Suja

“At her final dinner in Imperial Heights, she notices afresh all that a week has made familiar: the silk runner, the brass casseroles, and the many little bowls on her plate that Sita, already turning invisible, keeps refilling. The meal is elaborate. There is saag paneer because it is her favourite Indian dish; corn bake, should the curry get too spicy; what she now knows is dal, not soup; yogurt, rotis, pilaf rice and pickle. Her first night here, she asked what order to eat things in, and everyone laughed like it was the most charming thing to say. Tonight, she folds her roti into a roll, one bite for each spoonful of curry, and as the subject of her new rental in Santacruz leads to a discussion on the city's suburbs, she feels reassured that Nana is right, people are people; no matter where you go and how confusing or daunting or hilarious they seem, there is always room to be kindred.”
― Devika Rege, Quarterlife

“Now he gets the value of the everyday stuff in the Peshwa museums. What is the culture of a place or people other than this - how we lived and how we died? What is an identity butt an accretion of all those sensations, however fleeting or slight, aroused by every encounter with the world that tells you where and among whom you belong… or do not?”
― Devika Rege, Quarterlife

“Dusk. They park at the edge of a wide, sandy bank. Omkar hums Shanth wahate Krishna-mai. He says the lyrics mean that a truly great person is as quiet as the river Krishna. It's the same river at Menavali Ghat, but here she is in full sweep, dark and slow under the clouds. This is where Ek Sangharsh ends, with a teenaged Omkar watching the river surge past the Dhom dam and leave the town.
Standing next to Omkar, he feels a new reverence for this water and soil. Then Omkar takes his hand... and it's just a simpler, sweeter kind of friendship, the kind made in school, intense but free of homophobia, so it's nothing if, an hour later, he is resting like this, his head on Omkar's thigh, the mist coming down the hills on all sides. Beneath them, the Krishna is swelling. He has a quart of rum on his chest since it's 'the thing to do on the dam', not that Omkar drinks. Omkar is telling stories of pranks from his schooldays, and the moment feels pure...”
― Devika Rege, Quarterlife

“My soup arrived. Crusted with cheese, golden at the edges. The waiter placed it carefully in front of me, and I broke through the top layer with my spoon and filled it with warm oniony broth, catching bits of soaking bread. The smell took over the table, a warmingness. And because circumstances rarely match, and one afternoon can be a patchwork of both joy and horror, the taste of the soup washed through me. Warm, kind, focused, whole. It was easily, without question, the best soup I had ever had, made by a chef who found true refuge in cooking.”
― Aimee Bender, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake