An ordinary life

I don’t believe that dreams foretell the future, or that they carry messages from some supernatural realm. I don’t treat them as omens, warnings, or encrypted prophecies. They arrive unannounced, perform their brief theatre, and disappear – often before we have had time to take proper note of them.

These days, I make a conscious effort to revisit my dreams – the pleasant ones, at least – before they fade, as remembered dreams almost always do. I replay their images and fragments of conversation, trying to hold them in place for a few extra minutes. Experience has taught me that unpleasant dreams often have less to do with buried trauma than with what I ate or drank the night before, and how much of it. Our biome, our hormones, and the chemistry of our cells exert a far greater influence on both conscious and subconscious life than we usually acknowledge.

Dreams are not messages. They are the subconscious mind doing what it does best: making connections – often random, but rarely senseless. The mind gathers scraps of memory, anxiety, thought, feeling, sensation, and imagination, and stitches them into narratives that may defy time and space, yet remain oddly coherent in their emotional logic.

Carl Jung believed that dreams were not disguises to be decoded but expressions – the psyche speaking to itself in its own symbolic language. One need not accept his metaphysics to recognise the insight. Sometimes these connections expose old fears resurfacing under mental stress or physical discomfort. I have often found myself, in dreams, flying at great speed just above treetops in familiar landscapes, unable to slow down, dodging electrical cables at the last second, or trapped in a cave.

“Dreams are not a different world – they are a more honest one.”

• Milan Kundera

In my experience dreams often do something more generous. They invent situations involving familiar people that unfold in unpredictable yet compelling ways I could never have imagined while awake. Conversations feel uncannily real. Scenes follow their own internal logic. Stories unfold without any obligation to conclude or resolve themselves. In such moments, the dreaming mind behaves like an artist freed from the tyranny of plausibility and utility.

Perhaps both dreams and art (about which I know next to nothing) emerge from the same underground workshop. Perhaps both rely on the mind’s ability to connect distant dots and allow contradictions to coexist. Colin Wilson wrote of consciousness not as a fixed state but as something that expands and contracts, slipping into heightened modes when freed from routine perception. Dreams, in this sense, are not lapses but experiments – brief excursions into alternative ways of seeing.

And then the curtain comes down. We wake up mid-scene, left with a mood, an image, a residue of meaning that resists explanation.

Dreams remind us that even when consciousness switches off, creativity does not. As Nietzsche put it, “We have art in order not to die of the truth.” Maybe we have dreams for the same reason.

Several Indians I spoke with in the past eulogised – or at least empathised with – Donald Trump’s impatience with liberal elites, progressive language, and global institutions that often appear remote from everyday concerns. They appreciated his rejection of political correctness, his scepticism of multilateralism, and his insistence that the USA should pursue its own interests without excessive explanation. His hard line on migration and his explicitly transactional view of alliances were regarded less as moral choices and more as practical ones – an acceptance of how power is said to operate in the real world. When it was suggested that this approach might also normalise exclusion or an unusual tolerance for concentrated wealth and power, the concern was dismissed as overinterpretation.

For some time, this difference of view remained largely theoretical. Trump’s decisions were distant, their effects abstract. It was possible to admire the style without having to account for the consequences. That separation has now narrowed. Following the imposition of steep tariffs on India, alongside a visible warming of relations with Pakistan, earlier certainties have given way to a quieter reassessment. The reaction is not anger so much as puzzlement.

Trump’s distancing from India is attributed, among other things, to our continued purchase of oil from Russia. His renewed engagement with Pakistan appears to rest on considerations that are personal or transactional. This follows years of sustained effort by India to persuade the international community that the Pakistani military establishment has been a principal sponsor of global terrorism. Evidently, some positions are more negotiable than others.

The prevailing mood is one of muted disappointment. There is a recognition -expressed carefully – that admiration does not always invite reciprocity. Yet the broader orientation remains unchanged. Russia may be described as a dependable partner, but it is the United States that continues to be regarded as the more consequential relationship.

Accordingly, Trump’s current posture is being understood as temporary. A phase. An interruption. It is assumed that matters will, in time, correct themselves. Until then, patience is advised.

Tum kisi aur ko chahoge toh,

hum intezaar karenge.

Mushkil hogi toh hone doh.

Every devout Hindu usually has a favourite deity. And every deity, in turn, has one or more places of worship where prayers are believed to be more effective than elsewhere – and therefore worth the time, effort and money they demand. Be that as it may, I have no desire to question the faith of any believer, in any deity, at any place of worship, or even any idea of the divine. If worship gives someone hope, confidence, or the strength to deal with fear and uncertainty, that itself is justification enough.

What does trouble me, however, is the practice of VIP darshan.

It represents a peculiar moral shortcut – a quiet but widely accepted belief that the end justifies the means. That if one can reach the sanctum sanctorum faster by leveraging wealth, status, or connections, then one should. It is an approach to worship that fits into no precept of any scripture I am aware of, and certainly into no idea of humility that religion so often preaches.

The stated logic is usually practical: time is precious; queues are long; responsibilities are many. And yet, when one looks closely, the logic is not very different from the one used to justify cutting corners elsewhere in life. What makes it unsettling is not merely the bypassing of the ordinary devotee – standing patiently for hours, sometimes days – but the absence of any discomfort about it.

Instead of guilt, what I often see is pride.

There is pride in recounting how effortlessly one “managed” darshan. Pride in knowing the right person, paying the right amount, or belonging to the right category. Pride, even, in narrating the impatience one was spared. The queue, it seems, is for others – anonymous, faceless, dispensable. The deity, apparently, understands.

But what is being sought in that hurried moment before the idol? Grace? Blessings? Inner peace? Or simply the satisfaction of having completed a transaction efficiently?

Religions across traditions speak of equality before the divine. Of surrender. Of ego dissolving at the threshold of the sacred. And yet, VIP darshan institutionalises hierarchy at precisely that threshold. It converts faith into a fast-track system and devotion into a premium service.

One might argue that the deity does not discriminate; that these are merely human arrangements. That may well be true. But then the question shifts – from what God thinks to what we are willing to accept about ourselves.

If standing in a queue with strangers tests patience, empathy, and humility, perhaps that too is a form of prayer. And if bypassing it flatters our sense of importance, perhaps that too reveals something – but not about the divine.

When I first read When the Shoe Fits nearly twenty years ago, it left a profound and lasting impression – a further shift in my understanding of life, freedom, and the subtle tyranny of power. Osho’s luminous interpretation of Lao Tzu revealed a world where control dissolves, and liberation begins, where the ordinary rhythms of life carry within them the extraordinary secret of being.

Osho invites us to witness the illusions of power: the hunger to dominate, to be recognised, to impose our will. “Power is violence,” he says, “even when it is subtle, even when it hides behind virtue. Freedom is the fragrance that comes when all such ambition has withered away.” 

In a society that worships authority, achievement, and influence, these word remind us that the true kingdom is within; that our restless striving often blinds us to the simplicity of being. Through his parables, Osho illustrates that life’s wisdom is often hidden in ordinary acts. The cobbler who knows the measure of the foot better than the emperor’s tailors becomes the symbol of one who has found the right “fit” in life. “When the shoe fits,” Osho writes, “the foot is forgotten.” 

So it is with life: when we live attuned to our own nature, effort dissolves, and being flows effortlessly, unburdened. Osho continues:

“Easy is right. Begin right and you are easy. Continue easy and you are right.” 

Here is the paradox: the one who grasps power is entangled, but the one who lives with ease is free. Osho reminds us:

“You are, but there is no ‘I’. It is a simple ‘am‑ness’, an ‘is‑ness’, but there is no ‘I’, no crystallised ego.” 

When the heart is right, opposition falls away:

“So, when the shoe fits, the foot is forgotten; when the belt fits, the belly is forgotten; and when the heart is right, ‘for’ and ‘against’ are forgotten.” 

And what is that right heart? It is the heart that ceases to fight itself, the heart that no longer clings to “for” or “against,” but rests in simple being.

This is the heart of freedom – not freedom as a prize, not freedom as a conquest, but freedom as the natural ground. It is not something to claim; it is something to uncover. Osho writes:

“Life is a mystery, not a riddle. It has to be lived, not solved.” 

In today’s world of constant endeavour and self‑promotion, When the Shoe Fits offers an antidote: a reminder that simplicity is not weakness, surrender is not defeat, and the highest mastery is to renounce the very notion of power.

“Don’t help anybody’s expectation of you to grow… Drop fulfilling others’ expectations, and drop expecting others to fulfill yours.” 

In the end, it invites us to return to our natural rhythm, to live authentically, to trust that when the shoe fits, we need no crown, no throne, and no applause – only the quiet joy of being fully at ease with ourselves.

—

To be human is to live between two silences – the one before birth and the one after death. Between them stretches a brief, shimmering interval called life, filled with music and dissonance, laughter and ache. We walk this narrow bridge between joy and sorrow, light and shadow, and in that very balance lies the beauty of being alive.

Albert Camus once wrote, “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” That invincible summer – that inner flame which refuses to die – is what the Bhagavad Gita calls the Atman, the self untouched by fortune or loss. When Arjuna falters on the battlefield of doubt, Krishna reminds him that the soul is eternal, unshaken by circumstance. The true battleground, then, is not outside us, but within – between fear and faith, between the pull of desire and the whisper of wisdom.

Suffering is not an error in the design of existence; it is the pulse of awakening. The Buddha, sitting beneath the Bodhi tree, saw that dukkha – suffering, impermanence, and unsatisfactoriness – is woven into the fabric of life. Yet he also taught that liberation lies not in denial but in awareness. “Pain is certain,” he said, “suffering is optional.” The wound is inevitable; what is optional is our attachment to it. When we stop resisting life’s impermanence, suffering loses its sting and becomes the raw material of freedom.

Joy, too, is not the absence of sorrow but its twin. Khalil Gibran understood this when he wrote, “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”  Joy is not always loud or luminous; it often comes quietly, in the pause between two storms – in the laughter that escapes through tears, in the grace that follows surrender.

Rabindranath Tagore captured this balance with haunting simplicity:

“Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers,

but to be fearless in facing them.

Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain,

but for the heart to conquer it.”

Freedom, then, is not escape from life’s contradictions but participation in them with open eyes. The Gita calls it nishkama karma – to act with full heart and yet remain unattached to outcome. Epictetus, the stoic philosopher, echoed this across continents and centuries when he said, “No man is free who is not master of himself.”  Freedom is not given by destiny or denied by suffering; it is the stillness with which we meet what is.

There is another kind of freedom, gentler and more enduring – the freedom to love life despite its fragility. To look at the world, knowing it will one day vanish, and still say yes. This is not resignation but grace. It is what Tagore called ananda, the quiet joy that rises when we stop grasping and begin to live in presence. It is the light that flickers not in victory, but in acceptance.

We walk, then, across the uneven floor of existence – sometimes dancing, sometimes stumbling, yet always moving. The cracks beneath our feet are not flaws; they are the lines through which light enters.

To be human is to hurt, to hope, and to rise again. To carry sorrow without surrendering to it. To taste joy without clutching at it. To live, fully and freely, in the space between the two silences.

————-

No one I know seems to be familiar with the writings of Colin Wilson. I stumbled upon him quite by accident while browsing in a college library – one of those afternoons when you’re not looking for anything in particular, just drifting along the shelves. A slim paperback caught my eye: The Outsider. I started reading, and within a few pages, I was hooked.

Wilson was young when he wrote it – barely in his twenties -but he wrote as if he’d already lived several intense lives. He was asking the kind of questions that had been buzzing faintly in my own head but that few people around me seemed to take seriously: Why do some people feel life so deeply, almost painfully, while others drift through it half-asleep? Why do we sometimes experience sudden flashes of meaning, only to lose them again in the dullness of routine?

What fascinated me was the way he connected philosophy, literature, and lived experience. He wrote about Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Van Gogh, T.E. Lawrence – all these “outsiders” who couldn’t quite fit into the world because they saw and felt too much. But Wilson wasn’t just analysing them; he was trying to understand how we could all wake up to that same intensity of life – what he later called “Faculty X”, a kind of higher consciousness or expanded awareness.

Over the years I found that Wilson had written about almost everything -existentialism, mysticism, crime, even the occult – all with the same fierce curiosity and restless energy. Reading him felt like being in conversation with someone who refused to accept the limits of ordinary thought.

I later discovered that he wasn’t alone in this quest. Aldous Huxley had written about similar awakenings in The Doors of Perception. Hermann Hesse, in Steppenwolf and Siddhartha, explored the inner journeys of seekers and misfits. Alan Watts brought in the wisdom of the East, showing that enlightenment could be found not in grand gestures but in everyday awareness…

“Religion, mysticism and magic all spring from the same basic ‘feeling’ about the universe: a sudden feeling of meaning, which human beings sometimes ‘pick up’ accidentally, as your radio might pick up some unknown station. Poets feel that we are cut off from meaning by a thick, lead wall, and that sometimes for no reason we can understand the wall seems to vanish and we are suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of the infinite interestingness of things.” – Colin Wilson, The Occult

The true genius of traditional Indian medicine and cuisine lies not just in recognizing the medicinal properties of wild plants, but in the meticulous preparation methods that unlock their healing potential while neutralizing potential toxins.

When you forage, the preparation is half the remedy. Here is a look at the traditional ways these wild vegetables are transformed, moving them from the forest floor to the traditional pharmacy and kitchen, with regional variations highlighted for a broader understanding of India’s diverse culinary heritage:

1. Decoction (Kwath) & Infusion: The Healing Drink
   For internal medicinal use, boiling or steeping the plant material is the most common method. This process, known as a decoction (kwath) or infusion (tea), extracts the water-soluble therapeutic compounds. Regional adaptations often incorporate local spices or pairings to enhance flavors and efficacy.
   • Clerodendrum (Bharangi): The roots and leaves are traditionally used to make a decoction (boiling them in water) to treat respiratory ailments like asthma and chronic cough, helping to clear excess mucus. In Ayurvedic practices from North India (e.g., Uttar Pradesh), it’s often combined with ginger for added warmth, resulting in a mildly bitter and spicy brew; while in tribal regions of Odisha and Chhattisgarh, it’s infused with honey for soothing throat infections, yielding a subtly sweet and earthy flavor. 30 31
   • Green Amaranth (Chaulai): For treating indigestion or for its cooling effect, the leaves are often used to make a simple tea or boiled in water, sometimes alongside the seeds. In Himalayan regions like Uttarakhand, it’s infused with local herbs for a nutrient-rich winter tonic with a mild, grassy taste; whereas in Bengal, a lighter infusion pairs with jaggery for digestive relief, offering a subtly sweet and earthy profile. 10 17
   • Karonda (Wild): The leaves are boiled into a decoction to aid digestion and improve appetite. In Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh, this is enhanced with ajwain (carom seeds) for carminative effects, creating a pungent, aromatic infusion; while in South Indian tribal communities (e.g., Andhra Pradesh), it’s steeped with turmeric for anti-inflammatory benefits, imparting a warm, slightly bitter and earthy flavor. 50 57
2. Paste (Lepa): The External Healer
   The raw or dried plant parts are crushed, ground, or mixed with a medium (like water, honey, or ghee) to create a paste for external application. Across regions, carriers like coconut oil in the South or mustard oil in the North add localized therapeutic twists.
   • Green Amaranth (Chaulai): A leaf paste is applied externally to minor wounds, insect bites, or skin inflammations for its anti-inflammatory and cooling properties. In Goa, it’s mixed with coconut for a soothing coastal remedy with a fresh, nutty aroma; while in Maharashtra, turmeric is added for enhanced antimicrobial effects, lending a warm, spicy scent. 11 18
   • Clerodendrum (Bharangi): The leaf paste is applied topically to relieve joint pain and swelling. A root paste can also be applied externally to manage headaches or promote wound healing. In Kerala, it’s blended with neem for skin issues, resulting in a bitter, herbal paste; contrasting with North Indian versions using sesame oil for rheumatism, which have a nutty, warming profile. 34 35
   • Wood Sorrel (Changeri): The leaf paste is used on the skin to treat acne, boils, and minor skin infections. In Andhra Pradesh, it’s combined with yogurt for a cooling face pack with a tangy, creamy texture; while in Tamil Nadu, aloe vera enhances its hydrating properties for sunburn relief, offering a fresh, soothing feel. 73 76
3. Neutralizing Toxins: The Art of Safe Cooking
   Certain wild edibles contain natural compounds, like oxalates in Colocasia leaves, that can cause severe irritation or itching if consumed improperly. Traditional methods are specifically designed to neutralize these irritants, with regional ingredients reflecting local biodiversity and tastes: Plant Preparation Method for Safety/Consumption Key Traditional Ingredients Used Regional Variations Colocasia Leaves (Arbi ke Patte / Alu chi Paan) Steaming and Boiling are critical. The leaves are often layered with a spiced chickpea flour (besan) paste, rolled, and steamed (Aluwadi/Patra in Maharashtra/Gujarat) or boiled in a curry. Sour Agents (Tamarind/Kokum): These acidic ingredients are universally added to Colocasia dishes to neutralize the sharp, irritating calcium oxalate crystals, making the dish safe and palatable. In Odisha, it’s prepared as Saru Patra Tarkari with mustard seeds, offering a tangy, spicy, and herbaceous flavor with subtle sweetness; in Tamil Nadu, as Sodhi with coconut milk, yielding a mild, creamy, and subtly sweet coconut-infused taste; in Karnataka, as Kesavu curry with regional spices, featuring a mildly earthy, nutty, and tangy-spicy profile; and in Konkani cuisine (Goa/Karnataka), as Alvati with coconut and red chilies, delivering a spicy, tangy, creamy, and silky smooth flavor.

0 1 4 10 11 5 9 30 33 | | Shevla (Wild Banana Flower) (Kelyache Phool) | Boiling and Stir-frying. The flower stalk is cleaned, chopped, and usually boiled once or twice, with the water discarded, to remove any remaining irritants or bitterness. | Tamarind/Sour Fruit: Similar to Colocasia, a souring agent is often used during cooking to ensure safety and flavor. | In Bengal, it’s Mochar Ghonto with potatoes and coconut, providing a delicately spiced, subtly sweet, and coconut-flavored dish with hints of ginger and garam masala; in Tamil Nadu, Vazhaipoo Poriyal with lentils, offering a mild, nutty, and slightly tangy taste with aromatic spices; in Kerala, as Thoran with grated coconut, yielding a fresh, crunchy, and mildly spiced coconut-infused flavor; in Assam, as Koldil with meat or veggies, featuring an earthy, warm, and aromatic profile with whole spices; and in Hyderabad, as a chutney or sukka, delivering a tangy, spicy, and earthy taste with sour notes. 15 17 18 20 23 24 35 27 40 43 | | Pigweed (Bathua) | Cooked as Saag or combined with lentils/flour. It is rarely eaten raw and is safely consumed after being boiled or sautéed into a savory vegetable dish (like Bathua Raita or Saag). | Spices, Ghee, and Lentils: The high iron content is often paired with Vitamin C (like lemon juice) for better absorption. | Predominantly North Indian (e.g., Punjab’s bathu saag with a slightly salty, earthy, and astringent taste; Uttar Pradesh’s parantha with a hearty, spiced, and nutty flavor); in Odisha, as Bathua Saag-Dal curry with a savory, mildly spiced, and comforting lentil-infused profile; and in Rajasthan, mixed into winter soups or rotis for a nutty, tangy twist with subtle saltiness. 65 68 45 46 50 55 57 |

4. Culinary Medley: Integrating with Daily Diet
   For many greens, the medicinal benefits are integrated into the daily diet by cooking them as a sabzi (dry vegetable dish) or mixing them with lentils (dal). Regional cuisines adapt these with local staples, from rice in the South to rotis in the North.
   • Green Amaranth (Chaulai): Often cooked into a simple saag (curried greens) with garlic, onion, and spices, or cooked with lentils (dal) to boost the meal’s nutritional value (iron). In Tamil Nadu, it’s mulaikeerai poriyal with coconut, offering a lightly seasoned, gently cooked taste that’s fresh and mildly bitter if overcooked; in Odisha, as aloo-chaulia tikkis, yielding a spicy, crisp, and flavorful profile with potato; and in Goa, as a mild-spiced sabzi or foogath, providing a succulent, moist, and coconut-flavored dish with subtle spices. 70 73 75 60 62
   • Purslane (Kulfa): Eaten as a salad (raw in small amounts) or stir-fried quickly with minimal spices to preserve its high content of omega-3 fatty acids and antioxidants. In Hyderabad, it’s Kulfa Gosht or dal, featuring a succulent, spicy, and tangy flavor with earthy undertones; in Maharashtra, as Chival Bhaji with bhakri, offering a crunchy, juicy, slightly salty, and sour taste; and in Kashmir/North, as a light saag or raita, providing a tangy, earthy, and mildly tart profile. 80 84 85 86 105 107
   • Curry Leaves (Kadi Patta): Beyond tempering, they are often chewed raw or consumed in a decoction to specifically treat dysentery and support blood sugar control. In South India (Kerala/Tamil Nadu), they’re key in rasam or sambar, imparting a tangy, mildly sweet, and aromatic flavor with peppery notes; in West Bengal/Assam, used in fish curries for a warm, spiced, and earthy taste with mustard or coconut base; and in North Indian dals for subtle aroma, adding a fragrant, nutty, and mildly bitter enhancement to the lentil’s earthy profile. 90 91 93 95 97 100 102

This deep-rooted understanding of preparation is the foundation of traditional Indian wellness, ensuring that the bounty of the wild is consumed safely and effectively across the nation’s varied landscapes.

Indian cuisine is a vibrant tapestry of flavors, where spices are not just seasonings but the soul of every dish. Regional variations stem from local ingredients, climate, cultural influences, and historical trade routes, leading to unique spice pairings that balance heat, aroma, sweetness, sourness, and umami. These pairings often follow Ayurvedic principles of harmony, where spices are chosen for their medicinal properties as well as taste – warming spices in cooler northern regions, cooling or tangy ones in the humid south. Below, we explore key regional spice pairings, drawing from traditional blends and examples. While generalizations exist, household variations add personal flair.

North Indian Spice Pairings

North Indian cuisine, influenced by Mughal and Persian traditions, emphasizes rich, creamy gravies with warming, aromatic spices that create depth and comfort, especially in colder climates. Common pairings include:

• Coriander + Cumin + Turmeric: A foundational trio for earthy base flavors; often bloomed in ghee or oil, then layered with dairy like yogurt or cream to mellow the intensity.
• Garam Masala Blend (Cinnamon + Cloves + Cardamom + Black Pepper): Added toward the end of cooking for warmth and aroma; pairs with onion-tomato bases for balanced heat.
• Kashmiri Chili + Saffron: Provides mild spice and vibrant color; saffron adds floral notes, often infused in milk or water. Example dishes: Butter chicken (garam masala with cream for richness) 3 6 ; Rogan josh (Kashmiri chili with yogurt for tangy depth) 6 .

South Indian Spice Pairings

South Indian flavors are bold, tangy, and vegetarian-leaning, with coastal influences leading to fresh, tempered spices that release aromas through quick frying (tadka). Heat comes from chilies, balanced by coconut or tamarind for cooling effects.

• Mustard Seeds + Curry Leaves + Fenugreek: Tempered in oil for nutty, bitter pops; pairs with asafoetida (hing) to mimic onion-garlic in Jain or sattvic dishes.
• Sambar Powder (Coriander Seeds + Cumin + Red Chilies + Mustard): Ground blend for earthy heat; often with tamarind for sourness and toor dal for creaminess.
• Coconut + Black Pepper: Adds sweetness and mild spice; black pepper provides sharpness without overwhelming heat. Example dishes: Sambar (sambar powder with vegetables and tamarind for tangy stew) 3 6 ; Rasam (black pepper with cumin and curry leaves for peppery broth) 7 .

East Indian Spice Pairings

Eastern cuisine, particularly Bengali and Odia, focuses on subtle, mustard-infused flavors with fish and sweets, using minimal oil for lighter profiles. Spices are often whole or freshly ground for freshness.

• Panch Phoron (Cumin + Mustard + Fenugreek + Fennel + Nigella): Whole seeds tempered together for aromatic, slightly bitter bursts; pairs with mustard oil for pungency.
• Turmeric + Red Chili + Ginger: Basic paste for heat and color; ginger adds freshness, often balanced with sugar or jaggery in sweets-savory dishes.
• Fennel + Nigella: Adds licorice-like sweetness to temper bitterness; commonly in pickles or vegetable stir-fries. Example dishes: Shorshe Ilish (mustard paste with panch phoron for spicy fish curry) 3 ; Cholar Dal (fennel and coconut with lentils for sweet-earthy flavor) 5 .

West Indian Spice Pairings

Western regions like Gujarat and Maharashtra blend sweet, sour, and spicy elements, influenced by vegetarian Jain and Parsi traditions. Spices are vibrant, often with jaggery or tamarind for balance.

• Coriander + Cumin + Mustard Seeds + Turmeric: Ground for everyday masalas; pairs with kokum or tamarind for sour tang and jaggery for subtle sweetness.
• Godha Masala (Cinnamon + Cloves + Sesame + Coconut): Regional blend for nutty depth; used in stuffed vegetables or rice.
• Asafoetida + Red Chili: Replaces garlic-onion in fasting dishes; provides umami and heat. Example dishes: Undhiyu (mixed vegetables with coriander-cumin and jaggery for sweet-sour harmony) 3 ; Vada Pav (chili with coriander for spicy chutney pairing) 7 .

Northeast Indian Spice Pairings

Though less detailed in sources, Northeast cuisine is fermentation-heavy and subtle, with influences from Bhutan and Myanmar. Spices are minimal, focusing on fresh herbs.

• Bhut Jolokia (Ghost Chili) + Ginger + Garlic: Intense heat paired with fresh roots for bold, simple flavors in meats.
• Bamboo Shoot + Fermented Soy + Cumin: Adds sour-umami; cumin provides earthiness in tribal dishes. Example: Pork with bamboo shoot (cumin-ginger for smoky heat) 5 .

General Guidelines for Spice Pairings

Across regions, rules include:

• Blooming/Tempering: Heat whole spices first to release oils (e.g., cumin + mustard in tadka) 7 .
• Layering: Start with base (coriander + cumin), add heat (chili), finish with aroma (garam masala) 6 .
• Balance: Pair opposites—sweet (cardamom) with bitter (fenugreek), hot (chili) with cooling (coconut). Experiment based on ingredients: Meats with warming spices, veggies with tangy ones. For authenticity, toast and grind fresh for potency.