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The Secret Sauce of Civilisation

The Secret Sauce of Civilisation

That night, as I stood on the pavement outside a vending machine selling cold tea and hot noodles, I was struck by the thought that food is still the last honest language left to us. It carries no passports, only memory. A Bengali migrant in Manhattan clings to his hilsa not for taste, but for nostalgia. A Syrian in Berlin seeks shawarma as one might seek a homeland.
Even here in Kozhikode, where I now live and teach, I have learned to make peace with food cooked in coconut oil—strictly a haircare solution back home in Bengal. I have tasted puttu, avial, and other dishes that speak of lands I did not inherit, but now inhabit.
Civilisation, we are told, advances through conquest, through trade, through empire. But real progress happens through our digestive tract. The British came, saw, and took our spices—along with a lifetime of indigestion. They turned curry into something creamy, confused, and available at Heathrow for £14.99. India digests everything. Empires, religions, railway delays. What remains is a chutney of contradictions—a flavourful, suspiciously sweet and sour melting pot.
In the end, food isn't about hunger. It's about memory. Identity. The soft ache of once belonging, the louder growl of still trying. Food is how we remember who we are and who we once were.
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