I was once an engineer — a proud problem-solver, deeply in love with numbers, blueprints, and deadlines. I spent my days in conference rooms and code, living in the structure that engineering provided. Life was organized. Predictable. Safe.

Then, everything changed.

My mother — the warmest soul I knew, and the heart of our kitchen — fell ill. The woman who once woke up at 5 AM to grind fresh spices, who made even a simple dal taste like a celebration, could barely lift a spoon. Watching her weaken was unbearable. The doctors gave us a name for her condition, but nothing could define the helplessness I felt.

In those long hospital days, I found myself clinging to one thing: her recipes. Torn scraps of paper, stained notebooks, half-finished voice notes — they became my blueprint for hope. I started cooking — not just to feed her, but to feel close to her, to hold onto her spirit when her body was fading.

I began experimenting, failing, trying again. Every dish I recreated from her notes brought back a piece of her smile. Slowly, I started documenting them — first in a notebook, then in photos, and eventually, on a blog.

What started as therapy became passion.