Asma Khan & Darjeeling Express

Darjeeling Express is one of the restaurants I had been wanting to visit for years, and I finally made it happen on my last trip to London.

My fascination with the restaurant actually began when I watched Asma Khan on Netflix’s Chef’s Table. She was the first British chef, also the first Indian origin Chef to be featured on the series, and the season featuring her episode was nominated for a Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Documentary or Nonfiction Series. This should give you an idea of just how beautiful that episode is.

Picture courtesy to BBC Good Food

Since then, I’ve become increasingly drawn not just to her cooking, but also to her voice. She was named one of TIME’s 100 Most Influential People, recognised for her influence on food and social progress. She is also an author, and I particularly enjoy reading her writing and opinions in The Guardian and The Independent. Her writing often goes well beyond food, touching on immigration, women’s rights, inequality and the politics of who gets to cook, eat and belong.

But what makes Asma’s story so fascinating is that food wasn’t where she started.

 

She was a journalist in India, moved to Cambridge after marriage, studied law and completed a PhD in British Constitutional Law at King’s College London. And then, after all those academic achievements including being awarded an honorary fellowship by Oxford, she found herself drawn to something much simpler and much more personal: feeding people.

 

She began with supper clubs in her home in 2012. Those gradually grew into a pop-up in a Soho pub and eventually into Darjeeling Express, which opened in 2017. Today, the restaurant is in Rupert Street, but the heart of it still remains the same: homestyle Indian food, cooked with patience, memories and absolutely no desire to dilute it for anyone.

 

And then there is her kitchen.

An all-women kitchen, many of them South Asian women who had never received formal culinary training. Asma gave home-cooks a professional kitchen and, more importantly, a space where their skills were finally recognised. Some of the women who started with her have gone on to lead kitchens and supper clubs of their own.

There is something incredibly beautiful about that.

 

The food itself feels unapologetically homely. Asma has always been very clear about protecting the integrity of her recipes rather than changing them to suit every possible palate.

And her puchkas…

I mean it when I say, these may be the best I have ever had. I am not sure any pani puri or Golgappas I have eaten across North India can beat them. One bite and it was an instant ticket to heaven for a few seconds. The magic is in the Paani of the puchkas.

On the left is Kheema toastie(a crowd favourite), on top right is Asma's famous Momos  and then below is 'The Puchkas'

In the photo above : Badami Bhaingan (a must-have vegetarian dish if you like aubergine), Saag Paneer, and Kosha Mangsho (a must-have Bengali mutton dish). Asma hates the word “curry”: as she puts it, the British “needed to dumb it down to the lowest common denominator” by calling everything one thing, when Indian cuisine has individual names for its dishes. Better to watch the video than have me attempt to explain it!

I had specifically wanted to try the bhapa doi, but by the time we ordered, it was already finished. They suggested the khoobani ka meetha instead, made with whole apricots. It looked ridiculously simple, but the moment you mix it with the cream on the side… BOOM.

 

A complete explosion of flavour.

 

That, to me, is the magic of really good food. It doesn’t always need to look elaborate. Sometimes a simplest-looking dish can completely surprise you.

On the left is 'khoobani ka meetha' & on the right is 'gajar ka halwa' both served with cream

And the gajar ka halwa deserves its own mention. It is a labour of love, traditionally requiring hours of slow cooking and constant stirring, especially when prepared in large quantities. I have heard Asma mention in an interview that, in her restaurant they cook it fresh everyday and the whole process takes 8 hours of constant stirring.

 

You can definitely taste the patience, time, and affection that went into making this dish at Darjeeling Express.

 

The lassi looked plain and unassuming, but it absolutely blew our minds!

 

But perhaps what I loved most about Darjeeling Express is that the food is only one part of the story.

Asma is outspoken about the way women are treated in professional kitchens and about creating kitchens without the shouting, shaming and hierarchy that define traditional kitchen culture. She has also used food as a vehicle for social causes, from her early supper clubs supporting charity to her work advocating for food justice and women’s empowerment. I enjoyed watching her interview with Vir Sanghvi on Table 1 where she speaks about taking on industry giants like Gordon Ramsay, the glorification of toxic kitchen cultures, and the deeply lonely price of success. She breaks down exactly how kitchens are run, who gets heard, and who gets slapped. (Click Here to watch the full conversation)

In her conversation with Trevor Noah on 'What Now? with Trevor Noah' (Click Here to watch the full podcast) I loved how candid she was about fine dining and the whole obsession with Michelin recognition. She challenges the notion that Indian cuisine must be transformed into a Western fine-dining format to be considered worthy of recognition and also challenges the rituals of fine dining itself.

I laughed, I nodded, and I thought: Yes. That’s Asma.

 

Raw. Unfiltered. Bold. Completely herself.

 

And perhaps that is what I admire the most.

 

She built something successful without losing the reason she started it in the first place: the joy of feeding people, the food she grew up with, the women behind those recipes and the stories that live inside them.

Having long been a fan of Bengali cinema, literature, and music, I have now fallen in love with Bengali cuisine as well.

P.S. I Love you, Asma Khan

An Unfiltered Diary Note of a Valorous Kite

This was a blog post from my drafts, dated 2016.

So, here is how it oddly begins...

A kite was born from a soul’s deep desire, a little key he believed could keep him happy, he thought.

It was given colours- its talents, a design- its character, and every little detail was a unique choice made by its creator. The creator never wanted to part with his kite. It was his creation, his thought, his love, his needs, and a part of his life.

But fate had other plans. The creator was taken to the heavens.

And once he was gone, people began fighting over the kite, like children fighting over a kite that had fallen from the sky. Everyone wanted to claim it, because it belonged to no one anymore.

But no one truly understood the attachment the creator had for it.

Because the kite was never just a kite.

It was the creator's thoughts, his needs, his love, and a living piece of his existence.

The creator had made the kite for his wife, the woman he wanted to see happy. She eventually moved on and found her own happiness. In doing so, she slowly forgot about the kite and, perhaps, even the person who had created it.

At one point, she had found a refuge. A place where it could be protected. But life brought new turns, new priorities, and new responsibilities. Slowly, the kite became something forgotten.

Yet the kite never blamed her.

She was its connection to the world. She was its window to everything outside. More than anything, the kite wanted her to be happy.

So it accepted every violent twist and turn that life threw at it.

The kite believed in many things.

It believed that the wind liked it.

It believed that the wind wanted to see it dancing freely in the sky.

But perhaps that was never true.

Even when the wind became harsh, the kite convinced itself that these were experiences meant to make it stronger. Every storm became a lesson. Every struggle became an opportunity to learn.

But the truth was much harsher.

With every storm, something important was being torn away.

Every time the kite showed its strength and courage, its beauty was questioned. Every time it survived, people expected it to survive even more.

The kite had a strong skin. It could withstand blow after blow.

But even the strongest skin wears out.

The wind was essential for the kite's survival. Without the wind, it could not fly. Yet the very thing it needed to survive was also slowly destroying it.

That is the irony of the kite's life.

Life itself was ordinary, but it felt unbearably difficult because there was no one holding its string.

Everyone believed the kite was strong enough to take care of itself.

They forgot one simple thing.

It was still just a kite.

And the wind, the very thing it needed to fly, could also be the thing that destroyed it.

So every time the wind became stronger, the thread would tighten and the spool would turn faster.

The kite would desperately cling to whatever solid thing it could find. A pipe. A hook. A corner of someone else's building.

Anything that could keep it from being carried away into the uncertain sky.

Until one day, there was nothing left to hold on to.

No more pipes.

No more hooks.

No more buildings.

No more strength to keep searching for something to cling to.

And that was when the kite finally understood something.

Every strange building it had clung to during every storm was an attempt to find its creator again.

It had been searching for its creator in every place, in every person, in every shelter.

Now the kite decided to let go.

Not because it had given up.

But because it had finally stopped caring about those who did not care for it.

There was only one thing left to do.

Fly.

Fly in search of its creator.

The kite was the last remaining proof that its creator had once existed on Earth.

And because of that, the kite would never give up.

It would never destroy itself.

It would protect itself from fire.

It would protect itself from water.

It would protect whatever remained of the creator's work.

But the wind would keep getting harsher.

And strangely, the kite no longer feared it.

The kite needed the wind to fly.

And flying was the only way it could continue its journey towards its creator.

So now, the kite kinda hoped that the wind will not stop.

It hoped that the wind will push harder.

Stronger.

Farther.

Faster.

How strange is life?

The kite that once feared the wind now wants the wind to blow harder, because every storm brings it closer to where it wants to go.

Maybe that is what courage really is.

Not the absence of fear, but the decision to keep flying even when the very thing carrying you can also break you.

The kite will fly.

It will protect itself.

It will carry the colours, the character, the love, and the memories its creator gave it.

And someday, when it finally reaches him, perhaps the creator will look at his kite and know that it never stopped trying to come home.

Kiss life. And fly.

A summer evening at Shakespeare’s Globe

A summer evening at Shakespeare’s Globe, watching A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Shakespeare’s Globe is one of the most extraordinary buildings in London.

 

The original Globe Theatre, built in 1599, was destroyed by fire in 1613 when a theatrical cannon misfired during a performance, setting its thatched roof ablaze.

When the Globe was reconstructed and reopened in 1997, every effort was made to remain faithful to the original. Traditional Tudor-style bricks were recreated using clay mixed with goat hair, the structure was built entirely from timber, no steel was used and the iconic thatched roof was restored.

 

That last detail is remarkable. Following the Great Fire of London in 1666, thatched roofs were effectively prohibited within the city because of the fire risk. Yet, to honor Shakespeare’s legacy, London made a rare exception for the Globe.

 

As Shakespeare wrote, “All the world’s a stage.” And for the Globe, London was willing to bend the rules to keep that stage alive.

 

Shakespeare’s Globe is more than a theatre. It is a living piece of history. Inspired by the original Globe, where many of William Shakespeare’s plays were first performed, today’s theatre stands just a short walk from its original site on London’s South Bank.

 

William Shakespeare (1564–1616) wasn’t just England’s greatest playwright; his stories of love, ambition, jealousy, and human nature continue to speak to audiences across centuries and cultures. Watching one of his plays here felt less like visiting a landmark and more like stepping into the world that shaped theatre as we know it.

My first instinct was to look for Julius Caesar among the books and other things on sale in the shop within the globe complex. Some things just stay with you forever.

 

The moment I stepped into Shakespeare’s Globe, I found myself reminiscing about my English drama classes and my favorite teacher who first introduced me to Shakespeare. Little did I know that, years later, I’d be watching one of his plays in the very theatre that celebrates his legacy.

 

For better context: Those who studied under the ICSE curriculum, English wasn’t just another subject. We had two papers; English I for language, composition and comprehension, and English II for literature. English II was a three-year journey, from Class 8 right up to the board exams in Class 10, with three prescribed books for the 3 years together: a Shakespeare play, a collection of poems, and a collection of short stories. Julius Caesar in particular for my batch.

This means we probably spent well over a thousand days reading, analysing, memorizing, performing, and living Shakespeare’s words. I don’t think there is any other syllabus in schools or colleges in India where students study the same text so intensively for three years. Perhaps that is why the Shakespeare play we learnt at school is so deeply etched in our memories.

No wonder standing in the Globe felt less like visiting a tourist attraction and more like coming home to an old friend. 

“He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man.”- Beatrice
From Shakespeare’s comedy 'Much Ado About Nothing' Act 2 scene 1

“Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.”- Rosalind
From ‘As You Like It’ Act 3 Scene 2