Anybody who has grown up in a North Indian household knows that paranthas were never merely food. They had hierarchy, personality and emotional status inside the house. Some were everyday paranthas, some belonged to winters, some to travelling and some carried almost legendary respect. And somewhere quietly in that respected category sat the aloo parantha. Not many outside Punjab, Haryana or old Delhi households fully understand its greatness. Most people today only talk about cheese paranthas, paneer paranthas or some new fusion filling as if the parantha world begins and ends there. Frankly speaking, the moment somebody says cheese parantha is the king of all paranthas, one immediately knows he has probably never eaten a properly made aloo parantha fresh off the tawa with white makkhan melting on top. Because aloo parantha has a personality altogether different from besan or paneer. Besan parantha feels rustic and sharp. Paneer parantha feels rich. But aloo parantha has comfort, softness and a homeliness which feels almost impossible to find once you start eating outside. And unlike modern restaurant paranthas overloaded with cheese, mayonnaise and unnecessary drama, aloo parantha came from homes. Proper homes. Kitchens where mothers cooked by instinct and not by YouTube measurements. In our house this parantha was a regular sight. Three or four times a week because most of us liked this breakfast. There was no announcement. You just woke up in the morning and from the kitchen would come that smell. Boiled aloo being mashed. Green chillies hitting hot oil. The faint crush of anardana being added. The warmth of it travelling through the house before the parantha itself had even touched the tawa. That smell meant one thing. She was making it. And I used to say, mummy pehla parantha main khawanga. My mother made this parantha. She made it for my father, my younger sister, and later my younger brother when he was born and started growing up. She made it so regularly that we never thought to ask why. It was just what mornings looked like. She never treated the filling casually. That was the entire soul of the parantha. Boiled aloo, mashed. Then hari mirch, hara dhania, adrak used very sparingly, namak, lal mirch powder, kashmiri lal mirch powder for that vibrant red color without making it too spicy. Haldi very less, many Punjabi households skip it. Dhaniya powder for warmth and depth. Pyaz optional, finely chopped, only if the paranthas were to be eaten immediately since onions release moisture over time. Everything measured by hand, by eye, by the sound of it falling into the bowl. And anardana. Coarsely crushed anardana. That was the real secret in this filling. It added a sweet-tangy burst of flavor and a slight fruity acidity. A traditional ingredient in many Punjabi aloo parathas, often used instead of or along with amchur. I once asked her, mummy anardana kuttya hoya kyon paande ho tussi, and she used to say aide naal khatta pan aunda te swad banda parontha. It brings the tanginess and enhances the flavor of the parantha. She never announced it as her special touch. You only noticed it by its absence when you ate the same parantha somewhere else and wondered why it felt incomplete. The dough was made from atta. Nothing fancy. But the real art was moisture balance. Too dry and the filling became dusty. Too wet and the parantha tore apart while rolling. She always got that balance perfect without measuring anything. That generation cooked through sound, smell and touch. They did not stand with teaspoons looking nervous. Then came the rolling, which itself required real skill. She rolled the peda first, filled it, sealed it and rolled it again. She used to roll it with care and never fast. And never once did I find the filling breaking out of the dough. How she did it, I never understood. I used to ask her, mummy tussi aina hole hole kyun welde ho paronthe noo, and she used to say cheti da kam shaitan da, holi holi theek hai nahi te roti dingi wingi ho jaani, te jori di welan ferya te masala khilar jayega roti to bahar aa jayega. The moment rolling pressure increased slightly too much with anyone else, the stuffing tried escaping from the sides like rebellious passengers getting off an overcrowded Delhi bus. And still she handled it effortlessly, talking to me the whole time, laughing at something, making some observation about a relative that I am not going to repeat here. The parantha would finally land on the hot tawa. And here was the thing about her method which nobody seems to follow anymore. She never shallow-fried it in oil or ghee like many people do today. The parantha was just made like a normal roti but she senkofied it well and the parantha was never kaccha. As soon as the parantha was put on tawa the smell of baked parantha filled the air. Once it was done then only she applied white butter on it. That is how I loved it and that was healthier as it was not fried. And she always said, roj tawe wale paronthe kha kha ke boriyat hundi, kal tandoor wale banawangi, so we used to get tawa version and tandoor version both regularly. And the best way to eat it was never with complicated accompaniments. Dhaniya pudina chutney. Or achar of hari mirch, aam ka achar, nimbu ka achar, bharwa lal mirch achar, shalgam gobi gazar mix khatta meetha achar. Thanda chakke daar dahi. Lot of homemade white butter on paranthas. And lassi. Salted lassi. That was enough. She knew I loved the paranthas and would not stand up unless I had eaten at least two or three. So upfront she used to say habshiyan warga naa khawin roj hi bande ne paronthe, and I used to laugh like crazy. I tried to make it a few times. My mother was not satisfied by whatever I used to make. Today when I eat aloo parantha outside or even at home, it is not the same. Can't say I am disappointed but it is not the same as my mother made. My sister in law, the wife of my younger brother, she makes it now. After my mother passed away in 2019 the parantha is not made the way she used to make it. It is always fried and the filling isn't the same either. It is nowhere near as elaborate as hers. She left us in 2019. I don't know why food brings her back so completely. But it does, every time. The moment that smell of boiling aloo and roasting spices comes, I am back in that kitchen. She is saying something, probably something funny, hands moving through the dough without once looking down. She never wrote anything down. It never crossed her mind to. And like most mothers, she assumed there would always be more time. Today aloo parantha may remain more famous and cheese parantha more fashionable. But my mother's aloo parantha belongs to a different league for me. It always will. The smell of old kitchens. Morning light. Steel plates. Homemade white butter melting on top. Salted lassi in a steel glass. The sound of her laughing before the punchline landed, which she always did. And a mother who showed up quietly, made your favourite thing, and never once mentioned it. If this brought back memories of your own mother's kitchen, I'd love to hear them.

Hey @grok based on my tweets and personal experience while talking to me, which live action goated Hollywood character suits/resembles me the most? Real human only, no cartoon no animation. Just name and short explanation.

🤣🤣

Hey @grok on based of my tweets which Bollywood character suits me most. Blame it on @AmTrehan copied from him.

Hey @grok Based on my timeline, which Mahabharata character matches my personality best? Does it also have layers of any other character (such as a strong second)? Please be descriptive and explain the various factors that led to your conclusion, not just a single reason.

Found this gem from facebook today.

Wishing a very happy birthday to my brother @SatiiSingh from another mother. You are truly one of the kindest and most genuine human beings I've ever met. Wishing you the absolute best in life. Stay blessed, brother! Love you ❤️

Shubh Ashtami! Maa Durga aapke jeevan mein sukh, shanti aur samriddhi laayein. Jai Mata Di! 🚩🙏

I can understand why that would feel disappointing. For you, it probably wasn’t just about the age limit itself, but the principle behind it, that rules should be followed consistently, especially by those who set them in the first place. Once exceptions are made for oneself, it naturally makes people wonder whether the rule was ever truly a principle or just a convenient arrangement. There’s also a larger human truth at play here. Once you taste power, it can be extraordinarily hard to let go of it. Three consecutive terms only deepen that attachment. Not to mention, this position comes with its own set of privileges, like the chance to travel extensively around the world in an official capacity. I can totally understand why someone who’s gotten used to that kind of life would find it hard to step away from it. What has disappointed me most, though, is this third term. I’ve found several decisions and directions of the government deeply troubling, especially where they seem to have widened social divisions instead of bringing people together. For me, that makes the issue about much more than simply breaking an old convention. It’s about what happens when power becomes more important than the principles that were once used to justify it.