My grandmother used to feed me Dudh Kola Bhaat after school and tell me stories about Kabuliwala. I have lost count how many times I had the story narrated to me but I could never get enough of it. After my grandmother passed away I have smashed a banana, some milk and rice to recreate that taste in many ways, but have failed. After having tasted countless cuisines in the world, I would still give anything to eat that Dudh Kola Bhat (milk, banana, rice) my grandmother used to feed me.

I watch as Doobydobap (Youtuber) takes me through a journey through her food. Stories of her immigrant parents, growing up in the US, Korean food traditions that were passed down to her, navigating her mixed identity with the power of food, of heartbreak, failures, disappointments, family expectations were narrated in a disarmingly charming voice and with each new video I learnt things that went beyond just food. She talks about how a secret stack of ramen that belonged to her and her father bonded them. It's a secret they shared as junk food was not allowed at home. I could see how the lore that food carries with it also gives people a sense of identity in a place where you feel rootless. An identity that is webbed together with stories of survival, of community and also of grief. Each ingredient carries with it the aroma of the soil it came from and the traditions that shaped its evolution.

I look at the Maach Bhat Lore painting and it instantly reminds me of the food that I grew up having and that which is such a big part of my identity as a Bengali. I remember when we lived in a joint family, the women in my family always came together to cook our feast everyday. And while the children did their own thing while staying close to their mums, the women abandoned inhibitions and talked their heart out. There was a real sense of camaraderie. They talked about their family, their childhood, their regrets and wins, challenges and their aspirations. I, as a teenager, never inserted myself in the conversations, but I learnt so much about my grandmother, my aunt and even my mother through those stories. It made me understand who they were and what they valued. It made me see them in a different light and also impacted me in curious ways.

It's always a special day when my mother makes Chitol Macher Muittha, a particular recipe that has been in our family for ages. And just like stories are passed down from one mouth to another, the recipe has travelled through generations in our family. My grandmother's version of the dish and my mother's version of the dish are similar but also different. A distinction that only I can pick up on and now it's up to me to keep the story going. Else it's going to get lost in the sands of time and so will our lore.

There are forms of expression far beyond spoken or written language and people are speaking it all the time. Unless you slow down and notice, you might miss it. Food is a love language. It's a confession, an heirloom and like a story it travels from person to person and gets enriched by each new person. Food is never just food, we bond over food, it gives us a voice and it carries its own lore. It brings people together because no matter where we come from, hunger unites us all.