Sindhi Curry, Ho Jamalo and a Little Bit of Aunty National

On family recipes, borders, burgers, and why I find it difficult to keep culture out of politics.

If you grew up in a Sindhi family, you know that food is rarely just food. It is an expression of love, a reason to gather, a way of keeping traditions alive, and sometimes an elaborate exercise in ensuring nobody leaves the table hungry.

Especially if your family believes that feeding you once means you haven't been fed at all.

My story begins in Wadala, in a building (the very famous Om Niwas) my grandfather built after Partition to accommodate his thirteen children. Yes, thirteen. My dad was number twelve in the line, the youngest son among six brothers. His sister, born after him, was the youngest of seven sisters.

50% Gvalanis, 100% Om Niwasis

By the time I arrived, three of my uncles and their families, and my dad's, lived in the same building. My eldest uncle, Dada, lived across the street, while another uncle had moved to Khar. Family wasn't something you needed to plan a reunion for. You could practically organise one by walking out of your front door.

Diwali was a rotating affair, with the brothers taking turns hosting the family each year. But the gatherings I remember most fondly were our monthly Sunday get-togethers, when one of the brothers hosted a Satyanarayan Pooja, followed by the meal everyone looked forward to: Sindhi curry, chawal and aalu tuk.

We called these the Gvalani gatherings. It seemed a fitting name for a family occasion that revolved around food, family and the business of being together.

My favourite part wasn't necessarily the lunch bit. It was assembling little portions of cut fruit, diced coconut and kutti (like a churma), my most favourite. I also loved panch amrut, and everybody knew it. Which meant an extra helping would somehow find its way to me.

There are advantages to being the youngest female cousin.

My younger brother Anit wasn't particularly interested in these culinary perks back then. My cousin Rakhee, two and a half years older than me, was the only one close to my age. Both of us would eye up the prasad as a team, with the kind of religious devotion that probably deserved its own pooja. With the food and the general chaos of a large family, those Sundays were a world of their own.

As the years passed, cousins grew up, married or moved abroad. The gatherings gradually became less frequent, and eventually those customs faded. Life has a way of rearranging families. But the flavours stayed with me.

And then there was my mother's side of the family, which opened up an entirely different world of food.

My dad's side was vegetarian. My mom's wasn't. So, on weekends when there wasn't a Gvalani gathering, we would head to Naani's home in Bandra, either after school on Friday or early Saturday morning, returning on Sunday night.

These weekends were quite the culinary adventure.

Fisherfolk would arrive at the doorstep with their fresh catch, and lunch would often be tariyal machi (fish), mainly pomfret. Dinner might mean tandoori chicken from Tavaa, a very popular restaurant in those days. There would be pineapple pastries from The Cake Shop of Taj, and Sunday curry chawal would sometimes come with Sindhi mutton.

And before heading home? Burgers from Wayside Grill.

I suspect this is where my burger love story began. Long before I had a café of my own, the seeds had been planted. Apparently, my future menu was being quietly assembled over childhood weekends.

Sometimes I would stay with cousins at Cosi Hom, in Pali Hill. When we eventually moved there ourselves, when I was in eight standard, the locations changed but the food memories continued.

Looking back, I realise how much of my childhood can be mapped through meals. Wadala, Bandra, Pali Hill. One side of the family, the other side. Vegetarian lunches, tandoori dinners, curry chawal, pastries and burgers. Each home had its own rhythm, and food was the common language.

Eventually, some of those flavours found their way into Gostana, my café in Mumbai. Our lamb and soy burgers drew inspiration from Sindhi kheema pao. The food of my childhood had travelled into a new kitchen, taken a little detour, and emerged wearing burger buns.

Culture, I've learnt, doesn't always preserve itself by repeating the past exactly. Sometimes

it survives by adapting, borrowing, experimenting and making room for something new.

Which brings me to why I'm writing about all this now.

When did food become political?

Yesterday, I came across a reel of Abida Parveen singing Ho Jamalo. I was mesmerised.

It wasn't a moment of thinking about which country she came from. It was hearing a song in a language I could sing along to, carried by a voice whose depth and power I could only admire. I might know the words, but matching that sound? Let's not get carried away.

The song took me straight to something familiar. A cultural memory that felt like mine, without needing an explanation or a passport.

A dear friend of mine, Mobeen, is from Pakistan. We once tried collaborating on a project, but couldn't bring it to completion because of the political circumstances. He had even managed to get my mom a signed CD from Abida Parveen. That was a lovely thing to do, and it remains a lovely memory.

I continue to enjoy music from across the border. I have a soft spot for Fawad Khan, too. Though that may be less a cultural position and more a full-blown cult. Hehe.

But these connections have made me think about how we draw lines around culture, identity and belonging. How something can feel familiar and meaningful to us, yet become complicated the moment politics enters the conversation.

Except politics was already there.

It was there in my grandfather's story of rebuilding a life after Partition. It was there in the food traditions passed down through generations. It was there in the languages we speak, the music we listen to, the clothes we wear, and the histories we inherit.

We don't always notice it because these things are part of everyday life. They sit quietly beside us at the dinner table. They become the soundtrack to our childhood. They show up in recipes we learn without knowing their entire history.

But the personal and the political have never lived in separate rooms.

You don't have to shout to care

I know that many people find political conversations exhausting. Some worry about conflict. Some don't want to risk relationships. Some feel they don't know enough to participate, and others simply don't want to engage publicly.

I understand that people have different circumstances, different responsibilities and different ways of expressing what matters to them.

Not everyone needs to attend a protest, debate a stranger online or turn their social media into a running commentary on current affairs. Caring doesn't have to look the same for everyone.

But I do find it difficult to accept the idea that politics has nothing to do with us.

It shapes the world we live in, the opportunities we have, the histories we remember and the freedoms we take for granted. Even when we choose not to discuss it, its effects don't politely excuse themselves from our lives.

I wasn't particularly vocal about these things earlier. Not because I was afraid, but because I didn't feel I had an audience listening. Eventually, I stopped trying.

I've written about that in another post, Borrowed Courage, where I reflected on how films, music and the people around us can remind us why asking difficult questions matters.

Perhaps I'm finding my way back to those conversations now, but in a way that feels more like me.

I'm not interested in hating anyone because of their religion, judging people by their standing, or deciding someone's worth before I've met them. Honesty matters to me. Ethics matter. And so does the dignity of every human life.

I don't have all the answers, and I don't expect everyone to agree with me. What I hope for is a little more curiosity, a little less fear, and the ability to have an honest conversation without immediately deciding that the person across from us is the enemy.

We can disagree and still be decent to one another. We can question things without losing our compassion. We can care about our country without pretending it is beyond criticism.

And we can celebrate the things that connect us without denying the differences that make each of us who we are.

Sindhi. Indian. And very fond of curry chawal.

I'm Arpana. I'm Sindhi, and I'm Indian.

My family's history includes migration, rebuilding, adapting and making a home. My cultural life includes Sindhi curry, aalu tuk, taryal machi, burgers, music in languages I understand, and music in languages I don't. It includes memories of Partition and friendships that cross the very borders that history created.

None of these things feels contradictory to me.

I can love where I come from and still be curious about the world beyond it. I can feel deeply connected to my own culture without believing that another person's culture threatens mine. I can be proud of my country and still ask questions about the society we are creating together.

Perhaps this is what I want to pass on, along with the recipes: a sense of belonging that doesn't require someone else to feel excluded.

If food has taught me anything, it is that a table can make room for more than one flavour. Sometimes the most interesting meals come from unexpected combinations. And the best gatherings are rarely the ones where everyone is exactly alike.

So, by all means, let's keep cooking, singing, sharing stories and asking questions. Let's preserve the recipes, reinvent the burgers, play Ho Jamalo, and make space for conversations that don't always come with easy answers.

And if all of this makes me an aunty national, so be it.

Aunty national. Not anti-national.

Now, who's coming over for aalu tuk?