This stone-carved vase was purchased by my maternal grandmother’s paternal grandparents in the 1920s from Benaras. It has been in my family for around five generations, travelled across countries, multiple cities and wars.
I was fifteen when I first saw Mani. Twenty-five when I found him again. Rummaging through the wardrobe, I came across a box. Not a wooden chest of treasures, but a measly cardboard box filled with junk. I’m convinced that every household has one.
Many of these objects – the Dori Danda, the Sev Sancha, the Hamam Dasta – are no longer used, but sometimes I find myself using them intentionally, just to remember my grandmother. At first, I was drawn to moments where we were together in the kitchen, the small rituals. Over time that turned into an interest in the kitchen itself.
My tête-à-tête with my family history began when my parents introduced me to a treasure trove of old objects, letters, artworks, and collectibles belonging to Dadu, my paternal grandfather, after he passed away.
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