A Bhojful Life : Faces from the Faded Frames

Faces from the Faded Frames: A Bhojful Life

India, Bharat, Hindustan — call it what you want, but there's no denying we are the reigning world champions in emotional entanglements. We don’t just live life — we marinate in it with full masala! From the first newborn wail to the final farewell yatra, every event here demands two things: rituals and bhoj (because obviously, no soul rests until the gulab jamuns are served).

And now that I’ve moved back to my native place after 25 legendary years of Air Force adventures — I find myself jumping from one bhoj to another like a wedding caterer on steroids. Some days it’s a naming ceremony, next day it’s someone’s tehrvi. Emotional pendulum swinging like a Tarzan vine, but always landing with a plateful of rice, dal, papad, and sweet-sweet memories.

But here’s the twist — I keep bumping into a flurry of people who know me, remember me, and speak of me like they have seen my evolution from ape to human.. And there I stand… smiling, nodding, trying to figure out if they’re from which axis of my dad’s circle,

Blame it on my father. A social legend, a walking NGO, and the original Facebook of his era. He was the kind of man who’d attend a funeral and still manage to make five new friends. Naturally, he had a network so wide, even Jio would be jealous.

Some of these old timers are almost as antique as him, a few slightly better preserved. But all of them, without fail, have tales of “your father was such a man!” — and I nod with pride, smiling as if I wasn’t just mentally googling who they are.

Now speaking of legends — recently, my father’s elder cousin took his final exit. May his soul finally rest... because let me tell you, while alive, he was an unstoppable juggernaut of chill. The original ganjedi-nassedi combo pack. He had diabetes levels that could make a glucometer faint, BP high enough to make a pressure cooker jealous, and yet — this man lived like he had shares in life itself.

And me? I used to see him, alive and kicking — while my disciplined, healthy, salt-of-the-earth father was no more — and I’d fume quietly. Like… “God, really? Him? Not fair!”

But now that he’s finally moved on (probably with a lit joint and a smirk), I find a strange peace. A karmic balance, if you will. No more comparison, no more silent curses to the sky. Just acceptance — with a side of raita.

So today, as I sit back from yet another bhoj, belly full, mind buzzing with nostalgia, I open a bottle of Coca-Cola. A fizzy little tribute to all the faces — the familiar, the forgotten, the gone — who made this life a full-on family drama.

To the legends who shaped us. To the ceremonies that feed us. And to Coca-Cola — because let’s be honest, shraadh ka bhoj hits differently when you chase it with bubbles.

Cheers to life, Indian style. And remember — next gathering's probably this weekend.