The year is sometime after the revolt 1857 and the destruction of Delhi. The great Dastaango, Mir Baqar Ali sits on a takht in his courtyard dimly lit by a single lantern. The hour is late and it is winter time. He wears a kantop- a cotton wool filled topi, a black and red…
Vinita (name changed) was new to the school. She had been admitted late because she could not adjust to the boarding school her parents had sent her to. Unable to cope with homesickness, her grades dropped as did her weight. The parents panicked-she was an only child and this was an all important year for…
My grandfather, Zaigham Husain, would seat me and my sister in his tiny room and talk about Moharram rituals, cry listening to marsiyas and exalt the wonderful spread of sweetmeats on Nauroz. Sitting on his prickly, wool blanket, the crying at the martyrdom of Hazrat Husain seemed unreal to us but we were caught up…
I’m not a foodie or a recipe fanatic. Or maybe, like for a lot of things in my life, I am in denial. So it was by chance that I came upon this hundred-and-fifty-year old Persian manuscript on Rampuri cuisine at the grand Raza Library in Rampur. I was basically researching for my novel at…