“Ki khele?”, Dida would ask — as so many grandmothers did around the country and the world — across innumerable Sundays when I was five, six, seven years old. I had just returned after a “day spend” at one of my North Indian friends’ homes.

“Aar?” The follow-up question was tinged with shock and disdain.

“Bhaat,” I would say, and then add, somewhat defensively, “raita aar achar o chilo”. (“Not just rice and rajma, there was raita and pickle as well.)

“Robbar din e bari te deke ontoto deem er dalna to dite parto. (“They invited you home, on a Sunday at that… they should have given you egg curry at least.”)

“Egg curry at least” is a refrain across homes in East India. Like the humble and ubiquitous potato, it has been the staple of our homes and diets, of our culture, memories and the small things that make up childhoods. And our Biryani. A boiled egg (and/or potato), mashed into rice, with a bit of mustard oil or ghee remains for us the simplest and most delightful of delicacies.

When........

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