A Mother–Son Independence Day Brunch at the Taj

Some mornings ask to be marked. This 15th of August, the 80th Independence Day, my son Siddharth and I decided to mark it the way we like best — slowly, together, over a long and unhurried brunch at Taj Palace, New Delhi.

Walking in still gives me that little pause. The domed ceiling, the lantern chandeliers hanging like quiet gold, the cool hush of marble underfoot — the Taj has a way of making you stand a little taller and slow a little down, all at once.

And then there is the best part of any outing with him: the sitting around. The easy, teasing, phones-down kind of togetherness that gets rarer as children grow up and lives get busy. For a little while it was just us, sunk into the cushions, laughing at nothing.

The restaurant had dressed for the day. Tricolour drapes swept over the live counters, little flags stood to attention on every table, marigolds and roses at each setting — that gentle, proud patriotism that Indian hospitality does so beautifully.

We began small: a bright little caprese skewer over a shot of chilled soup. The kind of first bite that tells you the rest of the meal is going to be fun.

Then the table filled up — a crisp salad in a glass, chaat with all its crunch, steaming momos with a fierce red chutney, a little bowl of something warm and coriander-flecked. We grazed, we swapped plates, we argued happily over the last dumpling.

The buffet itself was a thing to behold — a long marble counter of salads and little glasses of everything, and a cheese-and-fruit table that seemed to go on forever.

And yes — on our most Indian of days, I fell for a very simple margherita pizza. Some things you do not overthink. It was hot, cheesy, perfect, and it made me grin like a child.

Dessert was its own little celebration. A whole counter of it, crowned with cakes in saffron, white and green — one that simply said India, another marking 80 years of freedom.

There was one showstopper I could not look away from — a great round of rabri strewn with saffron, crushed pistachio, silver varak and fresh rose petals.

I ended, fittingly, with a plate that carried a tiny flag reading Mera Bharat Mahaan — my India is great — beside a saffron-soaked rasgulla and a sliver of baklava. Sweetness, and a small lump in the throat.

More than the food, though, this was a morning with my boy — unhurried, full of laughter, on a day that belongs to all of us. Happy Independence Day.

— Kiran