Milwaukee Masala

  How Far Friendship Travels ☕️❤️ Zoom out: Kolkata. Friendships weren’t declared, they just were — forged in mango-sticky afternoons and fights over kul (sour plum), sealed by pinky promises and whispered secrets. My earliest BFFs were family: Dida (grandmother), Mama (maternal uncle), and Chhoto Kaka (father’s youngest brother) — the ones who told stories, were my caregivers and babysitters, and were there when the world felt too big to handle. Summer vacations back in Kolkata stitched those bonds tighter — my first cousin would patiently take out fish bones from my plate, gently mending our out-of-practice bond from Delhi. Friendship, after all, often looked like small acts of care. Cut to: Delhi. Friendships cemented over twelve years of school — secret crushes, Saraswati Puja celebrations where we dressed in saris, making us feel grown-up, heard, and seen, and student council politics fought with more passion than any exam. College days meant sneaking out of lecture...

How a Lychee Tree, a Net, and My Mama’s Love Made Summers Unforgettable When you’re the firstborn of the next generation, you’re often laden with expectations — but on the flip side, you’re also lavished with love and attention. I was blessed with uncles on both sides of the family — my mama (maternal uncle) and kaka (paternal uncle) — who were more like friends than adults, and happily doubled as my babysitters. Even after I moved from Kolkata to Delhi, those bonds didn’t fade. In fact, they grew stronger every summer vacation, each trip back home a reaffirmation of their love. My mama in particular always wanted to share the summer bounty of Bengal with his poor, starved niece living so far away in heathen Delhi — aam (mango), jamrul (rose apple), lichu (lychee), kul (Indian jujube)... It was a constant battle with the bats and birds to keep the fruits on the trees long enough for them to ripen naturally. One summer, when we stepped into the courtyard, we saw mama’s handi...

College bunking — or as we liked to call it, “strategic absences” — might not be a staple of American college vocabulary, but if you haven’t skipped a few classes with friends, you’re missing a rite of passage. (Of course, this rule applies to everyone except my kids…and my friends’ kids. Naturally.) Whether it was a daring escape from canteen mystery meals in search of crispy masala dosas, a cup of kadak adrak chai that made us feel like rebels (pre-Starbucks, thank you very much), or a desperate attempt to catch the latest Bollywood heartthrob on the big screen, we had our priorities straight. First rule of the college hitchhiker’s club? Thumbs out. Hitch a ride. Safety in numbers — a giggling gaggle of friends is far less likely to be abducted, right? And honestly, if anyone stupid enough tried, they’d probably end up paying our families to take us back. Second rule? Plan your routes carefully. There’s no quicker way to end a bunking spree than bumping into your parents — or ...

The Midwest thunderstorm — a fast lane to Bengal. At this point in my life, I’ve lived longer in the U.S. than I ever did in India. Yet, there’s a special tie — maybe an umbilical one — that binds us to the places where we’re born. Don’t you think? No matter how far we travel, something about where we begin quietly tugs at us in unexpected moments. My favorite color has always been that vibrant yellow-green of a freshly unfurled banana leaf — a quiet nod to Kolkata. And the green of Bengal, especially after monsoon rains? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it. You’d think the Midwest, with its tender blades of grass poking through after winter, might come close. It’s magical, yes — but it’s not the same. And dirt. Who knew I’d get nostalgic over dirt? The first thunderstorm of spring in the Midwest hits, the rain soaks in, and that earthy smell rises up — like the ground just exhaled. It takes me right back to my birthplace. Not the city exactly, but the outskirts — ...