25/09/2026
As a child, I saw many versions of bhog being offered during different festive occasions. But some of my earliest and fondest memories of these offerings come from my maternal uncle’s home.
Mama’s home would host katha. A priest or spiritual storyteller would narrate holy stories, sometimes over an entire week. And Mami would quietly take on the enormous task of feeding everyone who gathered.
She would put together elaborate thaals, fit for kings, served in silverware. As far as I remember, there would be farsan, mishtan, shaak, kathod, puri, dal, bhaat, all the familiar comfort of a Gujarati thali, but made abundant and festive.
There had to be something fried, something steamed, something sour, bitter, sweet, salty and spicy. Something soft, something crisp. Every taste and every texture seemed to find its place.
What I remember most, though, is the grace with which she did it.
There was never a sense of labour in the act of feeding. Food simply seemed to be her way of welcoming people, bringing them together and making sure everyone left nourished.
She still does it. Even today, she calls the entire extended family home over meals, feeding everyone with the same generosity.
Perhaps that is where I first learnt that food can be more than nourishment.
It can be prasad.
It can be an offering.
It can be a celebration.
And it can be an expression of love.
On Anant Chaturdashi, I wanted to make a Naivedya thaal as my own offering. Drawing from those childhood memories of festive bhogs and from the love I have always associated with my Mami’s cooking.
So this thaal is not just about recreating a traditional festive meal. It is my attempt to recreate a feeling, the abundance, the devotion, the joy of feeding people, and the belief that when food is made and offered with love, it becomes something much more than food.
A little piece of her kitchen, carried into my own.
