India, Aug. 12 -- My earliest memory of my father isn't tied to a festival, a family vacation, or a grand celebration. It is of standing beside a street cart glowing under a warm yellow bulb, my tiny hands struggling to balance a steel plate full of golgappas. Before I could even pronounce the word properly, my father had introduced me to its magic. From that moment on, golgappas became our ritual-a quiet tradition stitched softly into the fabric of our everyday lives.

Every few evenings, he would take me on walks that invariably ended at our familiar local stall. I can still recall the rich aroma of bruised mint, the sharp crackle of crisp puris, and the vendor's hands moving with lightning speed. My father never hurried those moments. ...