In most homes, it's Maa
in the kitchen. In ours,
it is now Baba.

I grew up as a father's princess. While many girls are closest to their mothers — and I love mine deeply — but Baba has always been something more. He is my pal. My very close friend. Someone I can talk to about anything, without hesitation. A learned man with a curious mind, he is as comfortable discussing philosophy as he is debating the right amount of mustard oil in a dish.

Baba had a transferable job his whole career — which meant it was Maa who held the kitchen and the family together, taking care of me and my brother single-handedly, across cities and years. She is an extraordinary cook in her own right. Baba always loved food — you can see it in how he eats, how he talks about it, how his eyes light up at a good meal. But the kitchen was Maa's domain.

Then he retired. And unlike many retired men who find their days in the local para — adda, politics, newspapers, afternoon naps — Baba walked into the kitchen and never left. He started learning from Maa. Slowly, seriously, joyfully.

This site is my attempt to document that journey — not just learning from him, but teaching him too. His slow-cooked Bengali classics meet my air fryer and busy weeknights. My modern shortcuts meet his decades of instinct and love. We are, in the best possible way, teaching each other.

Some recipes here are old Bengali classics. Some are dishes from other parts of India that found their way into our home. All of them carry Baba's touch — a pinch of curiosity, a willingness to experiment, and an enormous amount of love.

"From Baba's Rannaghor to Mine" — his kitchen to my air fryer, his wisdom to my weeknights, his love passed forward, one recipe at a time.

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