They call me a "Fraud Mallu." It’s a fair accusation, I suppose. I was born in Kerala, but my roots never had time to take hold in the rich soil of Kerala. My father was a crane operator, and our lives moved with the machinery. Wherever the crane went, we went. A new city every year, a new skyline, a new language. And yes, new food.
But the 1990s were kind to us nomads. We lived in townships—microcosms of India where families from everywhere lived shoulder-to-shoulder because they worked at the same factory.
The best days were the celebrations. It didn't matter if it was a birthday or a religious festival; joy was measured in stainless steel tiffin boxes that found its way from kitchen to kitchen. My mother would spend the morning cooking, the kitchen thick with the smell of spices. My brother and I were the logistics managers. We weren't allowed to touch the food, only to transport it.
"Don't swing the bag," she’d warn as she packed the boxes.
If we were lucky, we took the bicycle. We would pedal to the neighbors' houses, hand over the warm steel containers, and wait. That was the best part—the waiting. We watched their faces light up, heard the praise for our mother’s cooking, and then, the ritual exchange. They never returned an empty box. They filled it with their own stories—their curries, their sweets.
On the luckiest days, an uncle or auntie would slip a few coins into our palms. "For your trouble." That money never made it home. It was converted immediately into plates of golgappas at the street corner, a secret feast for two brothers on the long way back.
Years later, reading an article about Ramadan, that memory hit me hard. I live in Fort Kochi now, and walking through Mattancherry feels like walking through those old townships.

It is a map of historic migration you can taste. On Gujarati Road, the samosas crunch just right. On Palace Road, the lassi is so thick and sweet it rivals anything I’ve had in Punjab. There is the heat of the Erachi Choru at Nooriyas, the comfort of Masala Dosa at Sri Krishna, and the legendary biryani at Rahumanias. Just like my childhood, this place is a collection of families who came from elsewhere, bringing their pots and pans with them.
I’m not the only one who sees this magic. My friends at Community 40 are trying to bottle this nostalgia. On February 13th at 4:00 PM, they are hosting a walk called "Mattancherry on a Plate." It’s a journey through 10 to 12 food spots, wandering through the history of these communities, tasting the homemade delicacies, and sharing the stories behind the recipes.
For me, It will be more than a food walk; it’s a chance to carry the tiffin box again.
Details
Date: 13 February, Friday
Time: 4:00–7:00 PM
Venue: Mattancherry, Fort Kochi
Only 10 Seats! Fill the Form Below to Reserve your Spot.
See you there!