tandoori drumsticks

In the heart of Pune, where old-world charm meets modern hustle, lived a newly married couple—Aarav and Meera. They had met through friends, bonded over late-night biryani runs, and fallen in love somewhere between dessert menus and double scoops of gelato. 

After their wedding, they moved into a cozy 2BHK apartment tucked away in Kothrud, with a little balcony that caught the morning sun and just enough space to grow herbs. The real magic, however, was in their kitchen. 

Meera had always dreamed of setting up her own culinary corner. It wasn’t grand, but it was hers. The kitchen was compact, tucked into the corner of their open living space, with warm oak cabinets and golden under-cabinet lighting that gave the entire space a soft glow in the evenings. There was a matte black microwave tucked neatly above the granite counter, a high-speed mixer grinder that purred like a content cat, and a sleek induction cooktop that came to life with a single touch. A tiny, gleaming tandoori oven—her pride—sat like a jewel beside the spice rack, waiting to fire up smoky delights.

Copper pans hung above the sink like art, and handwoven baskets held fresh vegetables and plump tomatoes from the local market. A small open shelf near the window held her collection of cookbooks, with bookmarked pages fluttering like butterflies in the breeze.

Though both Aarav and Meera loved eating out—each restaurant date feeling like a mini celebration—they quickly realized their wallets weren’t as enthusiastic. So they made a pact: weekends out, weekdays in. Meera took it up as a delightful challenge. Aarav, always the enthusiastic taster, turned sous-chef and playlist curator.

Their first big culinary experiment? Tandoori chicken.

Aarav watched as Meera blended yogurt with bright red Kashmiri chili powder, smoky paprika, crushed garlic, ginger, and a secret mix of spices she refused to reveal. The chicken was marinated lovingly and left to soak overnight, sitting in the fridge with a note: “Do not touch unless you want to sleep on the couch!”

The next evening, they lit up the little tandoori oven. Meera skewered the chicken, each piece glistening with spice and promise. As the aroma began to swirl through the apartment—spicy, smoky, mouthwateringly rich—Aarav set up their living room for the perfect night in. Cushions fluffed, soft blanket ready, and the TV queued up with the movue .

The first bite of the tandoori chicken was pure bliss. Juicy, perfectly charred, with that unmistakable kick that made them both pause and look at each other with wide eyes.

“This is better than anything we’ve had outside,” Aarav whispered, mouth still full.

Meera laughed, brushing a speck of spice from his cheek. “Wait till I make paneer tikka next week.”

They curled up together on the couch, plates in hand, the smell of tandoori still lingering in the air. Outside, Pune was winding down for the night, but inside, their home glowed with love, laughter, and the beginning of countless delicious memories.