste, his own story.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Taste is memory’s language. Every bite is a return — not to a place, but to a feeling. We grow older, we travel, we change, but our tongue — it remains loyal.”

Host: The waiter came back with a small dessert — a gulab jamun, glowing in syrup, steaming faintly. Jeeny cut it in half and pushed the plate toward Jack.

Jeeny: “Try this. I know you’ll say it’s too sweet.”

Jack: “It is. But it tastes like childhood. That’s the problem — and the blessing.”

Host: They both laughed, quietly, their voices dissolving into the music playing softly in the background — an old Bollywood melody, tender, nostalgic, familiar.

The camera panned out — the rain, the street, the café, the two figures sharing one plate. The world outside was diverse, chaotic, changing — but here, in this corner, something eternal simmered: the comfort of origin, the flavor of belonging.

Jack: “Maybe we don’t have to choose between the world and home, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Maybe home is just the flavor that follows you — no matter where you go.”

Host: And as the rain faded, the scene lingered on their half-eaten plates, the fusion of cultures, the collision of memories — a quiet tribute to the truth Himesh Reshammiya once sang without melody:

“You can eat from every table in the world —
but the heart still hungers for the spice it was born with.”