“Beta, add more heeng ,” called her grandmother, Amma, from her wooden charpai in the courtyard, despite being unable to see the pot. “The neighbours should sneeze when they walk past. That’s how you know it’s good.”

The summer sun beat down on the dusty lane of Old Delhi, but inside the cozy kitchen of 14/B, Roshni was fighting a different kind of heat. She stirred a large iron kadhai filled with bubbling mango fizzy pickle, the air thick with the sharp tang of raw mango, mustard oil, and fenugreek.

She realized that Indian culture wasn’t just the Taj Mahal or the yoga poses she saw on Instagram. It was the friction. It was the heat. It was the way three generations squeezed into one room and fought over the last piece of ghewar .

Amma’s wrinkled face cracked into a wide, betel-nut-stained smile.