When I made Nepali chiya for the first time in a German kitchen, I didn’t expect anyone to get emotional. But Luna’s mother took a sip, closed her eyes, and whispered, “This smell takes me back to the ghats of Banaras.”
In that moment, I realised we weren’t just sharing a cup of tea: we were sharing something far deeper, memory, nostalgia, and the invisible string that connects all of us.
In the 1980s, a young German backpacker named Stephan went on a journey to North India and Nepal. When he returned, he often said, “There’s no place in the world like that. I can't explain how it feels—you have to be there to feel it,” to his friends and family.
Years later, this love for Nepal was passed down to his daughter, Luna, during her first visit. For Luna, Nepal became more than just a place on the map, it became a land of friendships, special memories, and something deeply personal.
Fast forward to a few months back, me and my friend travelled to Germany as exchange students. Through a series of unexpected connections, we met Luna. She warmly invited us to her apartment, and from the moment we met her, it felt like we had known her for years.
We had heard from mutual friends that Luna loved Nepali food, especially chatpatey and dal bhat. So, as a thank-you gesture for her kindness, we brought spices and ingredients along with us. When we served her those familiar flavors, she was amazed. It felt like the taste of Nepal had bridged the distance and time since her last visit.
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Luna’s apartment was warm, not just from the heater but from the way she welcomed us as if we were old friends. That warmth followed us into the New Year.
Luna invited us to celebrate New Year’s with her family. At her parent’s home, we were welcomed with big smiles and open arms. Stephan’s wife was especially curious about the spices, and soon, stories began to flow.
They shared memories of their travels in Nepal and India—bustling markets, peaceful temples, and the kindness of strangers. They shared what inspired them to have their children Hindu middle names. Stephan’s wife told us that during their India trip, she found out she was pregnant. Inspired by their journey, they gave their children Hindu middle names.
The oil sizzled as cumin seeds cracked. The room filled with the scent of turmeric and garlic, wrapping us all in a comfort that felt like home, even miles away. That whole day, we cooked a feast from panipuri and chatpatey to dal bhat, saag, achaar, and of course, momo because a Nepali meal isn’t complete without it. Watching Stephan and his family enjoy the food with such joy was heartwarming. It reminded me that food goes beyond language and culture. It is a universal way of showing love.
Something clicked as we reached for second servings and laughed over stories from two different worlds. This wasn’t just hospitality—it was connection.
After dinner, we all sat together in front of the fireplace. With tea in hand, they asked us for the recipes. They wrote them down carefully, asking questions and wanting to understand each spice and step. At that moment, I felt like a grandmother sharing her recipe with the next generation—passing down not just food, but a piece of culture, a piece of home.
At the same time, it felt a little strange. Back in Nepal, I never measure anything when I cook. So when they asked me how many cumin seeds to use, I was stumped. I didn’t really know—I just went by instinct. My parents never taught me exact measurements either. For us, the measurement was always “whatever feels right.” But that felt too complicated to explain at that moment, so I just smiled and said, “A pinch full.”
Before we left, we gave them all the spices we had brought. Now, they had a little piece of Nepal in their home.
As we said our goodbyes, Luna’s mother said something that stayed with me. “Girls,” she said, “remember this: we are all humans, no matter where we are from. We are connected by a thread of humanity, and we have to spread this love that brought us together.”
On the train ride back, her words echoed in my heart. Our bond with Luna’s family wasn’t just about food or stories, it was about a shared humanity.
Stephan’s family showed me the beauty of a life where kindness and curiosity go beyond borders, and strangers become family. In their home, I felt the essence of Nepal: a place where humanity and hospitality are truly celebrated.
Months later, I made chiya again, in my home in Nepal. The steam flew toward the ceiling, carrying a memory, a smile, a story, a family. I had taken ingredients with me, but what I brought back was far more precious: memories filled with laughter, kindness, and connection.
That cup of tea held more than warmth. It held a memory that had traveled thousands of miles, only to return home in the shape of a story.