The mythology of food in India is storied and the best fables revolve around pregnancy. Twins, some believe, are the result of eating twin bananas – fruit that has the power to impregnate a man.

Settle down in front of your TV with these piping hot dal baras as, you watch the battle for Chhattisgarh unfold. #ChhattisgarhElections2018

Gujaratis inherit a penchant for "food terrorism". There were Gujarati kids at school who wouldn’t drink “jhoota” water in case it had been touched by a meat eater. And there was my grandmother who’d remind me that I was Jain every time I’d go for an evening snack.

Despite being from a cosmopolitan family, I realised that every day, I was unwittingly consuming our caste on my plate. In the game of kitchen politics, caste is a far more deeply riven divide, than the differences between North and South Indian food.

My mother has published a cookbook; my aunt has made meticulous recipe cards with the fond intention of passing them down to the next generation. And yet, an appeal to either one for how to make a favourite dish turns into an hour spent deciphering how much “about a handful” is, or when a dish “smells of dum”.

The humble varan bhaat toop is as versatile and ubiquitous as Radhika Apte’s appearances on Netflix. Sometimes it is plain simple comfort food, at other times it’s part of an elaborate offering to Bappa. A love for varan bhaat toop is the epitome of Maharashtrian-ness.

The CBFC's at it again, this time it has gone after Amartya Sen. escalating stupidity up to ten, we've made them a cocktail, to help them find zen.

I miss the days when my big family, all 25 of us, travelled on a train to Goa for a winter break. But what I miss the most is the train-wallah tomato soup with a side of croutons.

Last month, when Alps, a four-decade-old beer bar at Colaba, shut down unannounced, no one seemed to instantly notice. It didn’t warrant blockbuster social media obituaries like Cafe Zoe did. That’s the thing about Alps, it never hankered for attention or loyalty. It just waited until it earned it.

Ask any TamBrahm, and they would swear by their kula deivam (family God) that not wrapping up a meal with thayir-sadam (curd rice) and some lemon pickle is enough to get you ostracised.

Hostel nostalgia taaza karo, bread ke beech mein bhujia bharo.

West Bengal, you made the battle for a GI tag for the rosogolla, an ego tussle didn’t you? Surely you could have left this one dish for Odisha.

On Durga Pujo, the lives of the big-eyed, gentle-faced, and maach-guzzling Bengalis are marred by a potent shadow of the world’s most deadly dose of ABC – ambol (acidity), bodhojom (indigestion), and constipation.

Indian restaurants and pubs have their own caste system. Firangs are the Brahmins of the restaurant world, and next in line are Silver Spoons – celebrities from the film industry. All the hospitality is reserved for them. At the bottom of the rung are single, young men, aka the Sad Stag Group.

Gone are the days of good old steamed idlis and paneer-capsicum pizza. Today restaurants that serve pav bhaji fondue and red velvet dhokla flourish. It doesn’t matter if the food tastes awful. Just like our lives online, it is only important that the food we eat looks great.

Most middle-class Bengali families such as mine are moderately open-minded. You can make honest confessions to them about your vices and hope for a friendly ear, but never about your vegetarianism.

Every time my dad sent me to fetch cigarettes, I would buy Phantom cigarette candy from the paan tapri below my house. I felt like a big boy as I tapped out one and took a fake puff.

We’ve gone about foolishly discarding the wisdom passed down the ages and putting our faith in the sum total of a few men’s trials and errors.

No dressing on diners, please. Back-to-the-basics brunch has got everyone’s taste buds tingling. What else could explain the popularity of London’s first naked restaurant?