chapter 8

The late afternoon sun painted the balconies in warm hues as Kabir flipped through his phone, looking for inspiration for his next food blog post. Across the divider, Aarti was arranging small pots of herbs she had recently bought, courtesy of Kabir’s advice.  "Hey, Aarti!" Kabir called out, setting his phone down.  She looked up from her basil plant. "What now, Kabir? Another lecture on how to not kill plants?"  Kabir smirked. "No, not today. I was just wondering… how can someone survive on a Gujarati thali every day? All those sweet dals and farsans? Don’t you ever crave some *real* food?"  Aarti straightened, putting her hands on her hips. "Excuse me? Are you insulting the Gujarati thali? Because if you are, I’m going to need you to take that back."  Kabir chuckled. "I’m not insulting it. I’m just saying it’s… well, it’s too sweet. Everything has sugar in it. Even your dal! Who puts sugar in dal?"  "First of all," Aarti began, crossing her arms, "Gujarati food is not too sweet. It’s perfectly balanced. And second, who wouldn’t want a little sweetness in their life? Not everything has to be spicy and oily like your butter chicken."  Kabir gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "How dare you attack butter chicken like that? It’s a masterpiece! A creamy, flavorful hug in a bowl."  Aarti rolled her eyes. "Sure, if you like drowning your food in cream and butter."  "Ah, but that’s the beauty of it!" Kabir said, leaning against the railing. "It’s indulgent. It’s comforting. It’s the kind of food that makes you forget all your problems."  "Right," Aarti said, raising an eyebrow. "And then it gives you a new problem - cholesterol."  Kabir burst out laughing. "Okay, fair point. But admit it, you’ve never actually tried butter chicken, have you?"  "Nope," Aarti said proudly. "And I don’t plan to. I don’t need to eat chicken to enjoy good food."  Kabir shook his head, still smiling. "You’re missing out, Mehta. One bite, and you’d be converted."  "Not going to happen," Aarti said firmly. "But if we’re talking about converting people, have you ever had a proper Gujarati thali? I mean, really had one, with all the farsans, pickles, and sweets?"  Kabir thought for a moment. "I’ve had a thali or two at restaurants. They were… okay."  Aarti gasped. "Okay? You probably went to some generic place that doesn’t know the difference between dhokla and khaman. You need the real deal - a home-cooked Gujarati thali."  Kabir grinned. "Is that an invitation?"  "Maybe," Aarti said, narrowing her eyes playfully. "But only if you promise not to complain about the sweetness."  "Deal," Kabir said, holding out his hand dramatically. "And in return, I’ll cook you some proper Punjabi food. No chicken, I promise. Maybe some dal makhani and butter naan. You’ll love it."  Aarti eyed him skeptically. "Dal makhani? Isn’t that just butter chicken without the chicken?"  Kabir laughed. "Not at all! It’s rich, it’s flavorful, and it’s vegetarian. I guarantee you’ll be licking your plate."  "We’ll see," Aarti said, a smile tugging at her lips.  They both returned to their respective tasks, but the playful banter continued.  They both laughed, their voices carrying through the warm evening air. Though their tastes and traditions seemed worlds apart, their conversations had a way of bringing them closer.  As the sun set over Ahmedabad, their adjoining balconies felt less like separate spaces and more like a shared corner of the world - one where cultural differences weren’t barriers but bridges to friendship and their constant talks bringing them closer and closer by each passing days. . To be continue...