In the quiet village of Perumkulam, tucked between swaying coconut palms and the slow rhythm of temple bells, my grandmother—Ammichi—would stand barefoot in her red-tiled kitchen, stirring a pot of something that always smelled like the monsoon and memory. 

She would make this stew—delicate, coconut-rich, yet edged with spice—when someone had returned home, or was about to leave, or just needed comfort. The prawns were fresh from the backwaters, the lentils soft, the squash yielding. 

Years later, I reach for those same flavors—this time wrapped in chai spice, a nod to my own wandering—but the soul of the dish remains hers. The warmth, the hush, the quiet power of a stew that says, you are safe, you are known, you are loved. 

—Neeta