If someone were to ask me what part of my culture I carry with me, I’d take a deep breath—and almost instinctively, I’d think of one festival that feels big enough to hold all my roots: Dasain.
Growing up, I often felt a little uncertain, maybe even timid, when it came to explaining where I’m from. Darjeeling is home—it’s my heart, my grounding, a feeling too layered for words. But whenever I tell people that I speak Nepali, the assumption is almost always the same: “Oh, so you’re from Nepal?” And that’s the part that always made me pause.
As I write this, I close my eyes and think of home. I see clear blue skies, sweeping hills, rows of tea leaves—yes, the expected images. But for me, home never feels complete without Dasain. That one word wraps together family, food, joy, ritual, and something more intangible—a sense of belonging.
While many communities fast and reflect during Navratri, in Nepali tradition, we count down the days to Dasain, a celebration of both goddess Durga and our own quiet, yearly return to warmth and family.
We’d all gather at the home of the eldest in the family. The air would be thick with the smell of goat curry bubbling away in the kitchen, rice steaming, and that familiar rustle of new clothes being unwrapped and tried on. The tika our elders placed on our foreheads was made from rice, sindoor, and milk—a thick, sticky mix that felt like love and blessing all in one.
After the rituals came everyone’s favourite part—the feast. We’d usually kick things off with a drink of choice—sometimes a cold beer, sometimes something stronger, or even a glass of jaad, the local rice alcohol. We’d raise our glasses together and toast to Dasain, all in unison. That moment—simple as it was—felt like a ritual of its own.
For appetisers, the choices were always endless. Matar ko achaar was a must on the table—made with white peas, a creamy sesame seed paste, fresh ginger, and green chillies. Then there was the very Darjeeling style aloo dum, made with tiny, whole potatoes. Blazing red and aromatic, it had that bold mix of spices and garlic that made your mouth water before your first bite. It always looked dangerously spicy—but it never was. It had just the right kind of heat.
To pair with your drink, there’d always be mutton fry, coated in a rich red spicy paste with just a bit of gravy clinging to the edges. Then, a simple fish fry, crispy on the outside and soft inside. And then there was something we called “kurch marche”—a mix of fried chicken liver and heart, tossed with onions, ginger, garlic, and finished with a hit of fresh cilantro. It was an easy, no-fuss dish—but everyone loved it.
For the mains, it was always the humble and unbeatable combination of rice and dal. But even here, there were variations. Sometimes it was a simple yellow dal, often served without any tadka. Other times, it was the rich, earthy black dal, made from a special variety we’ve never quite managed to find in the city.
Even now, when the craving hits, we have to request a special delivery from back home—because that dal just doesn’t taste the same anywhere else.
Alongside this, there’d be Rai ko saag, a locally grown leafy green from the hills, sautéed just right. And always some iskus—another local vegetable that showed up in nearly every Dasain plate, soft and subtly sweet. For the meat eaters, a large variety of chicken and mutton curry was always promised on the table.
Once Dasain winds down, our eyes are already on the next celebration—the day after Diwali. That time of year when we roll up our sleeves, gather in the kitchen, and start making sel roti.
The batter is thick and rich—made with rice flour, ghee, milk, and sugar—then carefully swirled into hot, bubbling ghee. The sizzle, the golden rings puffing up in the pan, the sweet smell filling the air. It’s tradition, joy, and nostalgia, all in one.
We’d eat them warm—crispy on the outside, soft in the middle—with tea in hand, often too full from the week before, but never saying no to one more bite.
Dasain is stitched together by old stories, spice-stained fingertips, laughter that spills into the kitchen, and the smell of food that only ever seems to exist there, in that house, during that time of year.
It reminds me who I am, where I come from, and how something as simple as dal and rice, or a swirl of sel roti batter, can carry the weight of home.
