Preserving History,
One Jar at a Time

The Beginning

It all began with Ammaamma — my grandmother. In the lively gullies of Priyadarshini Colony, Nirmal, Telangana, her terrace was a little rajyam of earthen barnis basking in the summer sun. By noon, the air carried her signature aroma — the sharp notes of aava, menthulu, and followed the smell and rarely returned empty-handed, almost always leaving with a small steel bowl of her legendary mamidikaya pachadi, packed with love, patience, and generations of tradition.

She never used scales or measuring cups. Her hands understood the perfect "andāzu". A pinch of nalla jeelakarra here, a gentle handful of soampu there. This wasn’t just cooking — it was rasāyanam, guided by intuition, experience, and pure love.