Indian Food Photography

Mangshor Jhol

S and I are sipping tea. It’s a rain-blessed morning, the sun is yet to emerge from beyond the ...

The man has brought home some absolute gorgeous Hilsa, D rattles on the phone, animated and impatient, ...

Pizza was not part of my growing up years. The sleepy hamlet of Karimganj had not yet woken up to the allure ...

It’s a rain-drenched July afternoon. A knock on the door shakes me out of slumber. Such an ideal weather ...

No one in the school, not even Durwanji, with his pretentious twirling moustache, and usually an ...

And the milk splits again. No, I shall not blame the milk. Despite the multiple misses, S and I have not ...

S and I both love our books. Nothing gives us more joy than spending endless hours idling around with ...

An Amphan-battered Bengal inches back to normalcy. Rising from the devastation left behind by the diabolical ...

I hear the monstrous storm pummel the doors. The windows fling open and shut, toyed upon by the diabolical ...

Delhi was explosion on my food senses. The decadent world of Mughlai cuisine left me spellbound and ...

Bapi rarely cooked. And that wasn’t because he didn’t know how to cook. In fact, he adored cooking. The ...

The second week of lockdown. And I wake up craving for sugar. I bring it up to S as we sip our morning ...