A melting pot of spices and soul – the story of "India is Here"

By Shahaf Bandarkar

Childhood: Where it all began

Before we talk about food, it's important that we talk about smell. About memory. About the sound of spices being crushed in a mortar and a flame that flares up for a moment in a frying pan. Because that's how my story begins – not with a recipe, but with a gut feeling. A sense of root.

I was born in Ness Ziona in 1986, in a seemingly ordinary home, but with a noisy heart, especially on weekends. My mother cooked what she knew – simple, Israeli, efficient and edible food. It wasn’t the focus of the action, but there was another gift there. She was the one who let me into the kitchen when I was 4 or 5. She let me mix, taste, pour, spoil, and learn.

Through my mother, a door to the world opened for me – a world of colors, smells, textures, flavors. Not of complicated dishes or sophisticated cooking, but of

Dad in the Kitchen: The Magic of Weekends

And when the weekend came – it was a different opera. My father, Yoel, would enter the kitchen, and suddenly everything changed. Different smells. Different movements. A different way. He would work quietly, very orderly – but somehow also manage to turn the kitchen into a battlefield of pots, spices, and utensils. It was funny – because everything in his house was both meticulous and insanely messy, as if it was simultaneously proceeding according to plan and out of creative chaos.

And he didn't cook everything – but when he did, it was like a new play was being put on in the kitchen. Shabbats and holidays took on a different form when he started getting out the groceries, preparing the spices, opening the pots.

It usually started with one of the usual trio – green chicken, chicken in marmalade, or red chicken. Each one was like a different character in the same play: the green chicken – spicy, herbaceous, maddening – was always my favorite. The red chicken – deep, spicy, almost festive. And the marmalade – delicate, mellow, with that rustic aroma of a real Indian home.

In between, he would bring out boxes of rice, sitting down to the biryani – sometimes chicken, sometimes lamb – which would take over the entire kitchen with smells that filled the entire house. Layers of rice and spices, warm colors, flavors that took time to build – like a song that slowly builds.

And sometimes – bhaja. Vegetables cut, coated, fried just right. Crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. Nothing special on the surface – but however he would make it, it was like a snack of nostalgia.

The fish in the masala: magic in the air

Or the fish fried in masala... God forbid, my father's fish fried in masala. I remember it mostly in my childhood, elementary school years, Wednesdays or Thursdays, his days off from the school he ran – and when I would come home, before I even opened the door, from the lobby of the building I would smell the crazy smell that spread throughout all the floors. The smell of deep frying with secret spices, of charred garlic, hot cumin, something spicy in the air – as if someone was sending me an official invitation to come up quickly and come and taste.

It wasn’t just a smell – it was a smell that pulled you into the air, just like in cartoons, when a character floats in the wake of an aroma. That’s exactly how I felt. Wafting on vapors of cumin, turmeric, mustard, garlic, and full of secret spices. The smell was intoxicating – but

Food that is a memory

Every time he cooked, I felt a new world open up to me. Not just of flavors – but of presence, of tradition, of a sense of home that cannot be explained in words. He was a magic potion, and I was there – a little boy, standing next to him, smelling, tasting, absorbing. It wasn’t a lesson – it was magic that seeped through the smell, the sound, the taste.

I've already written about the dishes he would prepare, but every time I try to think about it again – it feels like a memory that needs to be retold. Like a favorite record that I never tire of listening to. Each of his dishes was like a musical work – with an opening, a build-up, a climax. Green chicken – spicy, fresh, bursting with herbs. Chicken in marmalade – delicate, enveloping, almost poetic. Red chicken – spicy, strong, with presence.

Then the biryani – chicken or lamb – which was like a song playing slowly, layers of flavor building on top of each other. And the bhaja… God. A simple stir-fry of vegetables, but he knew how to turn each piece into gold, crispy on the outside and melting on the inside. The fish in masala – we’ve already talked about it, right? And yet, every time a memory like that comes to mind – my heart expands. The smells, the voices, his hands in motion. Everything lives inside me.

But more than the flavors, I remember the

India – the place that brought me home

The First Trip (2010): A Sense of Home, but Far Away

The first time I arrived in India, in 2010, I was a bit of a gap-toothed traveler. I was after the army, full of curiosity but without really knowing why I was coming. And yet, something there immediately felt like home to me. As if I had already been there – the smells, the people, the colors, the noise – everything seemed familiar to me, familiar from the heart, from the genetic memory, from the deepest place inside.

But the truth? I didn’t really delve into the depths of India on that trip. I mostly hung out with Israelis, I mostly ate in Israeli restaurants, I traveled to Israeli places. I ate Indian dishes here and there – masala dosa, chai, samosas (especially samosas!) – but I didn’t really open up to the local cuisine. I didn’t touch the heart of things. Yes, there was a time when I worked in a guesthouse owned by two Indian brothers with whom I became very close – and that’s perhaps the place where I tasted the most of the real, home-cooked food. But that was also just a taste.

The first city I arrived in was Mumbai – and it is still one of my favorite cities in the world. Busy, bustling, full of action. And in my first week I also arrived in Pune – my father’s hometown, where he lived until he was 13. It was exciting to be there, to walk the same streets, even if I didn’t connect with the city itself at that time.

The Second Trip (2014): With Friends and an Open Heart

This trip ended, but it didn’t close. Something remained open. And so – I returned again. This time, in 2014, I returned with two of my best friends. And it was through them, together with them, that my heart opened up again – not only to India, but also to Indian cuisine. We traveled differently. We ate differently. We experienced India through our plate, not just through the attractions. Every meal was an adventure – we tried street dishes, went to local restaurants, shared flavors, impressions, admiration. And my heart opened up again – but this time, deeply.

The Third Trip (2016): Complete Devotion

Then, in 2016, my third time in India came – and that’s where it all happened. It wasn’t just a trip anymore – it was a dedication. I was alone most of the time, with no Israelis around me. I hung out with locals, talked, asked, tasted. I spent entire days on the streets of Mumbai, Delhi, Kolkata, Ahmedabad – with a notebook in one hand and a plate in the other. I took pictures, wrote down, tasted again. I didn’t miss a single samosa, a single chat, a single dish that looked interesting.

It was a profound journey of learning. I learned from the street, from the market, from the home kitchen. I learned from conversations, from the senses, from mistakes. I understood a lot – about the flavors, the methods, the culture, the Indians, about India, and about myself. It was a time when I felt like I wasn’t just cooking – I was absorbing, being filled, becoming a different person. It wasn’t a trip. It was the beginning of a mission.

"India is here" – presenting a story on a plate

The beginning – out of a burning passion

In 2015, when I returned to Israel, from my second time in India, something inside me burned. I realized that I didn't just want to cook. I wanted to share. Tell. Connect. And that's how I founded "India is Here" – a small business at first, but with a big soul.

The workshops – not just to teach, but to feel

I started with festival booths, moved on to home workshops, to private events – but everything I did, I did with my heart in my hand, and the spices in the jars. Not to impress – but to convey a sense of home.

I teach Indian cooking workshops that are based on experience: not just techniques – but the story. The story behind every ingredient, every dish, every color.

"Papa Cooks" – Food Made with Love at Home

Over time, I also started the "Papa Cooks" service – where I come to cook at people's homes, leaving them a fridge full of cooked, homemade food, with everything they need for a week of flavor and warmth. It's a service that came from a very practical place – people want to eat well, healthy, real food – but they don't have time. So I bring it to them.

Private meals – food that is a conversation

I also cook at private, small, intimate dinners – the kind that bring people together with India in an experience format, not a restaurant format. I tell stories, cook, sit with them, talk. It’s not a performance – it’s

Putting out the fire: The great loss and the search for meaning

In 2022, my father got sick. Brain cancer. And it came like a bolt from the blue. Within a few months – he was gone.

It was like extinguishing my inner flame. As if the kitchen had been emptied of every smell, every sound, every touch. He wasn't just a father – he was

He helped me carry equipment to the stands, stood with me at trade shows, made room for me when I needed it, pushed me to believe in myself even when I didn’t. He wasn’t a loud advisor – he was the compass. Sometimes he just looked – and that was enough. I’m not sure he knew how much of a part he was in all of this.

When he left – everything lost color. I felt like I couldn’t go back and do as if nothing had happened. I left the business almost completely. It just wasn’t in me. I didn’t want to cook, I didn’t want to teach, I didn’t want to touch it. I felt like the kitchen had become a minefield of memories.

Color Healing – The Garden That Opened the Heart

I found myself working in a kindergarten. A gardener. Yes, it may sound like an escape or a chance step, but for me – it was a soft landing in exactly the place I needed to be.

I was there with small, colorful, lively children – and they accepted me unconditionally. They didn’t ask questions like adults, they weren’t interested in where I was or why I stopped cooking. They just wanted me to sit with them, to listen, to sing, to laugh, to hug. And the truth? It came naturally to me. I was good at it. Patient, inclusive, present. I was there for them – really.

And not only did it heal me – it healed them too. It was mutual. They gave me space to simply be me – without masks, without achievements. And I gave them my heart, my listening, my good hands. I peeled oranges, sang songs, picked them up, cleaned them, hugged them. Every small action suddenly felt full of meaning.

Slowly, just like a sprout that grows after rain – my smile returned.

Repetition with intention – and the heart at the center

And I realized something: I can't escape my essence. My talent, my love, my mission. It's not a business – it's a way of life. And it doesn't just belong to me – it also belongs to him, to my father, to everything he left in me.

So I came back. But I came back

The end is just the beginning.

If you've read this far – thank you. Really. Maybe you're like me – looking for a taste that transcends. Looking for emotion. Looking for roots. I invite you to join the journey – through a workshop, a meal, or just a conversation about life and the spices in between.

Because India is not far away.

With spice, a smile and an open heart – a seagull 🧡, small, intimate – the kind that bring people together with India in the format of an experience, not a restaurant. I tell stories, cook, sit with them, talk. This is not a performance – this is