I don't restrict myself from any food item. I am a non-vegetarian

Host: The afternoon sun drifted lazily across the courtyard café, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. A faint breeze carried the smell of spices**—cumin, coriander, turmeric**—from a nearby kitchen, mingling with the distant sound of sizzling oil and laughter. It was one of those Indian afternoons that moved slowly, as though time itself had decided to sit down and share a meal.

Jack sat beneath a large banyan tree, his shirt sleeves rolled, his tie tucked into his pocket, looking like a man who had escaped the world but hadn’t decided if he’d go back. Across from him, Jeeny arrived with a steel tiffin carrier, still warm, her hair loose, her eyes alive with the kind of quiet happiness that only comes from food and memory.

Jeeny: “Shriya Saran once said, ‘I don't restrict myself from any food item. I am a non-vegetarian and I love home cooked food which usually includes daal, roti, aloo ki sabji, sambhar and fish. I try to avoid ice cream and sweets though.’”

Jack: smiling faintly “A philosopher after my own stomach.”

Jeeny: “You laugh, but there’s something beautiful in that — no guilt, no self-denial, just balance.”

Host: She unlatched the tiffin, and the aroma filled the air: daal simmered with ghee, roti warm and soft, aloo sabji spiced just right. Jack’s eyes widened, not from hunger but from nostalgia.

Jack: “That smell… takes me back. My grandmother’s kitchen. She’d make roti on a wood stove — burn a few every time, curse under her breath, then hand them to me with butter on top.”

Jeeny: laughing “Burnt roti — the taste of love and imperfection.”

Jack: “And the smell of home. Funny how no restaurant in the world can cook memory.”

Host: The sound of temple bells floated faintly from somewhere far, carried by the wind, their rhythm blending with the distant horn of a rickshaw. The world outside the courtyard felt noisy, but here, it was as though the air itself paused for the act of sharing a meal.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s not just about food. It’s about freedom — to eat, to enjoy, to live without apology.”

Jack: “Freedom’s overrated until you lose it. Then it becomes flavor.”

Jeeny: “You think food is just flavor?”

Jack: “It’s control. It’s habit. Half of modern life is people telling themselves what they can’t have — no carbs, no sugar, no oil, no time. We live in a world allergic to joy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people crave comfort food so much — it’s the one rebellion left that still tastes good.”

Host: Jack tore a piece of roti, dipped it into the daal, and ate slowly. The first bite softened his eyes, as if the taste itself was reminding him of something forgotten — the simplicity of being cared for.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother used to say, ‘A home is where the food smells like love.’ I didn’t understand it then. Now I think she meant that love isn’t always said — sometimes it’s simmered.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Food is the body’s version of prayer — it’s how we say thank you without words.”

Jack: “You sound like a monk from MasterChef.”

Jeeny: grinning “No, I sound like someone who’s still trying to stay human in a world of takeout.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, dancing through the leaves. Jeeny poured him a bit of sambhar, the steam curling like incense smoke. The conversation slowed, their words beginning to blend with the clinking of spoons and the scent of spice.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? People spend more on diets than they ever did on food. We treat eating like an equation — grams, calories, macros — as if nourishment can be calculated.”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve forgotten how to trust our own bodies. We keep outsourcing our instincts.”

Jack: “Or punishing them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We’re afraid of pleasure. We worship productivity instead. Even at the dinner table, people check their phones, count their portions, compare their lives. But food — real food — demands presence.”

Jack: “Presence.” He rolled the word in his mouth, like it was foreign. “I can’t remember the last time I actually tasted my lunch instead of inhaling it between meetings.”

Jeeny: “Then start now.” She handed him a piece of fried fish, crisp at the edges, golden. “Taste, don’t think.”

Host: Jack took a bite, the crunch giving way to tenderness. He closed his eyes, chewed slowly, and for a fleeting second, his breath deepened, his shoulders dropped — as though he’d finally come home from a long, invisible war.

Jack: “Damn. That’s… perfect.”

Jeeny: “That’s what home tastes like — imperfectly perfect.”

Jack: “You think Shriya Saran really meant all that? Or was she just listing her favorite dishes?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Sometimes truth hides in ordinary sentences. ‘I love daal, roti, and fish’ — it’s not just food. It’s gratitude disguised as appetite.”

Jack: “Gratitude. Now that’s an ingredient nobody teaches you to cook with.”

Host: The light dimmed, clouds gathering, the sky turning brass. Somewhere, a woman called out to her child, her voice warm, echoing across the courtyard. A dog barked, a door creaked, a pressure cooker whistled. Life — in all its imperfect noise — carried on.

Jeeny: “When I cook, I think about the people I’m feeding. Not about recipes, or calories. Just faces. Names. That’s how I pray.”

Jack: “And when you eat?”

Jeeny: “I listen. To my body. To my mood. To the story the food is trying to tell me.”

Jack: “You make eating sound like a philosophy.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every bite says, ‘You’re alive. Don’t rush.’”

Host: The rain began lightly, pattering on the banyan leaves, dimpling the dust. Jack reached out, caught a few drops in his hand, and laughed softly.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe this is what we’re all hungry for — not more food, but fewer rules.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A life seasoned with joy, not judgment.”

Jack: “And dessert?”

Jeeny: smiling playfully “Even that. Sometimes the sweetest thing is knowing when to stop chasing sweetness.”

Host: They sat quietly, watching the rain turn the courtyard into a mirror of sky. Around them, the world smelled of earth, butter, and contentment.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe the soul eats too — and home-cooked food is the closest thing it gets to forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. Every meal cooked with love is forgiveness reheated.”

Host: The rain softened, the breeze cooler now. Jeeny packed the tiffin, her movements gentle, deliberate. Jack watched, a faint, thoughtful smile forming — the kind that comes not from fullness, but from peace.

As they stood to leave, the sun broke briefly through the clouds, lighting the courtyard in soft gold. The plates, the steam, the crumbs, all glimmered like small blessings left behind.

Host: And as they walked away, their footsteps echoing on the wet earth, it was clear — this wasn’t just lunch. It was a small act of rebellion against a hungry world.

A meal where faith tasted like daal, forgiveness smelled like fish frying, and love, simple as roti, was finally enough.