I love trying out different cuisines. In Delhi, I love Megu at

Host: The evening descended upon Delhi like a soft blanket of golden dust and distant car horns. The sky was streaked with the last flame of sunset, melting into the city’s eternal hum. Inside a rooftop restaurant overlooking Connaught Place, the air smelled of ginger, smoke, and ambition. Jack sat near the edge, grey eyes reflecting the city lights, a half-finished glass of wine before him. Across from him, Jeeny leaned over a plate of sushi, her brown eyes alight with curiosity, the glow of the lanterns painting her face in warm hues.

Jeeny: “Virat Kohli once said, ‘I love trying out different cuisines. In Delhi, I love Megu at the Leela, and TK's at the Hyatt. I also enjoy Khan Chacha's rolls. In Mumbai, it's Royal China and Shiro. And in Bangalore, I like the food at Bricklane.’ It’s such a simple quote — but I find it beautiful.”

Jack: smirking, taking a slow sip of his wine “Beautiful? It’s just a man talking about food, Jeeny. Not everything’s a metaphor for the human condition.”

Host: A breeze swept across the terrace, carrying the scent of roasted spices and city rain. The waiters moved gracefully between tables, their voices blending with the low rumble of the streets below. Jeeny smiled faintly, tracing the rim of her glass.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s more than food. It’s about curiosity, diversity, and love for experience. Every dish, every flavor, tells a story about people, places, and memory. When Kohli talks about cuisines, he’s talking about how he connects with the world — not through words, but through taste.”

Jack: “You romanticize everything. Maybe the man just likes good food. There’s nothing profound in a list of restaurants.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what life is, though? A list of things we love — moments, places, people, flavors. You call it simple; I call it honest. He could have said he loves winning or fame, but he said he loves trying new cuisines. That’s humility.”

Host: Jack looked away toward the city lights, his expression unreadable. A train rumbled in the distance, a faint echo of movement and restlessness. His fingers tapped the table, the sound steady, like the rhythm of his own skepticism.

Jack: “Humility? I call it privilege. Trying ‘different cuisines’ sounds poetic until you realize most people can barely afford one meal a day. Loving sushi in Delhi or dim sum in Mumbai — that’s not depth, that’s luxury disguised as personality.”

Jeeny: gently, but firmly “But Jack, you can’t reduce every joy to guilt. Yes, it’s privilege — but it’s also appreciation. Food connects us, no matter our means. Think of how Biryani traveled from Persia to India, evolving with every culture it touched. That’s the beauty of it — food as a bridge between worlds.”

Jack: “A bridge? Or a menu for the elite? People post photos of plates they barely eat, calling it culture. It’s performance, Jeeny. Consumption disguised as connection.”

Host: The lanterns flickered, their light casting brief shadows across their faces. A violinist played softly near the corner, the notes drifting like forgotten dreams through the night air. The tension between them thickened — an invisible thread, drawn tighter with each word.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes, even a meal can carry meaning. When my father was sick, we used to sit at this tiny dhaba near Hauz Khas — he couldn’t eat much, but he’d always smile after the first bite. Food isn’t just about eating, Jack. It’s about being alive enough to taste something.”

Jack: his tone softening slightly “I get that. I do. But you talk like every flavor carries enlightenment. Maybe it’s just… taste. Nothing spiritual about it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we remember certain meals for years, don’t we? Why is that? Because in those moments, we were present. Think about your mother’s cooking, Jack. Didn’t it feel like home?”

Host: For the first time, Jack’s expression faltered. He set down his glass, the liquid inside trembling slightly. The wind carried a faint echo of laughter from another table, but his eyes had drifted somewhere far away — to a kitchen, perhaps, or a childhood afternoon he hadn’t visited in years.

Jack: “She used to make puri on Sundays. Always slightly burnt on the edges. I’d complain… but I still ate all of them.” He chuckles quietly. “I can still smell it sometimes. Burnt oil and love. Guess you’re right — that does stay.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “See? That’s what Kohli means. It’s not about expensive restaurants — it’s about being open to every taste, every memory. From Khan Chacha’s rolls to Bricklane’s fusion plates — it’s all a way of tasting life.”

Host: The night air grew cooler, wrapping them in a quiet stillness. The city noise faded beneath the hum of a soft jazz tune drifting through the speakers. Jack leaned back, his eyes reflecting a different kind of light — not from the city, but from understanding.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve forgotten that. I eat to survive, not to experience. Maybe that’s what separates living from merely existing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When we try new food, we let something foreign become familiar. That’s a lesson life keeps offering — to taste what you don’t yet understand.”

Jack: grinning now, more gently than before “So you’re saying sushi can teach philosophy?”

Jeeny: “If you’re willing to listen to the silence between bites.”

Host: They both laughed — quietly, but with warmth, the kind that dissolves arguments into understanding. The rain started again, soft and rhythmic, tapping the wooden railing beside them. The chef appeared briefly to light another candle, and its flame danced between their faces, alive and honest.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been starving for more than food, Jeeny. Maybe we all are.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we should start tasting again — not just eating. The world has flavors we haven’t even imagined yet.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming gently on the rooftop, blurring the city lights into a watercolor of gold and blue. Their plates lay empty now, but the space between them felt full — full of stories, memories, and something close to peace.

Jack: lifting his glass slightly “To new cuisines, then. And to old flavors that still taste like home.”

Jeeny: raising hers too “To curiosity — the only spice that never runs out.”

Host: The camera of the moment pulled back, framing the two against the backdrop of rain-slicked rooftops and shimmering traffic below. In the distance, a faint thunder rolled, soft and promising. The scene closed on their smiles, warm and human — two people rediscovering that life, like food, is best when shared, savored, and felt.

And beneath the glow of the city, amid laughter and rain, the night itself seemed to whisper — “Taste everything. That’s how you know you’re alive.”