From The Latest Issue: Ranveer Brar On How Food Becomes Faith In India

I have often said that I travel for food. It sounds neat, understandable, and professional. But the truth is far more personal. I travel because somewhere between the first bite and the last sip, something inside me shifts. I return with recipes, yes, but more importantly, I return rearranged.

There are cities that feed your body, and then there are cities that feed your becoming. For me, those cities are Varanasi, Lucknow, Kolkata, Srinagar and Amritsar. They are not just destinations on a map. They are coordinates of my spirit.

It often begins in Varanasi. In this city, you do not simply eat, you receive. At dawn, when the ghats glow gold, and the Ganga carries both ash and hope, even a humble kachori feels sacred. The oil crackles like a chant. The chai steams like incense. Around you, life and death coexist without argument.

Food here tastes of impermanence. You stand by the river, watching flames rise from the cremation ghats, and then you bite into something hot, alive, immediate. It is impossible not to reflect. Varanasi does not allow you to remain untouched. It dissolves arrogance. It humbles you. The food feeds the soul because it reminds you that nothing is permanent. Not sorrow. Not success. Not even flavour. And when you truly understand impermanence, you begin to live and cook with deeper awareness.

From that surrender, I often find myself thinking of Lucknow. Lucknow shaped me long before I understood it was shaping me. This is a city where even disagreement is wrapped in courtesy, where food is not loud but persuasive. A galouti kebab does not shout. It melts. A biryani does not overwhelm. It unfolds.

Here, patience is the most important ingredient. When you cook in Lucknow’s spirit, you learn restraint. You learn that mastery is invisible. That the best seasoning is balance. That the truest authority is gentle. Food feeds the soul here by teaching grace. It teaches you to slow down, to speak softly, and to respect the ingredient. Lucknow reminds you that elegance is strength, and that refinement, like spirituality, is a discipline practised daily.

If Lucknow refines you, Kolkata unsettles you in the best possible way. Kolkata is emotion served warm. You cannot walk through its streets without sensing debate in the air, literature in the tea, music in the rain. Even its sweets carry nostalgia. A mishti doi in Kolkata is not merely a dessert. It is memory fermented, sweetness tinged with longing.

I once stood in Kumartuli watching artisans craft idols. They build knowing it will dissolve. They create, knowing it will end. That philosophy is reflected in the food, too. Kolkata feeds the soul by encouraging you to feel deeply, to engage, to argue, to create, to mourn and celebrate in the same breath. It teaches you that flavour can be intellectual, that food can carry revolution, that sweetness can coexist with melancholy. Somewhere between a tram ride and a street-side phuchka, you realise you are not just eating. You are participating in a centuries-old cultural conversation.

From the charged air of Kolkata, the stillness of Srinagar feels almost like an exhale. Dal Lake at dawn mirrors the sky so perfectly that you begin to question where the world ends, and reflection begins. Snow rests lightly on distant mountains. Sound moves carefully. And then you sit for a wazwan. Course after course arrives, each dish layered, deliberate, ceremonial. It is not a meal. It is continuity. It is identity preserved through spice and slow cooking.

The valley has known fragility. It has known beauty and fracture. The food is both delicate and resilient. Srinagar feeds the soul by grounding you, by quieting you, by reminding you that beauty must be protected, preserved and cherished.

And when you leave that quiet, Amritsar greets you with something equally powerful, but different. If there is one city where food is pure devotion, it is Amritsar. When you sit cross-legged in the langar at Sri Harmandir Sahib, there is no hierarchy. No status. No distinction. Just roti, dal and the dignity of seva (service). Thousands are fed daily, not for profit, not for prestige, but for equality.

The simplicity of that meal humbles you more than any elaborate tasting menu ever could. Amritsar feeds the soul by teaching service. It reminds you that food is not luxury, it is responsibility. That cooking can be compassion. That feeding someone is an act of faith. And then there is the street; kulchas blistering in tandoors, chole simmering in iron pots, lassi served thick as generosity itself. Here, flavour is bold, but ego is absent.

Across these cities, I have realised something profound. Food is not about taste alone. It is about transfer. The hand that cooks transfers energy. The soil transfers memory. The spice transfers history. The fire transfers intention.

Varanasi taught me surrender. Lucknow taught me grace. Kolkata taught me depth. Srinagar taught me stillness. Amritsar taught me service. Each meal becomes a meditation. Each city becomes a teacher.

And slowly, without announcement, I change. I cook slower. I listen more. I judge less. I serve deeper. Travel has shown me that the soul is nourished not by extravagance but by authenticity, by meals cooked with honesty, by recipes preserved not for applause but for continuity.

I have eaten across continents, but these cities do not just feed me. They remind me that I am not merely a chef chasing flavour. I am a traveller chasing understanding. Because in the end, the most powerful journeys are not the ones that fill your stomach. They are the ones that empty your ego and leave you fuller than ever before.

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