Where Threads Held More Than Just Dried Vegetables

I still remember our rooftops shining in the autumn sun.

Corrugated tin sheets would glow, almost like mirrors, and across them hung long garlands of aubergines and bottle guard slit carefully, threaded with string, and left to dry. They would sway gently in the breeze, deep purple against the bright sky.

The whole place would smell earthy and the aroma of that fresh brinjal used to be some other level.

As we had a joint family then there used to be – Ammaji, Kakni, Bhabi, all sitting together, their hands moving quickly and confidently. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time. Family stories, old memories, little complaints, soft laughter. Their fingers worked without looking.

As children, we were fascinated.

Those hanging aubergines felt magical to us. We didn’t realise then that this was preparation for winter. That this was wisdom. That this was survival.

For them, it wasn’t just cooking.

It was making sure the family had food when the cold months came. It was using what the season gave. It was planning ahead quietly, without fuss. No speeches. Just work done with love.

Slowly, these scenes began to disappear.

The rooftops became empty. Life became faster. People became busier. The younger generation grew up differently. For many Gen Z kids today, these aubergine garlands might sound like a story from another time, something their grandparents mention, but they’ve never actually seen.

And maybe that’s how traditions fade. Not suddenly. Just slowly.

Recently, here in my kitchen in the UK, I decided to recreate that memory.

I used sundried aubergines sourced from Matamaal in Gurgaon,not fresh ones from the rooftop, but close enough to take me back.

As I slit and threaded them, something unexpected happened. I wasn’t just cooking. I was remembering ‘bacchpan ke din’.

My hands slowed down. My mind wandered back to those sunny rooftops. I could almost hear the gentle conversations. I could almost feel that warmth again.

It made me realise something simple but important.

This isn’t just food.

It’s a memory.

It’s survival.

It’s connection.

It’s a way of carrying home with you, even when you live thousands of miles away.

Maybe our children won’t see rooftops full of drying vegetables. Maybe they won’t sit beside Ammaji or Kakni the way we did.

But if we tell them the stories…

If we recreate even a small part of it in our kitchens…

If we keep speaking about it…

Then the thread doesn’t really break.

It just changes hands.

And maybe that’s enough.

Some traditions don’t live on rooftops anymore – they live in the hands that refuse to forget.