They say the world is a book, and those who do not taste its food read only one page. I never meant to travel so far, never meant to follow flavors across continents. But somewhere between the aroma of Kolkata’s kathi rolls and the silent steam of Japan’s ramen bowls, I realized—I wasn’t just a traveler. I was a collector of taste. A humble pilgrim at the altar of food. My journey began not in a foreign land, but in the chaotic alleys of Old Delhi. The air was thick with spice, the streets alive with the crackling of oil, sizzling chole bhature, and the clink of kulhad chai cups. Here, food wasn't just sustenance. It was culture served on steel plates. I still remember sitting on a wooden bench, elbows pressed against strangers, sharing laughter over spicy golgappas. A man named Irfan, a rickshaw driver with gold-rimmed glasses, smiled and said, “Every city has its own soul, but food? Food tells you its secrets.” From Delhi, I rode the train to Amritsar , where I stood barefoot a...