LFC MUMBAI | NOVEMBER 2025
My story begins with a door.
Our families in Vasind, Maharashtra, have lived side by side for over 20 years. When the houses were built, a narrow passage was left between them, with a door that opened both ways. Over time, it became a portal for food. There was a doorbell, and as a child, I had learned to recognise its ring as a signal: something warm was on its way from Vidya Aunty’s kitchen into ours.
My parents Vidya Aunty were classmates at the JJ School of Art in Mumbai. Later, they bought land together, built their houses together. She has always been part of my family, and most of my memories with her are threaded through food. Once, on a hike with my parents, Vidya Aunty set up a chulha in the forest, gathered sticks, and made jhunka bhakri, a Maharashtrian spicy chickpea-flour dish paired with flatbread or ‘bhakri’—the simplest, quickest possible meal. Another time, after a swim in the river that runs near our village, we children came out shivering and hungry to find her waiting on the rocks with snacks in palash leaves. During the Covid-19 lockdown, I got a chance to spend more time at home in Vasind, where each day was a mini feast. Vidya Aunty’s dishes arrived through the back door, beginning an unending cycle of exchange because one doesn’t return a vessel empty; as I tried to improve my cooking skill, I’d send food back.
When I attended my first Local Food Club, I immediately thought of her. She enjoys conversation around food, and she rarely finds it where we live. LFC Mumbai was far—a two-hour journey from her village—and she had been busy with a grandchild on the way. But when I asked if she’d like to attend with me, she excitedly said yes.
At the LFC, I brought sambarvadi, a popular deep-fried snack of gram flour parcels with a coriander filling, intrinsic to the Vidarbha region of Maharashtra. Vidya Aunty brought jhunka-bhakri, thecha (a spicy, coarse condiment of peanuts, chillies, and garlic), and loni (white butter), carried in heavy earthen pots.
"Vidya Aunty’s dishes arrived through the back door, beginning an unending cycle of exchange because one doesn't return a vessel empty; I filled her pots with breads, cakes, puddings, anything I could manage."
In our chat after the meetup, she told me how happy the gathering made her feel. “‘The atmosphere felt as if guests had come to my own home. Everyone was speaking to each other with such ease and warmth,” Vidya Aunty shared. “What struck me most was that though all my friends were of different ages, the interest and passion they shared was the same.”
Through these conversations, I realised I had never really thanked her—for the food, the open door, the years of care. She was like a second mother to me; for a period of time having even oiled and plaited my hair for school. And, most importantly, fed me almost as far back as I can remember.
Sharing our stories together at the LFC became the first time I was able to verbalise what she means to me. And that made attending it even more special for the both of us.