By Suvir Saran
New Delhi [India], January 23 (ANI): “It’s as if everything else stops so the writer can come out,” Ellen Tarver said to me just 38 minutes ago. Ellen, my dear friend and a brilliant editor from Texas, had called to talk about my most recent column that appeared today in ANI News. “I don’t like the process of you becoming a writer,” she continued, her voice a blend of affection and sincerity. “Most deepenings in our lives aren’t pleasant at all. Not in the moment, they’re happening, for sure. I feel badly that you had to go through everything you did for the writer to come out. But I’m loving your writing.”
Her words were like a pebble dropped into still water, rippling through my mind with both clarity and weight. Ellen has always supported me, but this felt deeper–an acknowledgment of the storms I had weathered, and the writing that had emerged from them. Her words held up a mirror to my journey, showing me not just the writer I’ve become, but the person who fought to find his voice.
That call was the reason I’m writing this column now. Until I spoke to Ellen, I had no idea what I would write about tonight. Perhaps cobras and pythons–the creatures people warn me slither near my villa in Goa. It seemed an easy, even amusing topic. But Ellen’s words changed all that. She nudged me toward something more raw, more real, as she always does. And now, here I am, weaving the story of how this column came to be–because of her, because of today, and because of everything that has brought me to this moment.
The day began, as most do now, with the rhythm of Jolene, my restaurant. Only two days old, it already feels alive with possibility, filled with the hum of creation. Today, Chef Ashish and I worked on a seafood bite that we hope will become a signature dish. It’s a creation layered with imagination, flavor, and a certain unexpected comfort. Jolene isn’t just a restaurant to me. It’s a home, a philosophy, a celebration of belonging. We want every guest who walks through its doors to feel not just welcomed, but cherished.
When I left the restaurant tonight, I was ready to unwind. I felt the familiar tug of exhaustion, but also the quiet thrill of purpose. Then came Ellen’s message–about my column, about how much she loved it–and suddenly, the evening shifted. I called her, and our conversation was like opening a door I hadn’t known was closed. She told me she had nothing left to correct in my writing, that I was honing it myself, shaping it into something powerful. “You don’t just write,” she said. “You bring people into the world you create. You make them feel it, live it, breathe it.”
Her words took me back. Writing hasn’t always been at the forefront of my life, but it has always been a part of me. I first found it in seventh grade, in the wake of failure. Having flunked sixth grade, I was the student no one wanted–the one left behind by his classmates, the one inherited by a new batch who saw him as a burden. Seventh grade was a lonely year, marked by shame and isolation. But it was also the year I discovered the power of words.
I wrote my first poem then, for a love I couldn’t name. I wrote an epitaph for myself, asking my mother to scatter my ashes in Lahore, the city where my family’s roots lay. Writing became a sanctuary, a place where I could pour my fears and dreams without judgment. My teachers, kind and patient, encouraged me. By the time I reached high school, I was the editor of our school magazine, Vasant Parag. It was a moment of redemption, a sign that words could give me something I hadn’t thought I deserved–respect.
But life moves forward, and writing receded into the background. When I moved to America to study graphic design and art history, my days were full–work, school, cooking, parties. There was no time for words. It wasn’t until years later, when I wrote my first cookbook, Indian Home Cooking, that I rediscovered my voice. Then came American Masala and Masala Farm, each book a labor of love. Though I sold contracts for two more books that were never published, the belief of my publishers sustained me. Yet, even then, I didn’t see myself as a writer.
It wasn’t until I returned to India that writing became my lifeline. I came back broken, in every sense of the word. My body was failing–my vision nearly gone, my memory faltering, my speech struggling to keep up with my thoughts. I hated the man I saw in the mirror. Life as I had known it in America was unsustainable. I came to India thinking it might be the end.
But it wasn’t. India, in its chaotic, relentless way, gave me the space to rebuild. My family and friends surrounded me with love, refusing to let me fall. Slowly, I began to find my footing. When my hands couldn’t write and my eyes couldn’t read, I turned to my iPhone. Typing broken, fragmented messages into its notes app became a way of capturing the thoughts I couldn’t hold onto otherwise.
Dr. Shashi Tharoor was the first to see potential in those scattered words. “You have a voice,” he told me. “You should write a column.” His encouragement was a spark, and my classmate Kalli Purie, the Managing Director and Vice Chairperson of the India Today Group, fanned it into a flame by giving me my first column in Mail Today. When the publication folded, Raj Kamal Jha, the Chief Editor of the Indian Express, and Anant Goenka, its publisher, gave me a platform in the Sunday Eye. There, I write Slice of Life every fortnight, a column where I peel back the layers of my story and expose the raw truths beneath.
I am also deeply grateful to Smita Prakash at ANI News, who has given me carte blanche to write whatever I wish. These remarkable people have given me not just platforms, but trust and respect. They have made space for my voice, for my vulnerabilities, for my journey.
Writing, for me, is more than a craft. It’s a connection. My columns are raw, often uncomfortably so. My mother, who is my fiercest supporter, sometimes worries I reveal too much. “What do you get from this?” she asks. And I tell her: connection. Letters, messages, emails from strangers and friends alike, people telling me that my words make them feel seen, that my struggles mirror their own, that my honesty gives them strength. These messages mean everything to me. They remind me why I write.
Tonight, as I write this column, I think about how life has broken me, shaped me, and ultimately given me the stories I now tell. Writing is not easy. It demands honesty, self-reflection, and a willingness to expose the parts of yourself you’d rather keep hidden. But it is also a gift–a way of connecting, of making sense of the chaos, of finding meaning in the mess.
When I left Jolene tonight, it was with the intention to write something–anything. I had no idea it would be this. Ellen’s words gave me the direction I needed, and as I sit here now, I am struck by the power of moments like this. Moments where connection leads to creation, where a conversation becomes a column, where words become bridges between lives.
This is my Tuesday meditation, written in the quiet of the evening, to be shared on Thursday. It is a reminder that our stories–no matter how painful, messy, or imperfect–have the power to heal. They unite us in our shared humanity, in the joys and sorrows we all carry. And in sharing them, we not only find catharsis for ourselves but offer others a map, a guide, a light to follow.
Ellen’s words will stay with me, just as the words of Raj Kamal Jha, Anant Goenka, Smita Prakash, and Kalli Purie have. These people have believed in me, supported me, and given me a platform to do what I love. For them, and for everyone who reads these columns, I will keep writing. I will keep peeling back the layers, exposing the truths, and sharing the journey.
Because that’s what writing is, at its heart: a way of saying, “I see you. I hear you. You are not alone.” (ANI/ Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.
Disclaimer: This story is auto-generated from a syndicated feed of ANI; only the image & headline may have been reworked by News Services Division of World News Network Inc Ltd and Palghar News and Pune News and World News
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