DC Metro Eats & Beyond: Restaurant Reviews & Recipes by Shashi Bellamkonda

Item: Made in Korea (2026)
Rating: 4.8
Author: Shashi Bellamkonda

The Chicken Joins the Tea Leaf Salad

2026-10-03T01:21:10.705-07:00

By Shashi Bellamkonda | October 3, 2026 | Food and Culture

Myanmar eats its tea. Tea is native to the country, and it is consumed as a drink and as a food in its own right, most famously as lahpet, the fermented leaves that anchor lahpet thoke, the tea leaf salad. Garlic and chili sharpen it. Beans and nuts crunch against the soft leaves. Sour, salty, and spicy arrive together.

In July 2026, KFC Myanmar decided the crunch was negotiable.

The campaign is called "No Other Crunch Is Needed." It centers on lahpet htamin, tea leaf rice, which is traditionally finished with fried beans, roasted peanuts, and dried shrimp. KFC kept the rice and the tea leaves and swapped the toppings for its Popcorn Chicken. The pitch rests on an old belief about the dish, that more toppings make it better, and the campaign sets out to challenge exactly that. KFC's internal creative team made the work with Play Production in Yangon, and it rolled out as a teaser, a reveal commercial, and product breakdowns.

KFC has been in Yangon since 2015

Myanmar's first KFC opened on July 7, 2015, at Bogyoke Aung San Market in the Yangon commercial hub. Yoma Strategic Holdings, a real estate and development conglomerate, held the franchise license from Yum Brands of the United States. It was the first of the "Big Three" American chains, ahead of McDonald's and Burger King, to open in the country.

Yoma's executive chairman, Serge Pun, made the case for the bet when the venture was announced. "Chicken is a staple protein in Myanmar," he said.

Eleven years later, the brand is no longer asking to be accepted as a foreign import. It is borrowing the grammar of a local dish. Lahpet htamin has a slot built into it, the crunchy topping that gives each spoonful its texture. KFC found the slot and put chicken in it.

KFC found the slot and put chicken in it.

Fast food chains have localized menus for decades, and India's KFC outlets know the routine well, with rice bowls and paneer on the board. The Myanmar move goes a step further. It names the dish, credits its structure, and offers one swap.

Burmese food already lives in India

South Asian readers have eaten their way around this dish family without always knowing it. Khow suey, the coconut noodle bowl served at Indian weddings and potlucks, descends from Burmese ohn no khao swe. It traveled with Indians who left Burma, many of them in the 1942 evacuation ahead of the Japanese advance and more of them in the 1960s after the military takeover and the nationalizations that followed.

In Chennai, the Burma Bazaar area still sells atho, a tossed noodle salad that arrived with those families. Kolkata kept its own Burmese kitchens. These dishes carry the same logic as lahpet thoke: soft, sour, hot, and crunchy in one bowl.

That is why the KFC campaign reads differently from here. Anyone raised on a plate where texture is assembled from separate parts, the sprinkle of sev on chaat, the crushed papad over rice, understands the joke and the risk. Swap the crunch and you have changed the dish, whatever the commercial says.

You can order tea leaf rice in the United States

Just not often. Most American Burmese menus stop at the salad. Pa Lian Burmese Restaurant in Wheaton, Illinois, goes further and lists Tea Leaf with Rice, fermented tea leaves over white rice, finished with fried fava beans, yellow beans, peanuts, sesame, and sunflower seeds.

Near Washington, Mandalay Restaurant and Cafe in Silver Spring, Maryland, serves its Green Tea Leaf Salad with fried garlic and crispy yellow peas, and sells white rice on the side. Order both, spoon the salad over the rice, and you are close to lahpet htamin without a plane ticket.

Whether it works is a matter of taste and a matter for Yangon, where the people who grew up on lahpet htamin get to vote at the counter.

If it ever reaches the atho stalls of Chennai and Kolkata in conversation, they will have opinions. I would like to be at that table.

Works Cited

"Fast Food Frenzy as First KFC Outlet Opens." Frontier Myanmar, www.frontiermyanmar.net/en/fast-food-frenzy-as-first-kfc-outlet-opens/. Accessed 3 Oct. 2026.

"KFC Myanmar Launches Film Challenging Lahpet Htamin Tradition with Popcorn Chicken." Campaign Brief Asia, campaignbriefasia.com/?p=193160. Accessed 3 Oct. 2026.

"KFC Shows How to Change Myanmar's Eating Habits." Nikkei Asian Review, reposted by Open Development Mekong, opendevelopmentmekong.net/news/kfc-shows-how-to-change-myanmars-eating-habits/. Accessed 3 Oct. 2026.

"Fermented Tea Leaves, Chickpeas and Mohinga: A Night of Myanmar Food and Beer at S Double One Restaurant, Desa Sri Hartamas." Malay Mail, 29 Aug. 2025, www.malaymail.com/news/eat-drink/2025/08/29/fermented-tea-leaves-chickpeas-and-mohinga-a-night-of-myanmar-food-and-beer-at-s-double-one-restaurant-desa-sri-hartamas/189260. Accessed 3 Oct. 2026.

"Mandalay Restaurant & Cafe Menu." Toast, toast.app/r/mandalay-restaurant-cafe/order. Accessed 3 Oct. 2026.

"No Other Crunch Is Needed." Ads of the World, KFC Myanmar, July 2026, www.adsoftheworld.com/campaigns/no-other-crunch-is-needed. Accessed 3 Oct. 2026.

"Pa Lian Burmese Restaurant Menu." AllMenus, www.allmenus.com/il/wheaton/575329-pa-lian-burmese-restaurant/menu/. Accessed 3 Oct. 2026.

"Yum! to Enter Myanmar." Inside Retail Asia, insideretail.asia/?p=9152. Accessed 3 Oct. 2026.

Fusion Cooking Had Royal Patrons Before It Had a Name

2026-09-27T01:57:15.227-07:00

Cooking Delights of the Maharajas sat on a shelf in our house long before I understood what it was asking me to notice. Digvijaya Singh, the Maharaja of Sailana, had spent years collecting recipes out of the kitchens of Hyderabad, Kashmir and Bhopal, and the book he built from them read less like a cookbook and more like a map of alliances. Every dish carried a lineage. Every lineage carried a marriage, a war, or a houseguest behind it.

I misremembered its foreword for years. I was certain Madhur Jaffrey had written it. It was Gayatri Devi, the Maharani of Jaipur, who called Singh "not only a gourmet but a superb cook" (Singh). The mix-up says something about how those two names had fused together in my head long before I knew what culinary fusion meant as a term.

Gayatri Devi was the reason I wrote a letter to a palace as a teenager, and the reason I still remember getting one back.

Her memoir, A Princess Remembers, mentions creme brulee somewhere in its parade of state dinners and shikar camps from her early married life in Jaipur. I was young enough that a French dessert turning up inside a Rajasthani court felt like a puzzle rather than a fact of history, so I wrote to her about it. I do not remember what I said, or how a stranger's letter found its way past a palace's mail room. I remember that she answered.

Fusion Before the Word Existed

Cooking Delights of the Maharajas was not the only book doing this work on my shelf. Jiggs Kalra's Prashad: Cooking with Indian Masters treated Indian chefs as named artists with their own kitchens and signatures, not an anonymous tradition passed down through vague ancestry (Kalra). K. T. Achaya's Indian Food: A Historical Companion went further back still, tracing jalebi to the Arabic zalabiya and khichri to Persian and Mughal courts, undoing the idea that either dish was ever purely indigenous (Achaya). David Burton's The Raj at Table ran the current in the other direction, showing how homesick British households built a new cuisine out of substitutions and misunderstandings, and how mulligatawny and kedgeree came out the other end as dishes nobody could fully claim (Burton).

Every one of these books was making the same argument in a different accent. Fusion did not arrive with a hyphenated menu term. It arrived with people.

The Nawabs Were Doing This Before It Was a Trend

Vikram Doctor's recent piece in The Economic Times makes the same case from outside my bookshelf, with none of the nostalgia attached (Doctor). He opens by asking whether fusion cooking is a culinary influencer's shortcut to attention, then spends the rest of the piece proving princely kitchens were running that experiment generations earlier.

Prakash Tandon, the first Indian manager hired by Lever Brothers, recalled a feast in Hyderabad that opened with a watery, disappointing soup, proof that royal kitchens absorbed European courses unevenly long before anyone called the result sophisticated (Doctor). Some states absorbed the assignment better than others. Rampur's khansamas built a repertoire of pulaos, biryanis, rogan josh and qormas that Tarana Hussain Khan documents in her book Degh to Dastarkhwan, shaped as much by ceremony as by appetite. Jaipur's royal kitchen produced a garlic clove curry served with jasmine flowers and a potato kheer, recipes Kumud Kanwar collected in Royal Cuisine of India. In Kathiawar, the kitchens of Gondal turned out a lamb curry built on lentils and onions, and a version of kheer made with mutton in place of rice pudding's usual sweetness (Doctor).

None of this traveled by accident.

Marriage did the moving. When a princess left one state for another, her cooks came with her, and so did her family's recipes, sweets and finishing touches. Gayatri Devi, born in Cooch Behar and married into Jaipur, carried this same cross-state fluency into her own cookbook, Gourmet's Gateway (Doctor). She was a case study in the very pattern Doctor was describing, decades before he wrote about it, and about fifteen years before she wrote back to a teenager asking about dessert.

What stays with me is not the recipes, most of which I have still never cooked. It is that a Maharani took the time to answer a stranger's letter about creme brulee. Fusion cooking, princely or otherwise, ran on people crossing borders before their ingredients did, and on someone generous enough to write back when a curious kid followed the trail.

Works Cited

Achaya, K. T. Indian Food: A Historical Companion. Oxford University Press, 1994.

Burton, David. The Raj at Table: A Culinary History of the British in India. Faber and Faber, 1993.

Devi, Gayatri, and Santha Rama Rau. A Princess Remembers: The Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur. J. B. Lippincott, 1976.

Doctor, Vikram. "How India's Princely States Promoted Fusion Cooking." The Economic Times, 27 Sept. 2026, economictimes.indiatimes.com/magazines/panache/how-indias-princely-states-promoted-fusion-cooking/articleshow/134364143.cms.

Kalra, J. Inder Singh. Prashad: Cooking with Indian Masters. Allied Publishers, 1986.

Singh, Digvijaya. Cooking Delights of the Maharajas: Exotic Dishes from the Princely House of Sailana. Vakils, Feffer and Simons, 1982.

The Airline Seat Lottery and the High Price of Dignity

2026-09-15T23:47:35.306-07:00

Travel & Musings

Nothing burns through my finite daily reserve of brain cells quite like staring at an airline seat map, debating whether a piece of aisle-adjacent carpet is worth an extra forty bucks.

Travel wasn’t always an exercise in digital extortion. In the late 90s, you simply dialed an airline, and a cheerful human being picked up, assigned your row, and warmly wished you a pleasant journey. You hung up feeling cared for, or at least acknowledged.

Then came the cold, quiet glow of the internet. The humans vanished, replaced by pixelated cabin grids. It was impersonal, sure, but at least seat selection was free. You clicked, you confirmed, and you carried on.

Enter the boardroom bean counters. Somewhere along the line, an executive realized they could monetize basic human dignity. Suddenly, choosing where you parked your spine became an ancillary revenue stream. Right alongside checked-bag fees that forced an entire generation of passengers to turn overhead bin packing into an Olympic combat sport, seat-pricing arrived to test our psychological limits.

Now, every booking forces an agonizing existential choice: do you fork over cash upfront for peace of mind, or do you play the dreaded twenty-four-hour check-in lottery and pray you aren't squeezed into a middle seat between two competitive sleepers?

Youth affords you the luxury of being a romantic window-seat dreamer, gazing at clouds with nowhere to be. Then you have kids, and reality hits: the aisle isn’t a preference anymore, it’s an escape hatch. It’s rapid access to the lavatory, the only way to bounce a fussy toddler without performing gymnastics over a stranger’s knees, and the thin barrier between you and total cabin chaos.

Having airline status only trades financial extortion for an obsessive compulsive disorder. Complimentary access does not solve the dilemma; it gamifies it. You snag an acceptable aisle seat, but then you find yourself opening the app every twenty minutes, refreshing the cabin map like a day trader watching a ticker, waiting for row 12C to miraculously open up. It is maddening, addictive, and entirely self-inflicted.

Airlines spent decades teaching us to earn free flights with miles, but they made their real fortune turning basic legroom into an online casino.

Published by Shashi Bellamkonda · Carry On Curry

We Were Not Allowed to Stand in Lahore

2026-09-15T22:17:06.826-07:00

By Shashi Bellamkonda | September 16, 2026

The three FlightAware maps make the same point in different zooms. Frankfurt to Hyderabad no longer draws a clean line. One track bends around Turkey and drops toward Delhi. Another leaves the Gulf and crosses the Arabian Sea into Bombay, then Hyderabad, with Pakistan not on the path at all. A third comes down through Cairo and across Saudi air before turning east.

Ten years ago most of those airplanes would have taken the short route. Pakistan, Iran, and the high corridors beyond them were ordinary air. You filed the great circle and you flew it.

That is the story. A border incident, a war, a ban that starts with one country’s aircraft and then spreads as other airlines decide the paper is not worth the risk. The passenger sees a longer flight and a different line on the seatback map. The far reach is the hours, the fuel, the missing city pairs, and the way a corridor that felt settled can close for years.

Frankfurt to Hyderabad on FlightAware. The short line is gone.

A corridor that used to be ordinary

In the late 1980s I took Aeroflot from Delhi toward Moscow. We stopped in Lahore. The flight was coming from India, and several men with guns, not in uniform, boarded the aircraft. We were not allowed to stand. Then Tashkent for fuel. There was no toilet paper. I told other people after that to pack a roll. Then Moscow.

The crew collected the passports so no one could flush a document and claim to be stateless. The call button was for an emergency, not for juice.

That routing was a product of its time. So was a later stretch when the same sky felt uneventful again. Indian Airlines used to fly to Lahore. That service is gone. The stop is gone. What remains is the memory that the short way through that sector was once a scheduled fact, not a political argument.

What closed under the wing

The maps from this trip sit on top of three separate decisions.

Russian airspace has been closed to most Western carriers since 2022, which removed the long northern shortcut Europe-to-Asia flights used to take without thinking about it. Pakistan has kept its airspace closed to Indian-registered aircraft since the spring of 2025, and many European airlines began skirting it even when the paper still allowed them through. For an Indian carrier the detour is not a preference. It is the only legal line. Iran has spent 2026 under conflict-zone warnings, with European regulators telling their airlines to stay out of the Tehran FIR, and often Iraq with it. Even when a sector is technically open, most planners treat it as a place you do not put a full cabin.

You can still fly Hyderabad to Frankfurt. Lufthansa does it nonstop. The time on the ticket is already the long way. The old great-circle drawing is not available to most of the airplanes that used to use it.

What is left

Gulf to Hyderabad over water. Bombay first. Pakistan not on the path.

Two families of tracks show up on the map.

The southern one leaves Europe across the Mediterranean or through Egypt, crosses Saudi air, then Oman or the UAE, and spends a long stretch over water to the west coast of India. Bombay comes first, Hyderabad after that. You see the Gulf cities as a cluster of dots and then nothing but sea.

Europe through Cairo, then east. The southern workaround.

The other threads north of the worst of it: Turkey or the Caucasus, then Turkmenistan or Uzbekistan, a thin crossing of Afghanistan, and into India while staying off Pakistani airspace. That corridor is narrow, and it depends on air traffic services that are not always there.

The Pacific is a real option if you are leaving the American West Coast. It is not a real option if you are leaving Frankfurt. You would be flying the long way around the planet to avoid a few closed FIR boundaries.

I broke a ten-year habit on this trip and came through Frankfurt instead of a Gulf hub. The meal story from that night sector is already written. The map is the other half of the same flight. The cart and the track both tell you the same thing. The default path is no longer the default.

What I watch for

I still like the map on the seatback and the nose camera when the captain leaves it on. I like knowing the name of the city we are crossing even when the cabin is dark. On a transatlantic sector I still feel the change when the water ends and land starts. That small relief has not gone anywhere.

What has changed is the list of places the line is allowed to touch. Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and the Pakistan sector used to sit on that list without much comment. A fight on the ground, or a ban written for one flag carrier, ends up redrawing the sky for everyone else. The airplane still gets there. It just draws a different sentence across the same earth.

I used to fly over Lahore and stay in my seat because armed men had boarded a flight that had come from India. Now the rule is larger. The seat is the same. The map is not.

Every Thirty Years the New Airport Gets Old

2026-09-15T06:11:18.609-07:00

By Shashi Bellamkonda | September 15, 2026

Thirty years ago my first route to the United States was Hyderabad, Bombay, Paris, Washington Dulles. A lot of us still call it Dallas. I did.

Indian airports then were crowded, not very clean, and not spacious at all. Paris was fascinating. Dulles felt modern.

I barely remember Paris as a city. I remember a woman yelling at me because I walked into a shop to browse. I still do not know what that was about. It sits there anyway.

That trip set a score in my head. Western airports were ahead. Ours were behind. The score does not hold still.

Airports built a long time ago keep changing. In the United States the change is often terminal by terminal. One concourse is new. The next one still has the carpet from the last renovation. The constant work is a good thing. An airport that stops moving starts losing.

Right now Abu Dhabi, Doha, and Hyderabad feel new. Wide. Bright. Built for the volume they actually get.

Skytrax’s 2026 passenger vote puts a number on the shift. Of the world’s top ten airports, four sit in the Western world: Paris, Rome, Munich, Vancouver. The first five are all in Asia. Singapore, Seoul, two Tokyos, Hong Kong. No US airport is in that ten. Houston is the first American name, at 29.

Frankfurt, on this trip, was all right. We parked far from the building. Construction, I think, and temporary. The terminals themselves are modern. They are also crowded, which is what happens when the traffic is larger than the last redesign.

The line I will remember is immigration. New EU rules for non-EU passports. The Entry/Exit System. Fingerprints and a face instead of a stamp. The queue looked, to me, miles long. That is the cost of a new system landing on an old hub.

I am looking forward to the work at Dulles. A new concourse is coming. I hope they need the people movers less. Those mobile lounges were clever in 1962. On a short connection into Concourse D almost nobody wants to wait for one. The train still does not go there. I found the workaround: AeroTrain to C, then walk to D. It still takes a long time.

That is the cycle. Thirty years ago Paris and Dulles felt new and Hyderabad did not. Now Hyderabad, Doha, and Abu Dhabi feel finished, and Dulles is the one under scaffolding, adding a concourse, and asking you to ride a train to a walk because the lounge on wheels has not retired yet.

The new airport gets old. The old airport gets a terminal. Then you fly it again and the score has moved.

Lufthansa, Dal, and Protein at 30,000 Feet

2026-09-14T06:55:21.756-07:00

By Shashi Bellamkonda | September 14, 2026

The cart stopped at my row in the dark between Frankfurt and Hyderabad. The lid went up. No chicken.

I had ordered Hindu non-veg. The code is HNML. Lufthansa’s regular economy meal on that sector was already a chicken curry in something they called Malwani sauce. Coconut, chili, a coastal Maharashtrian name on a German airplane pointed at Telangana. By my seat the name was all that was left.

I asked the obvious question. I had requested the Hindu non-veg. Had they held one?

They had not. They had not loaded a separate tray. The general service already matched the spec, they said. When the chicken finished, the special meal finished with it.

They set down the vegetarian plate. Rice. A roll. Something yellow that had started as dal. It tasted fine. Later I checked my sugar. It had gone up.

I filled in the survey. A crew member came back after looking up the booking.

Hindu non-veg meal means no chicken, they said. So the vegetarian tray was correct.

I did not argue. It was not a crisis. It was the funniest sentence I have heard on an airplane in a long time.

That sentence is the story. The rest is why I asked for chicken in the first place, and why dal did not do the same job at 30,000 feet.

Why I tap HNML

For ten years my default to South Asia ran through the Middle East. This trip I broke it. United out of Washington to Frankfurt, Lufthansa onward to Hyderabad.

I order HNML for two plain reasons. It usually arrives with protein, which keeps my blood sugar steadier in the air. And it keeps beef and pork off the tray.

On the United leg I did not get HNML. I got AVML, Asian vegetarian, letters printed on the foil, cooked by an Indian kitchen in New Jersey. It tasted like someone in that kitchen had made this food before. I ate it. A good vegetarian tray is still a good tray. In my body it is also a different meal.

Lufthansa was the test. Their cart was already serving the dish HNML is supposed to be. Then the dish ran out, and the code was asked to mean the opposite of what it means.

The argument over the tray

Every time I choose HNML over AVML, I can hear the objection.

You are Indian. The vegetarian tray is dal, sabzi, rice, maybe paneer. Lentils are protein. Paneer is protein. Sit down.

Look at the tray in your lap. Economy vegetarian is built around starch. Rice. Bread. A sweet. The dal is a few spoonfuls. The paneer, when it appears, is two cubes that have been hot since the kitchen. That is not the same job as a chicken curry whose point is the meat.

Dal is protein. Airline dal is not enough protein to do what I am asking the tray to do. I have the reading.

Hindu, on an airline form, is a ban list. No beef. No veal. No pork. No raw fish. No smoked fish. It is not a vow of vegetarianism. Some Hindus eat chicken, lamb, and fish. Some do not. The codes exist because those are different passengers.

No chicken is AVML. HNML without chicken is AVML wearing the wrong four letters.

What the letters say

Special meals run on IATA codes. Four characters. ML means meal. The first two letters do the work.

HNML is Hindu non-vegetarian. Allowed: lamb, chicken (the manuals say domestic fowl), fish, dairy, curry. Banned: beef, veal, pork, raw fish, smoked fish. The protein is supposed to sit in the first list.

AVML is Asian vegetarian. No meat, no poultry, no fish, no eggs. Dairy is fine. Indian spice. This is the tray most Indian vegetarians actually want.

The mix-up is the word Hindu. People hear vegetarian. Crews hear vegetarian. Booking screens print “Hindu meal” and drop the N. Vegetarians get chicken. People who wanted chicken get dal, then get told dal was the point.

Lufthansa prints the muddle on its own site. The Hindu meal is labeled non-vegetarian, then described as food that may contain fish, shellfish, poultry, meat, or eggs, “but in most cases vegetarian.” If you want a fully vegetarian Hindu meal, the same page says, choose Asian Vegetarian.

The crew member who told me HNML means no chicken was not inventing a private rule. They were reading a house line that had already gone soft. IATA allows chicken. Lufthansa says the meal is non-veg and, usually, veg. Between those two sentences my reserved protein became optional, then vanished into the main cart.

Code	Meaning	On the tray	Off the tray
HNML	Hindu non-veg	Chicken, lamb, or fish	Beef, pork
AVML	Asian vegetarian	Dal, sabzi, paneer, rice	Meat, fish, eggs
VGML	Vegan	Plants	Dairy, eggs, animal products
VJML	Jain	No roots, onion, or garlic	Most of an Indian kitchen
MOML	Muslim / halal	Halal meat	Pork, alcohol
DBML	Diabetic	Tighter carbs	The dessert

DBML is the code that admits the sugar problem in public. I do not order it. I order HNML and hope the chicken boards with me. That is a personal workaround, not medical advice. It is also why a “correct” vegetarian swap can still be the wrong meal.

How a tray disappears

A special meal is a chain. Booking system. Departure control. Caterer’s list. Labeled foil in a marked galley slot. A line on the crew sheet before the cart moves.

If any handoff treats HNML as the Indian chicken already on the cart, no labeled tray gets built. The regular curry stands in. That works until the curry is gone and the passenger who filed the code is holding rice.

The more common miss is running out of vegetarian first. That one is worse. A vegetarian cannot take the chicken. A non-veg passenger can take the dal and complain later. Running out of chicken in the main service is, for most of the cabin, almost a success. The person who loses is the one who needed the protein.

I ate the vegetarian food. I sent the survey. I listened to a kind crew member defend a definition that falls apart if you read the code.

Airlines run out of food. That part is ordinary. The loop is the joke. We did not load your special meal because the regular meal already counted as your special meal. Then we told you the special meal cannot contain the thing that was doing the work.

After the meter

I will still request HNML when I want protein without beef or pork. I will screenshot the confirmation. I will ask early whether a labeled tray is actually in the galley. A code in the reservation is a wish. Foil with HNML printed on it is a meal.

On a sector where the main service is already Indian-style chicken, I will assume both meals have been poured into one pot. That was Lufthansa this time. United kept the letters honest. AVML said AVML. Nobody had to explain in the aisle whether chicken belongs in a non-veg meal.

Hyderabad was Hyderabad. I ate later. The sugar settled.

HNML is not vegetarian. AVML is. Hindu is not a flavor and it is not protein. It is a constraint: no beef, no pork. Chicken, lamb, or fish is the point of the non-veg version. Dal is food. Dal is not the same job.

A crew member on a night flight to Hyderabad told me the opposite. I wrote it down before the meter became the only record.

To Pickle or Not to Pickle: A Question the Whole World Already Answered

2026-08-23T15:47:52.760-07:00

Walk into a restaurant in Pune and you might find a sign on the wall that reads, in effect, that only Hyderabadi biryani counts as biryani. Everything else, the sign says, is pulao. This is not a joke. It is the opening move in a fight that has been running for generations, and pickle sits right at the center of it. Hyderabadi biryani comes with achaar, mirchi ka salan, and raita on the side. Malabar biryani skips the achaar for date pickle and coconut chutney. Lucknowi loyalists will tell you the whole conversation is beneath them. Everyone is arguing about rice, but they are really arguing about whose pickle belongs on the table.

Here is the thing nobody mentions in that fight. Achaar, in the form most of us grew up eating, is younger than it looks. And it is not alone. Nearly every culture on earth has its own version of the pickle argument, its own tangy nonnegotiable, its own grandmother's jar in the fridge. Trace them all back far enough and you find the same twist waiting in almost every one.

The mandate

In most Indian households, a meal without pickle is not really a meal. A small spoonful gets folded into rice, smeared onto the side of a plate, tucked next to a paratha. The word achaar itself carries a Persian lineage, describing meats, fruits, or roots preserved in salt, vinegar, honey, or syrup. Across regional languages the same idea multiplies: loncha in Marathi, urukai in Tamil, athanu in Gujarati, uppillittuthu in Malayalam, pachadi in Telugu. One country, a dozen names, one shared instinct.

I still think about hot rice with mango pickle and a spoon of ghee melting into it, the way the oil from the achaar bleeds into the grains. Chapatis and pickle do the same job in a different register, a little tear of bread doing all the work a fork would do elsewhere. And this is not nostalgia for a vanished practice. Even today, most traditional Indian homes make their pickles at home, season by season, mango in summer, whatever the harvest offers the rest of the year, jars lined up on a windowsill to cure in the sun.

And the regional variety is where the real personality shows up. Andhra's avakaya is a fiery raw mango pickle built on mustard powder and sesame oil. Kashmir pickles radish and turnip with fennel and dry ginger. Kerala's puli inji softens ginger with tamarind and jaggery. Gujarat's chhundo turns raw mango sweet. Panipat, in Haryana, has built an export business out of pachranga and satranga, five and seven vegetable pickles ripened in mustard oil and shipped as far as the UK and the US. None of these tastes like the others. All of them are still achaar.

The twist

Here is the part that complicates the "ancient tradition" framing everyone reaches for. The pickling technique in India goes back thousands of years, no argument there. But the chili pepper, the ingredient that gives most achaar its heat, is not native to India at all. It is native to the Americas. Before Portuguese traders brought chilies across the Indian Ocean following the Columbian Exchange, Indian pickles relied on black pepper and long pepper for their kick. The achaar sitting in your fridge right now, the one that feels like it has existed forever, is in its current form a few hundred years old.

The pickle isn't ancient. It's well-traveled. And it picked up most of its personality on the road.

This is not a one-country story. It is the same twist, over and over, in kitchens that have never spoken to each other.

The world's pickle jar

The Mediterranean and Middle East. Torshi is the word doing the same work as achaar across Turkey, Greece, the Balkans, and the wider Middle East, a mix of chilies, garlic, eggplant, and beets preserved in salt and vinegar. The name comes from the Persian torsh, meaning sour, the exact linguistic cousin of achaar's own Persian roots. Persian torshi claims a run of more than two thousand years, and in many Iranian households, dinner without a bowl of it on the table does not count as dinner. Italy's giardiniera, a jar of carrot, cauliflower, and pepper, comes from giardino, garden, and was originally a way to carry the harvest through winter.

North Africa. Harissa looks nothing like achaar and shares almost everything with it underneath. Tunisia's national condiment did not exist before the sixteenth century, when Spanish trade routes brought chilies across the Atlantic and into North African souks. Tunisian cooks blended them with garlic, olive oil, and local spice, and built a paste so central to identity that UNESCO recognized it as intangible cultural heritage in 2022. Same chili, same trade winds, different coastline.

Latin America. Escabeche carries a name from Andalusi Arabic, meaning the pickle most people associate with Mexico is, at the root, an Arab technique that traveled through Spain before it ever touched a jalapeño. El Salvador's curtido, the fermented cabbage that rides shotgun on every pupusa, predates European contact as a technique even though the word attached to it is Spanish. The through line holds even in the hemisphere that gave the rest of the world its chilies in the first place.

China. This is the oldest documented pickling culture on the list, no contest. Records reaching back to the Shang dynasty describe preserved vegetables, and the Shijing, a text from roughly the eleventh century BCE, uses a character understood to mean pickle. Sichuan's water sealed pickle jars, the ones that produce paocai, date to the Han dynasty and spread widely under the Tang. In some Sichuanese families, a jar of paocai brine still gets passed down as part of a bride's dowry, because a household without an active pickle jar was, not so long ago, a household at real risk once winter came.

Korea and Japan. Kimchi is the clearest case of all. For most of its history it was pale and mild, built on salt and fermentation with no chili in sight. Chilies did not reach the Korean peninsula until Portuguese traders carried them through Japan in the early seventeenth century. The red, fiery kimchi that reads as timeless Korean identity today is younger than the printing press had already been in use for. Japan's tsukemono took a different road entirely, tracing back to the Nara era, when pickled vegetables were prepared as offerings for temple priests, a monastic origin with none of the agrarian scarcity story behind achaar or paocai.

The Philippines. Save the clearest link for last. Atchara, the sweet pickled green papaya served alongside grilled and fried food across the Philippines, takes its name directly from achar, carried east through Malay acar in Indonesia, Malaysia, and Brunei. Indian traders had reached the archipelago as early as the Iron Age, and Hindu rajahs ruled parts of it for roughly two thousand years before Spanish colonization ever began. And papaya, the fruit that makes atchara what it is, is not Indian either. It is Latin American, brought to the Philippines by the Spanish. Atchara is an Indian technique, carried by Southeast Asian trade, applied to a Mexican fruit, on Filipino soil. If any single dish proves the point of this whole piece, it is that one.

So, to pickle or not to pickle

Every culture already answered this question, independently, without checking in with each other first. Scarcity showed up everywhere. Salt and vinegar and time turned out to be the same solution everywhere. And then trade did what trade always does, dragging chilies and papayas and new spice routes across oceans until every one of those separate answers started tasting a little more alike. The biryani fight, the achaar-with-every-meal rule, the argument over whose jar is the real one: none of it is really about which pickle wins. It is about how much history is sitting quietly in something most people reach for without a second thought. Next time somebody insists their biryani needs achaar and somebody else swears it doesn't, you can tell them they are both right, and also several centuries and three continents late to the argument.

Works Cited

"Achaar Gali: A Pickle's Story." Google Arts & Culture, SOCH Outreach Foundation, artsandculture.google.com.

"Atchara." Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atchara.

"Escabeche." Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Escabeche.

"Curtido." Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curtido.

"Harissa." Encyclopaedia Britannica, britannica.com/topic/harissa.

"Hyderabadi Cuisine." Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyderabadi_cuisine.

Liao, Mei. "Paocai Is Life." Ugly Pantry, Substack, uglypantry.substack.com.

"A Jarful of Flavor: Pickles From Around the World." Slow Food, slowfood.com/blog-and-news.

"South Asian Pickle." Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_Asian_pickle.

"Suan Cai." Wikiwand, wikiwand.com/en/articles/Suan_cai.

"Tsukemono." Food in Japan, foodinjapan.org.

"Kimchi: History and Culture of the Korean Side Dish." Rimping, rimping.com/blog.

"A Salad, a Condiment, a Sandwich Filling." Taste Cooking, tastecooking.com.

The Places You're Supposed to See Twice. Most People Only Go Once, Too Late.

2026-08-15T14:33:48.272-07:00

There are places you should visit before you have to.

In Hindu custom, Kashi, Gaya, the Triveni Sangam in Prayagraj, and Rishikesh are where families bring the ashes of the people they loved. The geography is fixed. The rituals are clear. These are not optional destinations. They are the final coordinates on a map most of us hope never to open. Yet every one of them deserves a visit long before that day arrives. Pilgrimage, curiosity, plain tourism, any reason works. Just go while the reason is still life.

Catholics in Spain walk El Camino de Santiago for reasons that have nothing to do with death. Faith, boredom, a milestone birthday, a friend's recommendation, sore feet chosen on purpose. It is treated as something you do while you are living, a rite of passage you schedule yourself, often more than once. Hindu pilgrimage tends to run in the opposite direction. Kashi, Gaya, the Sangam, and Rishikesh sit quietly in the background of most lives until a death forces the visit, and by then the itinerary has already been written for you.

I did not.

I arrived in Varanasi only after my father died, carrying his ashes to the Ganga as custom requires. The city I met was not the one I had carried in my head.

It started at the airport, before I had even collected my bags. An announcement came over the PA system in Sanskrit. I had not heard the language spoken aloud like that since school in India, where it was compulsory and mostly forgotten the moment the exam ended. Hearing it now, in an airport of all places, felt like the trip introducing itself before the visit had properly begun.

Watch a few episodes of Mirzapur and the imagination starts doing its own work. You picture Guddu Bhaiya stepping in front of your hired cab the moment you land, the air already thick with threat and swagger. Nothing like that happens. Varanasi is crowded and insistent, yes. It is also simply one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities on earth, still performing the same quiet daily acts it has performed for centuries: feeding the living, washing the living, and releasing the dead into the same river without drama or apology.

The riverbanks have been remade for this era. Wide steps, better lighting, a certain imposed order laid over the older chaos. Stand on the renovated ghats at dusk and the city can feel almost curated, ready for photographs. Step one narrow lane back and the centuries reassert themselves at once. Lanes twist and tighten. Shops and homes lean into each other the way old relatives do when space has run out but conversation has not. The air changes. Incense, diesel, frying oil, wet stone, and the particular woodsmoke that never fully leaves the burning ghats. We stayed at the Radisson, world-class and climate-controlled, distant from all of it. The city allows that separation. It does not require you to live inside its older, messier self.

The burning ghats refuse separation. They sit right on the riverbank in full view. No soft angle, no screening wall, no polite detour. Bodies arrive. Rituals proceed. Fire does its work. The living keep walking past. It is the most honest public statement I have ever seen about where a life ends. You cannot aestheticize it. You can only stand there and register that this, too, belongs to the same continuous day that includes the chai stall, the schoolchildren crossing the steps, and the evening Aarti.

The Ganga Aarti is the other side of that coin. I watched it on a crowded evening, lamps moving in coordinated arcs, chants rising and falling, the river reflecting everything back in broken light. What stayed with me was not spectacle. It was continuity. People were not performing for an audience. They were simply doing what is done every evening, the way one lights a lamp at home or makes the first cup of tea. The devotion was collective and ordinary at the same time. That combination is rarer than it should be.

I wish I had come earlier. I wish I had walked those lanes when the only reason was curiosity, when I could have bought street food without the weight of ritual, when I could have watched the Aarti simply as a visitor instead of as a son carrying ashes. The city would have been the same. The difference would have been mine.

Grief is a blunt instrument. It gets you to the places that matter, but it also narrows what you are able to see once you arrive. The better sequence is the reverse. Arrive first while your eyes are still open and unburdened. Let the place teach you its ordinary textures: the sound of the river at different hours, the way the light hits the steps in late afternoon, the taste of the air after the Aarti ends and the crowd thins. Then, if the day comes when custom calls you back with a heavier purpose, you return to somewhere you already know. The river is still the river. The steps are still the steps. But you are not meeting them for the first time under the hardest possible light.

Kashi, Gaya, the Sangam in Prayagraj, Rishikesh. Go before you have to. The places will still be waiting when the harder reason arrives. They always have been.

Las Vegas Went Luxury. The South Asian Wedding Industry Got There First.

2026-06-21T18:32:27.513-07:00

Hotel rates in Las Vegas have risen faster than in any other major U.S. market, and the city that once ran on $9.99 buffets now rents one-bedroom sky villas at Caesars Palace for $1,500 a night. The Wall Street Journal documented the shift this month: postpandemic Vegas builds its calendar around big-ticket draws like Formula One, the NFL, and arena concerts, and visitors pay full price for everything else once they land. A $26 bottle of water made headlines last year. Back in 2019, fewer than a third of visitors came from six-figure households. That share has only grown since.

None of this surprises anyone who has planned a Punjabi sangeet or a Telugu reception on the Strip. The South Asian wedding industry found Las Vegas's luxury infrastructure more than a decade before the Journal did, and built an entire parallel economy on top of it.

Bellagio now markets its Ballroom for mehendi nights and its Poolside Courtyard for haldi, with pheras staged against the same Fountains tourists line up to photograph every fifteen minutes. When Harleen and Pavan married there, Silknitter Events ran the logistics across multiple venues inside a single property, the kind of coordination usually reserved for corporate conventions. When Amy and Upal married at Bellagio, the day opened with a sunrise portrait session on property, moved to a Hindu ceremony at Hilton Lake Las Vegas with the baraat arriving by boat, and closed back at Bellagio with Jay Sean performing the reception live. None of that reads like a $9.99 buffet town.

Why Vegas actually works for this

A wedding with a sangeet, a mehendi, a haldi, a baraat, and a reception is five events stacked across three or four days, often with a guest list in the hundreds pulled from five or six cities. That requires a hotel that can hold a room block of that size, a banquet kitchen that can flip a ballroom overnight, and a Strip where nobody needs to rent a car between functions. Las Vegas built that capacity for high rollers and conventions decades ago. The South Asian wedding industry just pointed it at shaadi season.

Harry Reid International Airport runs nonstop service to London Heathrow and to Toronto, on top of direct flights from nearly every major U.S. hub, which matters when a guest list spans Chicago, Houston, the Bay Area, and the UK in one booking. A wedding in a smaller Indian city asks half the guest list to manage visas and multi-leg flights. A wedding in Las Vegas asks them to book one flight and one hotel room, the same proposition Formula One made to its own fan base when the race arrived in 2023.

Marriott owns much of the Vegas Strip now, including Bellagio and Aria. But the company keeps those casino properties under their original brand names. Bellagio stays Bellagio. Aria stays Aria. You don't book a wedding at "Marriott Bellagio." The brand architecture reflects a deeper truth about the market: what couples pay for is the story and the mystique of the property itself, not the corporate consolidation that sits invisibly behind the marble and the fountains. The Strip maintains its exclusivity precisely by not advertising its corporate parentage.

BollyWeds, a Las Vegas planning company built specifically around this market, runs Pakistani ceremonies in the desert outside the city and Christian-Sikh fusion weddings at Red Rock Canyon alongside the more familiar Bellagio ballroom bookings. Catering teams that once offered a standard banquet menu now run live chaat counters and tandoor stations as a matter of course, because the families booking these weekends expect it rather than request it. Some families skip the either-or question entirely. One couple held their primary wedding in Bali and a second Indian celebration on the Cheri Rooftop, with the Bellagio Fountains as the backdrop, because Vegas made a second gathering for the relatives who couldn't make the overseas trip logistically painless.

The Journal's story reads like a discovery: Las Vegas finally noticed that catering to people with money is more profitable than catering to people without it. For families who've booked out a Wynn salon for a sangeet or watched a baraat cross a hotel lobby behind a dhol line, it reads like a receipt. The Strip caught up to a wedding season it had been quietly hosting for years.

Works Cited

"BollyWeds: Best Las Vegas Wedding Event Planner." BollyWeds, 19 Nov. 2024, www.bollyweds.com/post/bollyweds-best-las-vegas-wedding-event-planner-and-how-genai-can-co-pilot-your-south-asian-wedding.

"Bellagio Las Vegas Indian Wedding: Harleen & Pavan." Lin and Jirsa Photography, www.linandjirsablog.com/bellagio-las-vegas-indian-wedding-harleen-pavan/.

"Host Your Dream Indian Wedding at Bellagio Resort & Casino." Maharani Weddings, 6 Mar. 2025, www.maharaniweddings.com/2025-03-06/16527-host-your-dream-indian-wedding-at-bellagio-resort-and-casino.

"Las Vegas Indian Wedding Celebration at Cheri Rooftop." Vegas Weddings Planner, vegasweddingsplanner.com/a-spectacular-las-vegas-indian-wedding-celebration-at-cheri-rooftop/.

"Luxury Indian Wedding at the Bellagio, Las Vegas, NV: Jay Sean Live." Pacific Pictures, 5 Jul. 2025, www.pacificpictures.net/blog/las-vegas-indian-wedding-jay-sean-live.

Ensign, Rachel Louise. "Vegas Was Once America's Bargain Vacation. Now It's a Luxury Destination." The Wall Street Journal, 2026, www.wsj.com/business/hospitality/las-vegas-vacation-wealthy-e77c0e63.

The Thakali Thali and the Trade Route That Made It

2026-05-30T16:17:33.836-07:00

In Nepal, khanubhayo? — "have you eaten?" — functions as a greeting. Not a pleasantry, but a genuine expression of concern. It is the kind of detail that tells you something essential about a food culture before you have tasted a single dish. Thakali cuisine, which comes out of the Thak Khola region in Nepal's Mustang District, carries that same ethic of nourishment all the way to the plate.

Most conversations about Nepali food in India start and end with momos and dal-bhaat. Vivek Man Sherchan, who founded the Jimbu Thakali restaurant chain in Kathmandu in 2016, is betting that Delhi-NCR is ready for something more specific. His first Indian outlet is set to open in Gurugram, and he has a clear-eyed read on the audience. "It will not be a completely unfamiliar palate for them as there are a lot of similarities between Indian and Nepali food when it comes to using spices and produce," he says. "But the slow cooking methods, especially our daal, and ingredients like jimbu, timur, and phapar (buckwheat) not only define Thakali food, they also set it apart."

A Kitchen Built on a Trade Route

The Thak Khola Valley has been a critical trade route between Nepal and Tibet for centuries, used to exchange Tibetan salt for grains from Nepal's southern plains. As innkeepers and traders on the route, Thakali families were exposed to both Tibetan and Indian ingredients. They incorporated Tibetan herbs like jimbu, mountain grains like buckwheat and barley, and Indian spices into a cooking style that is uniquely their own. The culinary exchanges over these routes were not incidental. They were the curriculum. Through contact with Indian merchants moving north, Thakali cooks were introduced to turmeric, cumin, ginger, and fenugreek. From Tibetan traders coming south, they absorbed jimbu, high-altitude grains, and preservation techniques suited to a landscape where fresh food was seasonal and survival was not.

The ingredients that resulted from this history are precise and non-substitutable. Jimbu belongs to the onion and garlic family but smells like neither; it is dried and used to temper dal and soups in a way that is immediately distinctive. Timur, the Nepali name for Sichuan pepper, delivers a faint numbing quality alongside its heat. Phapar, or buckwheat, was the grain of Mustang long before rice arrived from the plains. Gundruk, made from fermented leafy greens, and sinki, from fermented radish roots, developed as preservation staples in a high-altitude climate where the growing season is short. These calorie-dense, preserved foods kept energy levels high and bodies warm through winters when snow blanketed Mustang. They remain central to Thakali cooking not as nostalgia but as flavor.

The community itself is small. The Thakali people are a small but prominent ethnic group from the trans-Himalayan zone, especially in and around the Thak Khola Valley in Mustang, whose cuisine is a fusion of Tibetan, Nepali, and local Himalayan influences. Their population globally is estimated at around 15,000. Their culinary footprint, at this point, is considerably larger.

What the Thali Actually Is

A Thakali thali includes at least ten items. Initially, small portions are served with explanations of each dish, after which refills are generously offered upon request — a hallmark of Thakali dining. At the center of a brass or steel plate sits steaming rice topped with aromatic ghee, accompanied by Himalayan-style lentil soup flavored with jimbu or ginger, seasonal greens and vegetables, tomato pickle, radish pickle, fermented greens (gundruk pickle), papad, yogurt, and mutton or chicken curry. The refills are not an afterthought. They are part of the hospitality logic. You are not meant to go hungry, and you are not meant to feel like you are rationing.

The meal at Jimbu Thakali typically begins with kanchemba, buckwheat fries, and jimbu-tempered potatoes. The dal that follows is where Thakali cooking makes its clearest statement. Slow-cooked, lighter than the thick tadka dal of a North Indian kitchen, it carries the fragrance of jimbu in a way that is herbal rather than pungent. Dhido, a porridge made from millet or buckwheat, sits alongside rice on many menus as an equally legitimate center of the plate. It is the older staple, the pre-rice Mustang, and it grounds the meal in something that predates the valley's integration with the plains.

From Mom's Kitchen to Gurugram

Vivek Sherchan's family roots are in the Thak-Khola village of Mustang District. He left a hospitality career in the United States to return to Kathmandu and build something rooted in that inheritance. His mother, Prabha Sherchan, pays close attention to every detail served on the plate and every ingredient used in preparing the Thakali set. "The aim was to bring authentic Thakali — home-cooked, traditional, comfort food — to guests," Vivek says. "Hence, my mother played an important part in finalising all the recipes and the menus. Everyone says that her ladle is exceptional." Since founding the chain in 2016, he has expanded to four outlets, three in Kathmandu and one in Patan. Jimbu Thakali was recognized as a Tripadvisor Travellers' Choice Awards Best of the Best winner for 2024, ranked among the world's top ten percent of restaurants.

The plan to bring Thakali food to Delhi was first formed in 2021, then shelved when the pandemic made it impossible. The Gurugram outlet, when it opens, will not just be a restaurant transposed from Kathmandu. Vivek wants the space itself to carry the architecture of Nepal's heritage. Newari architecture, developed by the indigenous inhabitants of the Kathmandu Valley, blends Hindu and Buddhist motifs, and is built on a structural wooden frame characterized by intricate wood carvings on doors, windows, and roof struts. The architecture of the Durbar Squares of Kathmandu and Patan is famous for its brilliant red brickwork and extraordinarily intricate wood carvings, with each window, door, and roof strut telling its own story. That kind of setting, Vivek says, is what he has always envisioned for the Indian outlet. The room itself, he wants, to prepare you for what arrives on the plate.

Why the Timing Makes Sense

The story of Thakali cuisine spreading out of Mustang is partly a story about a policy decision made almost a century ago. In 1927, the Nepali government abolished the old customs-collecting system, including the Thakali monopoly on the trade of salt. As a result, many Thakali families migrated from Mustang to southern regions, took up agriculture and animal husbandry, and established hotels and restaurants. The hospitality instinct that had served caravans on the Tibet route transferred, with remarkable continuity, into the restaurant trade in Kathmandu, Pokhara, and eventually further south.

For Delhi-NCR diners, the Gurugram opening is worth paying attention to for the same reason that any deeply specific regional cuisine is worth attention: it offers something that fusion and approximation cannot. In Thakali cooking, the underlying principle of balance, hospitality, and nourishment remains unchanged across geography and generation. That is not a marketing claim. It is the result of a cuisine that developed in a particular landscape, for particular reasons, and that has maintained its grammar even as it has traveled.

South Asian diners who grew up with their own versions of rice, dal, and pickle on a shared plate will find the Thakali thali immediately readable. The structure is familiar. The specific flavors of jimbu, timur, and buckwheat are not. That gap, between the recognizable and the new, is exactly where the most interesting food experiences tend to live.

Nearly a Million Miles and Flying Still Charms Me

2026-05-24T20:04:29.766-07:00

In 1987, I boarded a Lufthansa flight in New Delhi headed for Stockholm, with a stopover in Frankfurt. I was in the hotel business by then, so when the meal service came around I understood what was happening in a way most passengers didn't. I recognized the choreography. I knew why the tray was arranged the way it was. The passenger next to me looked at the foil-covered dish with genuine puzzlement. I felt, quietly, like I had a secret.

That flight was my first time leaving India. It was also the moment I fell in love with flying. Not the destination, the flying itself.

Nearly four decades later, my travel app tells me I've covered 945,282 miles since 2008 alone. That's 208 trips, 146 cities, 19 countries and regions, and 1,084 days away from home. And I still feel a small charge of excitement every time I buckle in.

945,282 Miles traveled since 2008 — tracked by TripIt. The 1987-to-2008 years aren't in there. Those are just memory.

When flying was an occasion

Growing up in India, air travel was a luxury most families simply didn't access. It was aspirational in the same way a five-star hotel was aspirational. You dressed for it. You talked about it afterward. The meal on the plane wasn't just food, it was evidence that you had gone somewhere.

Lufthansa to Frankfurt was an education. Screens mounted throughout the cabin, shared entertainment, nothing personal or on-demand. You watched what everyone else watched, when it played. That felt like magic anyway. The food was served with the seriousness of a restaurant. The cabin crew had a manner about them. I sat in economy and felt like a guest.

That feeling shaped how I think about flying to this day. Not nostalgia exactly, more like a baseline. A standard I keep comparing everything against.

What happened to domestic flying in the US

The honest answer is: deregulation finished what it started, and airlines decided the cabin is a revenue optimization problem, not a hospitality problem. Domestic US flying, particularly in economy, is now an exercise in renting an uncomfortable seat for a few hours and hoping nothing goes badly wrong.

There is nothing to look forward to. No meal. Frequently no legroom. A boarding process designed to generate anxiety about whether your carry-on will fit. The snack, if it arrives, is a small bag of pretzels.

I don't say this as complaint. I say it as description, because the gap between domestic and international flying is now so large it almost feels like two different industries wearing the same name.

International is different, and I still love it

On a long international flight, especially on Etihad, the cabin still carries some of what I felt in 1987. They feed you. Properly. Multiple times. The crew treats the service as service, not as a transaction to complete before landing. There is an arc to a long-haul flight that a domestic hop can never have.

I think South Asians who grew up with flying as a rare event understand international long-haul differently from people who treat it as an inconvenience. When you know what flying felt like when it was a privilege, you don't take a flat bed at 38,000 feet for granted. You notice it. You appreciate the meal because you remember when a foil-covered tray in economy felt like a gift.

You have to orchestrate it yourself now

The days of flying being automatically good are gone, at least domestically. What replaced them is a system where every comfort is available, but none of it is automatic. You have to architect your own experience.

I learned this through friction. For a long time my boarding group was 5 on United flights. Boarding group 5 sounds fine until you watch the overhead bins fill up while you're still in the jetway. That's not a minor inconvenience. That's checked bag fees, gate-checked anxiety, and a scramble that starts your trip badly. I eventually got a United credit card specifically to solve that one problem. Boarding group 2. Problem gone. Worth it.

Loyalty is the other thing I've genuinely come to believe in. With 208 trips behind me, the ones I've enjoyed most consistently are the ones where the airline already knows me, where the status means something at the gate when something goes wrong, and something always goes wrong eventually. Spreading your travel across carriers to chase the cheapest fare is a reasonable strategy if you fly occasionally. If you fly constantly, it costs you more than it saves.

What I've Actually Learned Across 945,000 Miles

Fix the boarding group problem first. It's the one friction point that ruins the start of every trip.
Concentrate your loyalty. Status on one carrier beats Silver on four.
International and domestic are different products. Stop expecting domestic to feel like international.
The meal on a long-haul flight is still an event. Let it be one.
The travelers who still enjoy flying are the ones who've built a personal system around it, not the ones waiting for airlines to make it enjoyable by default.

The charm is still there, if you know where to look

I genuinely don't think the love of flying ever leaves you if you caught it early enough. It just requires more active tending than it used to.

When I board a long international flight and the cabin settles and the meal service begins, I still feel something close to what I felt on that Lufthansa flight out of New Delhi in 1987. A sense of occasion. A quiet appreciation that I'm somewhere most people in the world never get to be.

The 945,000 miles aren't a grind to me. They're a collection. Each city on that list was a day I was somewhere other than where I started. That, in the end, is what flying gives you. Not comfort, not always. Not convenience, not anymore. But movement. And movement, if you grew up dreaming about it, never entirely loses its charge.

The Tamarind Connection: What a Bottle of Spicy Tequila Taught Me About Two Cuisines That Already Knew Each Other

2026-04-12T11:34:00.000-07:00

The Tamarind Connection

On Bad Bull, imli, and the ingredient that crossed every ocean before we did.

Someone handed me a bottle of Bad Bull Spicy Tamarindo tequila at a gathering, and my first instinct was not to think about Mexico. It was to think about imli.

Imli. The sticky, sour, deeply savory paste my mother kept in a steel dabba in the refrigerator. The base of every chutney worth eating. The thing that makes pani puri water taste like itself and nothing else. Tamarind is so embedded in South Asian cooking that it almost disappears — it is the background note you do not notice until it is gone.

And here it was, on a bottle of agave tequila made in Mexico, labeled sweet and spicy, doing exactly what tamarind always does: making everything around it taste more like itself.

The Bad Bull Spicy Tamarindo is technically a flavored tequila spirit — tequila and grain neutral spirits with natural flavors, the label reads, 60 proof. It is sweet upfront, tart in the middle, and warm at the finish from what the label calls a hint of spiciness. It is not trying to be a sipping tequila for enthusiasts. It is trying to be fun, and it succeeds at that. At a party, in a shot glass, or mixed simply with sparkling water and a squeeze of lime, it works.

But what it made me want to do was understand why tamarind shows up so naturally in both Mexican and South Asian cooking in the first place.

Same Ingredient, Different Journey

Tamarind is native to tropical Africa, but it arrived in the Indian subcontinent early enough that most people assume it originated there. It became foundational to South Indian cuisine in particular — rasam, sambar, puliyodarai, the tamarind rice common across Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh. In the north, it anchors chutneys and chaats. In Maharashtra, it shows up in the souring of dal and in the flavor base of dishes that need that particular kind of tartness nothing else quite replicates.

It reached Mexico through trade routes, and Mexican cuisine absorbed it into agua fresca, chamoy, candy, and seasoning powders. In Mexico City street food culture, tamarindo flavoring appears on everything from gummies to the rim of a michelada glass. The flavor logic is the same: you want that sour-sweet contrast to cut through richness and heat.

Two cuisines, one ingredient, completely independent flavor traditions built around the same underlying chemistry. There is something worth sitting with in that.

A Small Detour Into Agave

You might also be curious about mezcal, which has been having a cultural moment of its own. Some bottles come with a traditional worm — actually a larvae called a gusano, from the maguey plant — which is a mid-20th century marketing tradition rather than a marker of quality or authenticity. Serious mezcal producers in Oaxaca generally skip it. The worm is largely theater, though enjoyable theater.

Mezcal and tequila both come from agave plants, but they are distinct. Tequila can only be made from blue agave, and primarily in Jalisco. Mezcal can be made from dozens of agave varieties and comes mostly from Oaxaca, though other states are permitted. The production process for mezcal involves roasting the agave hearts, called pinas, in underground pits — which is where that characteristic smoky flavor comes from.

Think of it this way: mezcal is to tequila roughly what single malt Scotch is to blended whisky. Related family, meaningfully different character.

What the Bottle Actually Made Me Make

After tasting the Bad Bull Spicy Tamarindo, I made a simple drink: two ounces over ice, topped with club soda, finished with a squeeze of lime and a pinch of chaat masala on the rim instead of a traditional Tajin rim. The chaat masala, with its dried mango powder and black salt, did something unexpected. It extended the sourness in a direction the Mexican flavor tradition does not typically go, while also echoing it perfectly.

It tasted like something that should exist. Like the two traditions had been heading toward each other for centuries and just needed someone to stop overthinking and pour a drink.

Tamarind has always been the bridge. It just took a red bottle with a bull on it to make me notice.

Bitte ein Bit: How a German Beer Unlocked a Lifetime of Sneaky Sips and Spicy Pickles

2026-04-05T09:25:00.000-07:00

Bitte ein Bit. Just one. Maybe two.

There is a bus stop in Jafferkhanpet, Chennai called sarai kadai. For the uninitiated, that roughly translates to "the liquor shop stop." My school bus used to halt there, and even as a kid I understood that this was a place with a certain gravity. The star attraction was not the liquor itself, sold in small sachets that made the whole transaction feel almost medicinal. It was the spicy pickle that came alongside. The sarai was almost an afterthought. The pickle was the event.

Growing up in Ashok Nagar, buying beer for the family was a covert operation. You scoped the street. You timed the walk. You made sure the neighbor who had opinions about everything was safely indoors. Chennai in those years had a complicated relationship with alcohol: it was everywhere, it was necessary, and everyone pretended otherwise. The brown paper bag was not packaging. It was diplomacy.

The neighbor who had opinions about everything had to be safely indoors before you even touched the door handle of that liquor shop.

Enter Idar-Oberstein

Fast forward to a visit to Idar-Oberstein, a small gem-trading town in the Rhineland-Palatinate region of Germany that most people have never heard of and fewer can pronounce correctly on the first try. The beer of the region is Bitburger, brewed since 1817 in the town of Bitburg, and its tagline is three words that might be the most pleasingly simple ad slogan ever written: Bitte ein Bit. One Bit, please.

After a lifetime of Kingfisher, Kalyani Black Label, and Haywards 5000, a cold Bitburger in its home country felt like a different category of beverage entirely. Crisp, clean, no negotiation required with any neighbor. You just ordered it. In public. Out loud. With your actual voice.

I was, as they say, enamoured.

* * *

A Weekend Errand, Decades Later

A few weekends ago I was doing the completely ordinary American activity of walking through a local store when I spotted the Bitburger can on a shelf. White and gold, the same gothic lettering, Bitte ein Bit running diagonally in that familiar script. I stopped. I stared at it probably longer than was socially appropriate for a man in a grocery aisle.

I bought it, obviously.

The thing about food and drink memories is that they carry the whole context with them. One sip and I was back in Idar-Oberstein, slightly bewildered by the town's celebrity as a global hub for gemstones and completely charmed by how seriously everyone took their pils. And behind that, the longer memory: the sarai kadai stop, the pickle, the careful choreography of the Ashok Nagar beer run.

Food and drink memories do not arrive alone. They bring the whole neighborhood with them.

The beer was exactly as I remembered. Which, when you think about it, is itself a small miracle. Decades, two continents, and a completely different life in between, and the beer just tastes like the beer.

The Pickle Remains Undefeated

I should say, in the interest of full transparency, that no German pils has ever quite matched the accompaniment of that Jafferkhanpet pickle. Bitburger is excellent. The sarai kadai pickle was transcendent. Some combinations are just too specific to the time and the place ever to be recreated.

But the Bitburger comes close to the memory. And sometimes that is enough.

Your turn.
Food and drink memories are the most portable things we carry. What is the beer, the dish, the street-side snack that takes you somewhere specific the moment you taste it? Drop it in the comments. Bonus points if there was a suspicious neighbor involved.

The Soul of Seoul: How 'Made in Korea' Bridges Tamil Tradition and K-Drama Humanity

2026-03-21T12:58:00.000-07:00

K-Drama Aesthetics, Indian Soul: A Review of 'Made in Korea'

By Shashi Bellamkonda

I recently watched "Made in Korea" (2026), and it is a rare piece of cinema that manages to balance the high-gloss aesthetic of a K-Drama with the raw, grounded "humanity" found in South Indian storytelling. It’s a film that proves geography is secondary to shared values.

"The film isn't just about a girl in a foreign land; it’s a mirror reflecting how similar our cultural DNA actually is. It captures the perfect intersection of Indian resilience and Korean heart."

The Indian vs. Korean Dynamic

At first glance, the worlds of Tamil Nadu and Seoul seem light-years apart. However, the film brilliantly peels back those layers. We see Priyanka Mohan's character, Shenba, navigating a world that feels strangely familiar. From the deep-rooted respect for elders to the way community life revolves around shared meals, the parallels are striking.

Linguistic Echoes

Hearing 'Amma' and 'Appa' in a Korean household isn't just a linguistic curiosity; it’s an emotional anchor. The film uses these shared words to build a bridge of instant familiarity for the audience.

Universal Humanity

The standout element is the bond between Shenba and her elderly Korean mentor. It moves past the 'fish-out-of-water' tropes into a space of pure, universal kindness that doesn't require a translator.

Excellent Humanity

What stayed with me long after the credits rolled was the portrayal of humanity. In a world often obsessed with differences, Made in Korea chooses to focus on what unites us: the pain of betrayal, the courage to start over, and the simple kindness of strangers. It’s a combination that feels both nostalgic and refreshingly modern.

If you are looking for a story that celebrates culture without being a caricature, this is a must-watch. It’s a testament to the fact that whether you are in a village in Tamil Nadu or a high-rise in Seoul, the language of the heart remains the same.

Ugadi: A Recipe for Life and Leadership

2026-03-19T04:44:00.000-07:00

Ugadi: A Recipe for Life and Leadership

As the vibrant hues of spring paint the landscape, many communities across India prepare to celebrate Ugadi, the New Year. More than just a calendar event, Ugadi is a profound philosophical statement, a culinary and cultural embrace of life in all its complexity. At the heart of this celebration lies the Ugadi Pachadi, a unique and symbolic dish that serves as a powerful metaphor for the journey ahead.

This isn't merely a traditional recipe; it's a wisdom-filled concoction that teaches us to savor every experience, good or bad, sweet or bitter. Each of the six distinct tastes in Ugadi Pachadi represents a different emotion or facet of life, urging us to accept them all with equanimity. This ancient wisdom holds remarkable relevance for our personal lives and, surprisingly, for modern leadership and business strategy.

The Six Tastes of Life and Their Lessons

Let's delve into the profound symbolism of each ingredient and how it can guide our approach to life and the professional world:

Taste	Ingredient	Life's Lesson	Business Application
Bitter	Neem Flowers	Sadness, challenges, and setbacks are inevitable.	Learning from failures, adapting to market downturns, and building resilience.
Sweet	Jaggery	Happiness, success, and moments of joy.	Celebrating achievements, recognizing team efforts, and enjoying growth.
Tangy	Raw Mango	Surprise, novelty, and unexpected turns.	Embracing innovation, pivoting strategies, and exploring new opportunities.
Spicy	Chili	Anger, frustration, and difficult conversations.	Navigating conflicts, addressing critical feedback, and driving necessary change.
Salty	Salt	Fear, uncertainty, and the unknown.	Managing risks, making tough decisions, and venturing into uncharted territory.
Sour	Tamarind	Disgust, unpleasantness, and things we might dislike.	Dealing with difficult clients, overcoming internal resistance, and streamlining inefficient processes.

Embracing the Full Spectrum

Just as the Ugadi Pachadi is incomplete without any of its six tastes, life and business truly thrive when we acknowledge and integrate every experience. Trying to avoid the bitter or the spicy means missing out on the full flavor of existence and the valuable lessons they impart.

True leadership, whether in a boardroom or in our personal lives, isn't about creating a perpetually sweet environment. It's about cultivating the wisdom to navigate the full spectrum of experiences—the good, the bad, and the unexpected—and using each to foster growth, innovation, and unwavering resilience.

This Ugadi, as we welcome a new year, let's reflect on the profound message of the Pachadi. Let's commit to savoring every taste life offers, understanding that each contributes to a richer, more meaningful, and ultimately more successful journey. How do you integrate all six tastes into your leadership philosophy or daily life?

Happy Ugadi to all who are celebrating!

(Image: A realistic photograph of Ugadi Pachadi with its six ingredients arranged around it, symbolizing the different tastes of life.)

The Evolution of the Super Bowl: From Newspapers to Real-Time Networks

2026-02-08T14:50:27.347-08:00

Thank you for joining me in looking back at how the Super Bowl has transformed from a localized television event into a global digital laboratory. My own memory of the 2004 wardrobe malfunction remains a perfect example of this shift; I did not actually see it live, but only learned of it through the newspaper and television the following day. Today, that delay seems impossible.

The Shift to Real-Time Networks

The transition from the morning newspaper to the "second screen" has fundamentally changed brand accountability. In the early 2000s, a brand could survive a mistake overnight. Today, hashtags allow for live, crowdsourced critiques. Brands no longer just broadcast; they participate in a digital conversation that happens at the speed of light.

The Super Bowl Graveyard: Brands That Vanished

The game is often a graveyard for companies that prioritize "shock value" over long-term strategy. Several high-profile advertisers disappeared shortly after their 30 seconds of fame:

Pets.com (2000): Famous for its sock puppet mascot, the company spent millions on a Super Bowl ad only to declare bankruptcy months later.
LifeMinders.com (2000): Spent its venture capital on a self-deprecating ad but failed to build a sustainable business model.
Just for Feet (1999): Their controversial commercial led to a $10 million lawsuit against their own agency, and the company liquidated by 2004.

Grassroots Success: The GoGranny Campaign

In 2011, Network Solutions proved that you didn't need a multi-million dollar TV spot to win. Their "GoGranny" campaign, featuring Cloris Leachman, was a tactical masterclass in grassroots digital marketing.

The three-day social media blitz resulted in a 500% increase in .CO domain sales and generated over 18 million Twitter impressions (PR Newswire).

Changing Tastes: Avocados and Clydesdales

Even our consumption habits have scaled exponentially. The "Super Bowl Menu" has moved from simple chips to a massive logistical feat for the agricultural industry.

The Avocado Boom: Americans are projected to consume 280 million pounds of avocados during this weekend, a massive leap from the 38 million pounds seen in the early 90s (The Guardian).
The Clydesdales: Anheuser-Busch continues to anchor the nostalgia of the game. For Super Bowl LX in 2026, they are celebrating their 150th anniversary with a legacy spot titled "American Icons" (Anheuser-Busch).

City Comparison: Super Bowl LX

Category	New England	Seattle
Regional Staple	Clam Chowder / Lobster	Salmon / Teriyaki
Industry Focus	Biotech & Finance	Cloud & Retail Tech

Works Cited

Anheuser-Busch. "American Icons: The 150th Anniversary." Anheuser-Busch Newsroom, 2026, https://www.anheuser-busch.com/.
PR Newswire. "Network Solutions' GoGranny Campaign Results." PR Newswire, 2011, https://www.prnewswire.com/.
The Guardian. "The Avocado Spike: Super Bowl Consumption Statistics." The Guardian, 2026, https://www.theguardian.com/.

Man Tries 'Women-Only' Nail Salon & Hot Springs – The SHOCKING Thing That Happened Will Change Your Life Forever!"

2026-02-08T07:45:00.000-08:00

The Simple Power of Overcoming Hesitation in Self-Care

By Shashi Bellamkonda | February 8, 2026

Sometimes simple things become the most memorable. We often move through life with preconceived notions of what is meant for us and what is meant for others. In my recent experiences, I have found that breaking through these barriers leads to significant improvements in well-being.

The Myth of the Nail Salon

I recently discovered that nail salons are not just for women. After many years of neglect, I visited a local salon with some trepidation. I was concerned that the staff might laugh at the condition of my toes. Instead, I was treated very well. It was a great experience that reminded me that professional care is for everyone, regardless of the condition you start with.

Cultural Immersion at Yoshiike Ryokan

While staying at Yoshiike Ryokan in Hakone, Japan, I experienced the traditional spring hot bath. In these settings, men and women are separate but enter the springs without clothes. This was a memorable experience. The environment was pleasant, the gardens were beautiful, and we were provided with traditional Japanese rooms and attire to wear. It was a lesson in cultural comfort and physical relaxation.

Healing at Kumarakom Lake Resort

During my recent trip to India, I had my first Ayurvedic massage at the Kumarakom Lake Resort. The practitioners there have extensive experience providing treatments for both men and women. The result was remarkable. My neck muscles, which have always been very tight, feel much better now. I can even sleep on my stomach without the usual discomfort. While these treatments are an investment, the physical relief makes them worth the cost.

Overcoming Our Upbringing

There are many activities we think are mainly for women, but men must pay attention to their own bodies and well-being. Our upbringing often makes us feel hesitant to try something different. We have to overcome that feeling to truly care for ourselves. In the future, I plan to visit a Russian Banya or a Scandinavian hot bath, experiences I previously avoided even when living in those regions during the 1980s.

A Request for Tips

As I continue to speak in public and participate in video calls, I want to improve my professional presentation. I am looking for advice on managing grooming details like nose hair and techniques for brightening my face or improving lighting for the camera. If you have tips, please reach out and share them with me.

The Algorithm is Driving: How I-95 Taught Me Your Customer Journey Has Been Rerouted

2026-01-24T07:07:00.000-08:00

For decades, the I-95 corridor between DC, New York, and New Jersey had a rhythm. We knew the stops. We knew the "Shotgun" rider’s sacred duty: managing the AAA TripTik and navigating the paper maps.

In those days, you pulled into a state-run rest stop, walked to the customer service counter, and actually spoke to a human to ask about road conditions or which bridge to take. It was a predictable, linear customer journey.

Decades later, I realized while driving this same stretch: I am no longer in charge of where I stop.

The Car is the Customer

We drive a Tesla. We bought it specifically because the Supercharger network is extensive on this route. But this decision changed something fundamental about our travel behavior.

We rarely stop at traditional rest areas anymore. The car’s navigation algorithm calculates our battery levels and routes us to Superchargers. Surprisingly, these aren't usually at the official rest stops. They are at gas stations—specifically places like Wawa and Sheetz.

Suddenly, I understood the cult following of Wawa. I wasn't their target demographic initially. I didn't plan to go there. My car took me there. The algorithm decided that for the next 20 minutes, I was a captive audience for their hoagies and coffee.

Once, the car even routed us to a casino and a ShopRite mall. The "customer journey" was literally reprogrammed by the hardware.

The Ecosystem Shift

Your business might be losing customers not because your product failed, but because the ecosystem moved. Traditional rest stops didn't get worse; the "vehicle" of the customer (the EV algorithm) bypassed them entirely.

Ask yourself: What underlying technology dictates where your customer physically or digitally "stops" today?

The Canyon of Commerce and Litigation

The other dominant feature of the I-95 corridor today is the sheer volume of trucks. It feels less like a highway and more like a conveyor belt for Amazon warehouses.

And where there are trucks, there are lawyers. The billboards are relentless. It’s a dystopian comedy: giant signs asking, "Injured in a truck accident?" appearing every three miles.

There is a dark irony to it. You are driving 70 miles per hour, surrounded by 18-wheelers, trying to read a billboard with small text from a law firm promising to help you if you hit the very truck you're currently trying not to hit while reading their sign. It’s the only industry that advertises its services at the exact moment and location you might tragically need them.

Future Disruptions

If the shift from "Rest Stop" to "Wawa" happened this fast, what is next? The corridor is ripe for disruption:

High-Speed Rail: Real, frequent trains that make the drive obsolete.
The Tesla Cafe: Why settle for a gas station corner? Dedicated EV lounges will become the new "Third Place."
Inductive Charging: Roads that charge your battery while you drive, eliminating the stop entirely.

One disappointment remains: Connectivity. Despite being the economic spine of a developed nation, the internet connection is spotty. My car frequently loses signal, confusing the navigation or—worse—cutting off a podcast right before the punchline.

We now run two navigation apps on two different devices for redundancy. We have futuristic propulsion, but 1990s connectivity.

The Takeaway

Your business relies on customers who are "traveling"—physically or through a sales funnel. If their mode of travel changes, their stops change. Don't be the rest stop wondering where all the cars went. Be the Wawa that installed the chargers.

What is the "Supercharger" in your industry that is rerouting your traffic?

Sources

Personal observation, I-95 Corridor travel, January 2026.

The Prescription Was Bread: How LowCarb Avenue is Building a Legacy

2026-01-19T08:05:00.000-08:00

The Doctor Who Prescribed a Bakery: The LowCarb Avenue Story

Most food startups begin with a family recipe. LowCarb Avenue began with a medical necessity.

We often talk about "product-market fit" in the business world. In the case of LowCarb Avenue, the product didn't just fit the market—it cured a pain point that Dr. B, a bariatric physician, saw every day in her clinic.

She could prescribe the perfect low-carb diet to treat obesity and diabetes. But she couldn't prescribe the willpower to live without bread forever. The existing market options were dismal, often tasting like cardboard or chemicals. Dr. B realized that dietary compliance wasn't a discipline problem; it was a product problem.

The Solution: Science in the Kitchen

She moved her laboratory to the kitchen. Using her science background, she engineered a dough using almond flour and vital wheat gluten. It retained the chew and comfort of artisan bread but with only 1 to 2 grams of net carbs.

A Legacy of Family Entrepreneurship

What makes LowCarb Avenue a fascinating business case is the operational structure. It reminds me of the early days of Chobani, Sukhi's Gourmet, Insomnia Cookies, or Malai. It is a textbook example of a family leveraging individual strengths to build a scalable legacy:

The Visionary: Dr. B remains the soul of the product, focusing on R&D and maintaining nutritional integrity.
The CEO: Her daughter has stepped into the leadership role, bringing the brilliance and energy needed to grow a local solution into a national brand.
The Operator: Her husband anchors the operations, managing the complex logistics of fresh distribution.

My Experience

I have tasted their products personally. They solve the "uncanny valley" problem of keto food. It doesn't taste like a substitute; it delivers the emotional satisfaction of baked goods without the glycemic guilt.

Where to Find Them:
You can find their orange tents at farmers markets across the Delmarva area, including Shady Grove, Cabin John, Bethesda, and their HQ in Frederick.

For nationwide shipping, visit: lowcarbavenue.com

Floating Bricks and Silent Stories: A Journey to Ramappa Temple

2026-01-18T02:28:00.000-08:00

When Stone Sings and Silence Speaks: A January Road Trip to Ramappa

By Shashi Bellamkonda | January 2026

The air in Telangana hits differently in January. It’s that brief, golden window where the heat retreats, leaving behind mornings that are crisp enough to wake you up without making you shiver. We started early from Warangal, the engine humming against the quiet morning, heading toward a marvel that has stood for eight centuries.

But the road to the past was paved with the energy of the present. The entire region is currently vibrating with preparation for the Medaram Jatra. If you haven't witnessed it, it’s hard to explain the scale—it is one of the largest gatherings of people in the world, a tribal festival that honors the goddesses Sammakka and Saralamma.

Even miles away, you can feel the anticipation in the villages we passed. To truly understand the magnitude of this event, I recommend reading this piece by my friend Serish Nanisetti in The Hindu: Samakka-Saralamma Jatara: The big tribal spiritual reset. He captures the soul of this "spiritual reset" far better than a drive-by observation ever could.

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The Pause: Idly, Wada, and the Art of Breakfast

No road trip in India is complete without the ritual of the breakfast stop. We pulled into the NSR Hotel about midway through the 1.5-hour journey. It’s a functional spot, but the kitchen knows its business.

The idly arrived steaming—soft, yielding, and smelling of fermented rice batter. The wada was the real star, though: a golden, crunchy exterior that shattered satisfyingly to reveal a fluffy, savory interior. We dunked them into chutney that had the sharp, clean bite of green chilies and ginger. It’s simple food, but when the roads are good and the weather is kind, a plate of dosa and idly feels like a feast.

The Engineering of the Impossible

The drive was smooth—the roads in this part of Telangana have improved significantly—and soon the reddish hues of the Ramappa Temple (also known as the Rudreshwara Temple) rose against the greenery.

This isn’t just a temple; it’s a physics problem solved by artists. Built in the 13th century under the Kakatiya dynasty, the structure is famous for something that sounds like a myth until you see the science: floating bricks.

"The architects of the 1200s didn't just build for their gods; they built for the earth itself. They knew the ground would move, so they created a temple that could dance with it."

The roof of the temple is constructed with bricks made of clay mixed with sawdust and other organic materials. They are porous and incredibly light—literally light enough to float on water. This reduces the load on the pillars and the foundation.

Speaking of the foundation, the Kakatiyas used what we now call "sandbox technology." They dug a deep pit and filled it with a mixture of sand, lime, jaggery, and black myrobalan fruit. This acts as a cushion during earthquakes, absorbing the shock waves rather than resisting them. It is why Ramappa is still standing while many of its contemporaries have crumbled into dust.

The Modern Crutch

Yet, time is a relentless weight. Despite the genius of the sandbox foundation, the earth has shifted over eight centuries. As you walk around the structure, you’ll notice modern supporting pillars installed to shore up parts of the temple that were threatened by structural fatigue.

It’s a jarring visual—the stark, utilitarian modern supports against the intricate, fluid lines of the Kakatiya sculpture. But it’s a necessary scar. It reminds you that heritage is fragile. It doesn't survive on its own; it requires our active intervention.

The Missing Voice

Here is where the experience hit a snag. Ramappa was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2021. That label usually promises a certain standard of visitor experience. The architecture sang, but I found myself desperate for the lyrics.

There were no official tours. More critically, there were no English-speaking guides available to decode the visual language of the temple. The pillars here are carved with verses of dance—the Perini Sivatandavam—and intricate mythological tales. Without a guide, these are just pretty pictures in stone. With a guide, they become a library.

I wanted to know why the Nandi faces the way it does. I wanted to hear the legends of the sculptor, Ramappa, the only craftsman in India to have a temple named after him (rather than the king or the deity). Instead, I was left Googling on my phone in the temple courtyard.

Practical Details: The DIY Guide Hack

Until Telangana Tourism releases an official audio app, you have to be your own guide. Since internet connectivity can be spotty in Palampet, I recommend downloading these resources before you leave your hotel:

🎧 The "Audio" Guide: Search for "Ramappa Temple Documentary" on YouTube (there are excellent ones by independent creators). Download the video offline. When you reach the temple, put your headphones in and listen to the history as you walk. It’s the best substitute for a human guide.
📄 The Deep Dive: For the architecture nerds, the UNESCO World Heritage Executive Summary is available online. It explains the "sandbox technology" and floating bricks in technical detail that most signboards miss.
Did Kakatiya rulers hold the secret to earthquake-proof buildings? Read this Indian Express story

Honest Reflection

The drive is worth it. The breakfast at NSR is worth it. Standing in the shadow of the floating brick tower is absolutely worth it. But Telangana Tourism has a gap to close. We have the world-class asset; now we need the world-class hospitality to match it.

If you go, read up before you leave. Watch the documentaries. Because when you get there, the stones will be silent, and you’ll need to bring the stories with you.

Have you visited a heritage site where the architecture blew you away, but the facilities let you down? I’d love to hear your experience in the comments.

The Washington Post’s List vs. My Reality: A 40-Year Travel Audit

2026-01-17T07:34:00.000-08:00

The Evolution of the Traveler: From Paper Tickets to AI Prompts

By Shashi Bellamkonda | January 17, 2026

A recent article in The Washington Post titled "25 ways travel has changed this century" (by Natalie B. Compton, Andrea Sachs, Hannah Sampson, and Gabe Hiatt) sent me down a deep rabbit hole of nostalgia.

The authors chronicle the death of MapQuest, the rise of the "bucket list," and the shift from "hard pants" to athleisure. It is a brilliant list. But as I read it, I realized that for those of us who started traveling internationally in the 80s and 90s, the changes are even more seismic.

We have moved from an era of scarcity and friction to an era of abundance and access. Here is how the world has changed through my window seat—from the upper deck of a 747 in 1980 to a houseboat in Kerala in 2026.

The Era of "Guests," Not Cargo (The 1980s)

The Post notes that airlines have "abandoned the middle class," unbundling fares until every amenity has a price tag. I felt this deeply because my first trip out of India set a bar that modern travel rarely meets.

It was the 1980s. I was flying Air India to Stockholm, seated in the upper deck of the "Maharajah" 747. It wasn't just transportation; it was an occasion. I spent hours admiring the amenities kit, which included a pair of socks that I suspect are still in my home somewhere, 40 years later. We were treated like guests.

But that era had a harder edge, too.

When we landed in Germany for transit, I experienced the shock of "othering" for the first time. Immigration officers stood right at the bridge, checking the visas and passports of only the brown people. We were just transiting, yet we were suspect.

On a subsequent Lufthansa flight, I remember the simple fascination of being served by a white woman—a dynamic that was entirely new to me then.

The Analog Culture Shock

The Post writers mention that "Smartphones put maps in our hands." Before that, we navigated by wit and sheer terror.

Arriving in Stockholm was like landing on Mars. I remember being baffled by cars driving with their headlights on during the day—daytime running lights were a safety feature I had never seen. And then there was the subway. Without a glowing blue dot on a screen to tell me where I was, taking that first subway ride was terrifying.

Traveling to Russia in the 90s was an exercise in obedience. We flew Aeroflot via Lahore, where we were strictly told not to leave our seats. In Tashkent, we stopped for fuel—technically checking off another country without ever touching the ground. The cabin crew collected our passports during the flight, presumably to ensure we didn't destroy them to seek asylum.

The Post laments the "demise of customer service." But in the 90s, on those routes, customer service didn't exist. Authority existed.

The Physicality of Travel

Domestic travel in India during that time was an endurance sport. Air travel was unaffordable, so we took the train.

I recall landing in Delhi and taking the train back to Warangal. It was a long, exhausting haul. Once, in the dead of night, we dozed off and missed our stop. We scrambled off at Khammam, disoriented and tired. We had to take a rickshaw to the bus stand, a bus back to Warangal, and another rickshaw home.

There were no Uber apps to save us. There was no Google Maps to alert us that our stop was approaching. You simply had to stay awake.

The Shift: 9/11 and the Internet Age

The Post correctly identifies 9/11 as the creator of the "security state." I felt this shift viscerally. My travel to the US in the late 90s involved a train to Mumbai (to save money), Air France to Paris, and finally a flight to Washington D.C.

I remember window shopping in the Paris airport and being verbally assaulted by a woman who yelled at me in French, seemingly just for being there. The world was connecting, but the barriers were rising.

But then, the internet began to democratize information.

By the 2000s, TripAdvisor became my bible. The Post mentions that "TripAdvisor trumps guidebooks," and they are right. I remember needing a car service in London during a stopover. In the old days, I would have been at the mercy of a taxi stand. Instead, I used a TripAdvisor recommendation. It was flawless.

The Present: Curation and AI

Today, the friction of the 80s is gone, replaced by what Rick Steves calls "too much information."

Hyderabad is now a global hub. I have swapped the multi-stop Aeroflot sagas for 14-hour direct flights or seamless connections through the Middle East.

But the biggest change is how I plan.

For Nostalgia: I recently returned to Lund, Sweden, and spent two days in Copenhagen. The terror of the subway is gone. I navigated with the confidence of a local because my phone told me exactly where to go.
For Discovery: My best vacation ever—a trip to Croatia—was planned entirely via Booking.com.
For Visualization: The Post mentions that "YouTube replaces travel TV." I live this. Before I go anywhere, I watch YouTubers walk the streets I plan to visit. I know what the food looks like before I order it.
For Micro-Details: Facebook groups now provide the granular advice that even AI misses.

A Note of Gratitude

Reflecting on these 25 years (and the years before them), I am struck by how much easier it is to be a curious person today.

The "bucket list" might be a marketing term now, but the ability to fulfill it has never been more accessible. I can use AI to plan a trip to the Andamans, use an app to book a houseboat in Cochin, and use a translation tool to read a menu in Tokyo.

To the YouTubers, the TripAdvisor reviewers, and the strangers in Facebook groups who share their tips: Thank you. You have replaced the fear of the unknown with the excitement of the expected.

Based on "25 ways travel has changed this century" by Natalie B. Compton, Andrea Sachs, Hannah Sampson, and Gabe Hiatt, The Washington Post, January 15, 2026.

The First Mile Home: Finding Calm in the Hyderabad Airport Chaos

2026-01-17T02:18:00.000-08:00

The Best Way to Handle Hyderabad Airport Transfers with Family

By Shashi Bellamkonda | January 17, 2026

The doors of the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport slide open, and the air hits you first. It is a specific Hyderabad heavy warmth—scented with diesel, distant dust, and the humidity of the Deccan plateau. After twenty hours in a pressurized, sterile metal tube, the noise is the second shockwave. The cacophony of families reuniting, the rattle of trolleys, and the relentless shouting of taxi touts.

For a solo traveler with a backpack, this is just texture. But when you are traveling with family—tired, dragging four suitcases, and navigating the jet lag haze—it is a gauntlet. And it is here, in this specific friction, that the modern promise of "just call an Uber" falls apart.

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The Algorithm vs. Reality

I am a technologist. I want to believe in the efficiency of the app. But in Hyderabad, the gap between the app’s promise and the ground reality is where your patience goes to die.

I have stood on that curb too many times, staring at a screen that says "Finding a ride," while touts circle like hawks. "Big car, sir? AC car?" they offer, pointing to vehicles that look like they couldn't fit my carry-on, let alone my family.

The challenges are systemic, not just bad luck:

The Space Deficit: The "Sedan" you book often turns out to be a compact hatchback with a CNG tank in the trunk. If you are a family of four with international luggage, you are suddenly booking two cars, splitting up the family, and doubling the coordination stress.
The Connectivity Black Hole: You land. Your US SIM card is fighting to find a roaming network. The airport Wi-Fi is spotty outside the terminal. You are now the person frantically toggling airplane mode while your ride cancels because you didn't answer the phone.
The Cancel Culture: This is the most painful cut. You secure a booking. You watch the car approach. Then, the driver calls, asks for the drop location or payment method, and—poof—the ride vanishes.

"After a few tough experiences with Meru and Uber cancelling pre-booked rides to the airport at 3 AM, I realized that peace of mind is a premium I am willing to pay for."

The Human Solution: Blue Drive

Hospitality in India is rooted in Atithi Devo Bhava—the guest is god. An app treats you like a transaction code; a host treats you like a person. After too many airport arguments, I stopped gambling and started planning. I now exclusively use Blue Drive.

The difference is the elimination of friction. The arrangement is made from the US, comfortably over WhatsApp, days before I fly. There is no frantic refreshing of screens upon arrival.

When we walk out, tired and disoriented, we aren't hunting for a license plate in a sea of cars. A driver is there. He escorts us from the exit. He takes the heavy bags without being asked—not because he has to, but because that is the service standard. The car is actually a large car, capable of swallowing American-sized luggage.

It works in reverse, too. The return journey to the US is fraught with anxiety—will the cab show up? Will I miss the flight? Blue Drive drivers arrive 15 minutes early. They wait. They load. They provide a receipt for the bank transfer or cash payment. It is boring, predictable, and quiet. Exactly what travel should be.

Practical Details

If you are traveling to Hyderabad with family and want to skip the curb-side negotiation, here is who I trust. It is not an app; it is a contact.

Service: Blue Drive
Contact: Vittal, Operations Manager
Phone/WhatsApp: +91 81064 02896

Note: This is not a sponsored post. I pay full price for my rides. I share this because after 20+ hours of flying, reliability is the only luxury that matters.

Dining at the Tomb: Chef Manish Mehrotra’s Historic New Venture

2026-01-16T05:01:00.000-08:00

Dining with History: Chef Manish Mehrotra’s Nisaba

Chef Manish Mehrotra has returned to the Delhi dining scene, and he has chosen a location as iconic as his culinary reputation.

His new restaurant, Nisaba, is situated near the Humayun’s Tomb complex and Sunder Nursery. While Chef Mehrotra is often credited with inventing "Modern Indian" cuisine at Indian Accent, Nisaba appears to mark a shift away from modernist theatrics toward what he calls "soulful Indian food."

The Concept
Named after the Sumerian goddess of grain, the restaurant focuses on ingredients and regional depth rather than molecular gastronomy. The interiors, designed by Via Design, are understated to let the food and the historical setting take center stage.

On the Menu
The menu combines nostalgia with refined techniques. According to recent reports, highlights include:

Samosa served with Moradabadi dal and "everything chutney."
Mutton Seekh Kabab paired with blue cheese butter.
Tiger Prawns with Konkan javla butter and Goan poee bread.
Clay Pot Motihari Mutton served with hing sattu kachori.

Why This Matters
This opening suggests a maturity in Indian fine dining. We are moving past the era where "modern" meant foam and smoke. Nisaba seems to argue that the true modernization of Indian cuisine lies in honoring its roots while perfecting the technique.

It is a fascinating blend of history and gastronomy, right in the heart of Delhi.

Sources:

The Joy of an Untroubled Stomach: Eating My Way Through Hyderabad Without Fear

2026-01-16T00:31:00.000-08:00

The Joy of an Untroubled Stomach

The Joy of an Untroubled Stomach: Rediscovering Hyderabad Without the Fear

By Shashi Bellamkonda | January 16, 2026

I didn’t want to write this while I was still in India. Call it superstition, but when you are a traveler who loves food, you don’t jinx a good run. For the first time in decades, I spent nearly a month in Hyderabad without reaching for the Imodium. The silence of my stomach was the loudest sound of the trip.

It sounds trivial until you’ve lived the alternative. In previous years, my visits were punctuated by the hiss of boiling kettles and the constant, low-grade anxiety of "Delhi Belly." But something fundamental has shifted in the hospitality landscape here. The infrastructure of hygiene has finally caught up with the ambition of the cuisine.

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The RO Revolution

The biggest change is invisible until you look for it. Years ago, we spent our trips boiling water or hoarding plastic bottles like they were liquid gold. Today, the Reverse Osmosis (RO) revolution has permeated the city. Homes, restaurants, and hotels have embraced filtration systems that actually work.

It’s a strange, liberating feeling to fill a glass from a filtered tap without calculating the medical risks. However, old habits die hard. While the water is safe, my trust in the vessel itself wavers. I still found myself drinking directly from the bottle at restaurants—not because I doubted the water, but because I wasn’t quite ready to trust that the glass had been washed with the same rigor. Paranoia? Maybe. But when health is the currency for enjoyment, you spend it wisely.

The Digital Automat

The other shift is the sheer velocity of convenience. Apps like Swiggy and Zomato have turned the city into a massive, accessible menu. It’s not just about laziness; it’s about access. We could order tea or coffee from local spots like Chai Kings or Tea Time and have it delivered in minutes, piping hot, sealed, and safe.

“While not having an upset stomach may feel like a small thing, if you consider the feeling of not being able to taste India's vast food, there is so much joy in it.”

High-End Street Food: The "Bandi" Compromise

My niece, acting as my culinary consiglieri, handed me an extensive list of restaurants to try. We hit spots like Pukka Local and Once Upon a Time, which delivered incredible regional depth without the risk.

Another recommendation from my nephew that fascinated me—even though I didn't get to visit personally this time—was a place called Fore Fathers. I was intrigued by a menu item listed as "Bandi Chinese." For the uninitiated, "bandi" refers to the pushcarts that serve the greasy, spicy, uniquely Indian version of Chinese food—Desi Chinese—on the roadside.

Usually, eating from a roadside truck is a gamble I’m no longer willing to take. India isn’t Singapore yet; street hygiene is still a roll of the dice. But the fact that places like Fore Fathers exist to replicate that specific, chaotic taste of the street cart within a sanitary kitchen shows how the city is evolving. It’s a promise of nostalgia without the danger.

We did order from Taaza Kitchen, where the South Indian staples were executed with a freshness that lived up to the name.

Community and Regrets

The highlight of communal dining was a visit to the Yusuf Tekri Food Court. It’s a dry establishment (no liquor served), which shifts the focus entirely to the food and the families. The energy there is electric—generations sitting together, a dozen different kitchens firing at once, and a sense of shared enjoyment that you can’t get from a delivery app.

A dinner at the Sea Annexe of the Secunderabad Club provided a different kind of sustenance: memory. It wasn't about fancy architecture or grandeur; it was about sitting with friends in the open air, enjoying the simple pleasure of good food and great company in a place that feels like a second home.

Was it a perfect trip? Almost. I have one lingering regret. I have a personal rule to eat Pani Puri—the king of street snacks—early in a trip. The logic is strategic: if the spicy, water-filled shells take me down, I have time to recover before the flight home. This time, amidst the feasts and the safety, I simply never got around to it.

I left Hyderabad with my health intact, but my craving for that burst of tamarind and mint remains unsatisfied. Perhaps that’s the best reason to return.

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When you visit another country, the food is often the primary language of connection. For the first time, I felt I could speak that language fluently, without fear of the consequences. India is changing, plate by plate, drop by drop. And I am glad to be able to enjoy it.

Pineapples on the Charminar: Walking Into Hyderabad’s History

2026-01-12T13:26:00.000-08:00

I have visited Hyderabad many times. I have seen the sights, but until recently, I realized I had mostly seen them through the lens of my own limited knowledge or casual conversations with friends.

There is a profound difference between looking at a monument and reading it. I discovered the stories hidden within the Charminar and the newly renovated Qutb Shahi Tombs by taking a walking tour with Yunus Lasania, a journalist and historian known to his followers as "The Hyderabadi Boy."

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The Tea, The Strangers, and The Hospitality

I was introduced to Lasania through a podcast. He has built a dedicated following; on a typical morning, 15 to 20 people will show up for his walks. He even organizes a monthly food experience in a traditional Hyderabadi home, keeping the culinary heritage alive.

Our walk to the Charminar began at the Badshahi Ashurkhana. Since I arrived early, I stopped for tea at the Shadab Hotel. If you have watched enough Bollywood movies, you might think a stranger sitting alone in a local tea stall would attract undue, perhaps negative, attention.

But this is Hyderabad.

Here, strangers are not just tolerated; they are welcomed. The hospitality is woven into the culture as deeply as the tea leaves are steeped in the milk. Along the walk, we also stopped at the famous Niloufer Hotel for chai and biscuits. Listening to the history of the floods, the court, and the city's evolution felt less like a lecture and more like walking directly into a history book.

The Pineapple Insight

Yunus is an excellent storyteller who points out details you would otherwise miss. For the first time, I noticed pineapples carved into the stone structure of the Charminar and the Qutb Shahi Tombs.

I realized that the fascination for foreign goods is not a modern era phenomenon. In the 16th and 17th centuries, the pineapple was an exotic import from South America. Only royalty had access to this "foreign" fruit. They carved it into their monuments to signal their wealth and global reach.

Remember that when you skip past the pineapples at Costco on your next trip. We are still doing the same thing.

"Mine is Bigger Than Yours"

The Qutb Shahi Tombs, recently renovated and rebuilt, are absolutely worth a visit. The architecture tells a clear story of ego and legacy. Rulers built their tombs while they were still alive. The equation was simple: the more powerful you were, the bigger your tomb.

However, history also reveals that discrimination against women might be more of a modern illness than we care to admit. Throughout the Qutb Shahi history, women ruled and battled effectively as Queens and Regents.

In fact, one of the largest and most impressive tombs in the entire necropolis belongs to a woman: Hayat Bakshi Begum. Known as "Ma Saheba," she was the daughter of a King, the wife of a King, and the mother of a King. Her tomb stands equal in grandeur to the men, a testament to her immense power and influence over the dynasty.

We also saw tombs built in the style of South Indian temple architecture for Taramati and Premamati. It was a visual reminder of a time when cultural synthesis was carved in stone.

Experience the Real Hyderabad

Don't just look at the stones; listen to their stories. I highly recommend connecting with Yunus for a walk or a private tour.

Follow him on Instagram: @thathyderabadiboy

You can thank me later.

Sources & Notes

Walking Tour Guide: Yunus Lasania (The Hyderabad History Project).
Historical Reference: Qutb Shahi Heritage Park & Necropolis.
Research Note: Hayat Bakshi Begum (Ma Saheba) played a crucial role as Regent during the transition between the 6th and 7th Sultans.