A Taste Of Home

Kiran’s favorite part of the day used to be lunchtime. His mom always packed his favorite meals—soft roti wrapped in foil and warm daal in a little thermos. The smell reminded him of his kitchen at home, where his mother hummed while cooking and sprinkled spices like magic dust into bubbling pots.

But today, when Kiran opened his lunchbox in the cafeteria, the room filled with voices and clattering trays. He smiled as the warm scent of turmeric and cumin reached his nose.

Before he could take a bite, a boy at the next table wrinkled his nose.
“Eww, what’s that smell?” the boy said loudly. A few other kids turned and giggled.
“Looks like soup. Yellow soup,” a girl whispered, not nicely.

Kiran’s smile faded. His ears got hot. He quietly shut the lid of his lunchbox and stared at the table.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” asked James, a kid who sometimes traded snacks with him.

“I’m not that hungry,” Kiran mumbled, tucking the lunchbox back into his backpack. His belly rumbled in protest.

That evening, Kiran sat at the kitchen table, poking at his dinner. His mother noticed.

“You didn’t finish your lunch, beta,” she said softly.

Kiran shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”

His mother paused, then pulled up a chair next to him. “Did someone say something about your food?”

Kiran looked down. “They said it smelled funny.”

His mother gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Food from home always smells different—because it’s special. Different doesn’t mean bad.”

Kiran didn’t say anything.

After a moment, his mother’s eyes twinkled. “How about this? Tomorrow, I’ll pack a little extra. Just enough for a taste test. You can ask if anyone wants to try a bite.”

Kiran’s eyes widened. “What if they laugh again?”

“Maybe they won’t,” she said. “And maybe you’ll help someone learn something new.”

Kiran didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no either.

The next morning, his mom wrapped two soft rotis in foil and packed a small container of daal with a spoon. “For the taste testers,” she said with a smile.

At school, Kiran stared at his lunchbox all morning. His hands were sweaty. When the lunch bell rang, his feet felt heavy as he walked to the cafeteria.

He sat down and slowly opened the lid. The familiar scent wafted out again. This time, he didn’t close the box. He took out the little plate and scooped some daal onto it, then placed the rotis next to it.

A few kids noticed. So did Jason, who always had a peanut butter sandwich and apple slices.

“What’s that?” Jason asked, leaning over curiously.

Kiran’s voice came out small. “It’s called roti and daal. Do you want to try a bite?”

Jason shrugged. “Sure.”

Kiran handed him a small piece on a napkin. Jason took a bite—and his eyes lit up.

“Whoa! This is way better than my peanut butter sandwich.”

A few more kids turned around.

“Is it spicy?”
“What’s in it?”
“Can I try?”

Kiran carefully handed out tiny samples to a few kids. They chewed slowly, then smiled.

“This is so good.”
“It’s kinda like stew!”
“My mom makes flatbread, but it’s different. Yours is soft!”

For the first time in the lunchroom, Kiran sat tall. He unwrapped the rest of his roti and dipped it into his daal. This time, nobody wrinkled their nose. And even if someone did, Kiran didn’t care as much anymore.

That afternoon, his teacher, Ms. Lane, stopped by his desk.

“I heard about your lunch adventure today,” she said. “Would you like to bring a dish for our International Food Day next month?”

Kiran’s face lit up. “Yes! My mom makes the best chana masala too.”

“I can’t wait to try it,” Ms. Lane said.

As he packed his bag to go home, Jason came over.

“Hey,” he said. “Can I sit at your table again tomorrow?”

Kiran grinned. “Sure. But only if you’re okay with sharing your apple slices.”

“Deal,” Jason laughed.

That night, Kiran told his mom everything. She hugged him close.

“You were brave,” she said. “And now they know how delicious your food is.”

Kiran nodded. He knew the lunchbox might still smell like turmeric tomorrow—but now, to him, it smelled like pride.