Anda Burji (Spicy Scrambled Eggs)

In a high-rise apartment so sleek it could’ve been mistaken for a tech start-up, lived a couple that truly believed brunch was a religion—and the kitchen island, their altar.

One glorious Sunday, still in their mis-matched pajamas (him in Avengers, her in strawberries), the wife suddenly declared:
"I’m making anda bhurji. Not any bhurji—Sector 17 waali bhurji. The kind that slaps you with masala and nostalgia!"

The husband, still half-asleep but a DJ in his own right, muttered something about “vibe setting” and proceeded to blast Lucky Ali’s O Sanam on their tiny-but-mighty Bluetooth speaker, followed by Fix You, because brunch was emotional.

With onions sizzling, tomatoes weeping joy, and green chilies sizzling with drama, the kitchen became a full-blown Bollywood set.
She: stirring eggs like a contestant on MasterChef.
He: flipping pav on their cast iron skillet like a desi Gordon Ramsay.

“Don’t burn the pav!”
“It’s called caramelization, love!”
“You’re about to be single if you call it that again.”

But just as the bhurji hit its golden moment, and the butter began to glisten with pride, a smoke alarm decided to join the party. They flailed with kitchen towels, fans, and sheer embarrassment.

Finally, victory.

They plated the bhurji on banana leaves—because, aesthetic—and sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor like desi brunch monks. Every bite was perfect. Butter, lime, spice, and just a hint of passive-aggression.

“I think we should open a food truck,” she said.
He nodded, mouth full. “Only if I get DJ rights.”
“Deal. But no Coldplay during peak brunch hours.”

And that, dear reader, was how Anda Bhurji & Beats was born. Not the food truck—just the idea, forgotten by Monday.

But every Sunday since, brunch has smelled a little bit like dreams, masala, and buttered chaos.