🍲 Rainy Day Recipes

When the sky is grey, the kitchen becomes the warmest corner of home.

It started raining before lunch. Not the drizzle type, the proper Mumbai kind where roads turn into rivers in ten minutes. I was working from home that day, laptop open, Slack pings in the background. Jyoti peeked out the window and said, “Pakode banayein?” (“Should we make fritters?”)

That question doesn’t really need an answer. Within minutes, she was in the kitchen, rolling sleeves and heating oil. The smell of besan filled the room, mixing with the earthy scent of rain. I joined her, chopping onions that made my eyes sting more than usual. Maybe nostalgia does that too.

We don’t own fancy cookware; we have the same black kadai we’ve had since our wedding. It crackled as Jyoti dropped in the first batch. The sizzle drowned out the thunder outside. She looked serious, timing each piece like a chef on a mission. I handled the chai — strong, with two spoons of sugar and a pinch of ginger.

“Remember college canteen pakode?” she asked. “Five rupees a plate.” I nodded. Those were days when rain meant freedom, not wet socks and delayed trains.

We ate on the balcony, watching the street below flood with ankle-deep water. The air smelled of frying, damp earth, and wet clothes. A neighbour shouted something about leaking pipes. Somewhere, a child screamed with joy as paper boats floated away.

The pakode were uneven, some crisp, some soft, all perfect in their own way. Jyoti laughed as one broke in half mid-air. “Cooking is like life,” she said. “You can’t control the oil temperature all the time,” I told her, which sounded like something my product manager friends would post on LinkedIn. She threw a napkin at me.

We sat quietly for a while, sipping chai, listening to rain hit the railing. For a city that never pauses, rain feels like an approved break—a signal to stop running for once.

By evening, the power flickered, the rain slowed, and the smell of fried food still lingered. I closed my laptop, cleaned the table, and felt the quiet satisfaction of a day that stayed simple.

It wasn’t a big meal, but it reminded us of what matters — hot chai, shared laughter, and the comfort of someone saying, “Ek aur pakoda loge?” (“Will you have one more fritter?”)