I'd say, for me, it's cooking that gives me a space beyond music.

Host: The rain fell softly that night, its rhythm delicate, like fingertips brushing against glass. The apartment was small but warm — filled with the scent of cumin, coriander, and the faint sweetness of simmering onions. The windowpanes glowed amber with the reflection of streetlights, and the faint hum of an old Bollywood melody drifted through the room.

Jeeny stood by the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand, her hair tied up loosely, her sleeves rolled past her elbows. The steam from the pot curled around her face like a ghost made of fragrance. Jack sat at the small wooden table, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, watching her like a man who didn’t know how to belong but wanted to remember how.

Outside, the world was grey. Inside, there was turmeric light.

Jeeny: smiling softly “Shreya Ghoshal once said, ‘Cooking gives me a space beyond music. I love food. And somehow, music and food go together so well. Cooking is very therapeutic… it sweeps aside my depression, my tiredness — name what you may.’”

Host: The words settled into the air, carried gently by the smell of roasted spices. Jack tilted his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Jack: “Therapeutic, huh? I don’t know. I’ve burned enough dinners to need therapy after cooking.”

Jeeny: laughs softly, stirring the pot “That’s because you think it’s a task. It’s not. It’s an act of presence. You can’t cook without being here — in the moment, with your senses alive.”

Jack: “You make it sound like meditation.”

Jeeny: “It is. Just warmer, tastier, and a lot more forgiving.”

Host: The sound of sizzling garlic filled the room — sharp, fragrant, alive. Jack watched the tendrils of steam rise, watched her move between the cutting board and the pan like a dancer in rhythm with invisible music.

Jack: “You really believe cooking can erase things? Depression, tiredness… all of that?”

Jeeny: “Not erase. Transform. The act of creating something beautiful out of raw, ordinary things — that’s healing. It reminds you that you can still make life taste good.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened as he watched her. The rain outside tapped in sync with the faint hum of the old melody.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s found religion in spices.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. Music feeds the soul, but food — food feeds the part of us that still remembers to feel. When I cook, I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m just… breathing differently.”

Jack: “Funny. I always thought you’d find peace in silence, not in all this noise.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Cooking isn’t noise. It’s rhythm — the crackle, the stir, the aroma. Like a raga being built slowly, one note at a time. It demands patience and love, the same way music does.”

Host: The air grew thick with the smell of mustard seeds popping. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, letting the fragrance envelop him — earthy, human, grounding.

Jack: “You know, I’ve seen chefs in fancy restaurants, all precision and ego. But you — you cook like you’re forgiving the world.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Every time I cook, I forgive the day a little — for being hard, for being unfair. I forgive myself too. The fragrance does the rest.”

Host: She poured the curry into a bowl, the colors rich and alive — amber, red, gold — like the palette of a sunset caught in a dish. She placed it on the table, the steam rising between them like a soft veil.

Jack: “You really think music and food go together?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Both are languages without words. They don’t need translation — just feeling. You don’t understand a song or a spice. You experience it.”

Jack: “And both can go wrong if you overdo it.”

Jeeny: grinning “Exactly. Balance — that’s the secret in both. You can’t rush a melody, and you can’t hurry a meal. You let it unfold, the way life should.”

Host: Jack took a spoonful, the steam brushing his face, the taste blooming slowly on his tongue. He exhaled softly — not out of satisfaction, but remembrance.

Jack: “My mother used to cook like this. She never measured anything. Just smelled the air and knew what it needed.”

Jeeny: “That’s intuition. That’s art.”

Jack: “And I used to think it was chaos.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe chaos is just creation waiting for seasoning.”

Host: The rain deepened, a steady rhythm now. The warmth of the food filled the room, wrapping around them like memory — the kind that doesn’t ache anymore, only hums softly in the heart.

Jeeny: “You know, Shreya wasn’t just talking about cooking. She was talking about escape — the kind that doesn’t numb, but restores. Music gave her voice to the world, but cooking gave her voice back to herself.”

Jack: “You think that’s what we all need? Something to bring us back to ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Something simple. Something human. You can lose yourself in a thousand noises, Jack, but it’s the small rituals — stirring, chopping, tasting — that remind you you’re still here.”

Host: Jack looked at her, his grey eyes soft under the glow of the kitchen light. He nodded slowly, like a man who hadn’t realized until this moment how hungry he’d been — not for food, but for gentleness.

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s why I stopped cooking. I thought I didn’t have time. But maybe I just didn’t want to face myself.”

Jeeny: “Then start again. Cook something. Burn it if you must. But be there for it. Be there for yourself.”

Host: She handed him the spoon, their fingers brushing for a second — just enough to bridge the quiet between them. Jack took it, hesitated, then stirred the pot gently, the fragrance rising once more, richer now, warmer.

Jeeny watched him with a small smile — the kind that meant healing doesn’t always need words, only presence.

Jack: “You know, maybe music and food really are the same thing. They both fill the silence.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, that’s enough to keep you alive.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly, past the small table, past the faint steam curling toward the ceiling, past the window where the rain glowed under streetlights.

Two figures sat together in a world too loud to listen — quietly making something with their hands, their hearts, their hunger.

And as the scene faded to darkness, the lingering scent of cumin and coriander hung in the air like a song without words — proof that creation, in any form, is an act of love.

Because sometimes, what saves you isn’t a miracle — it’s a meal.