A/n: Written for QLFC Season 8 Round 7 as Beater 2 of the Chudley Cannons.

Amidst everything that's going on in the world, QLFC has chosen to celebrate diversity and culture this round, and I absolutely love it because it's such a positive way to ensure people learn about and appreciate their own culture as well as others.

Main prompt: Cuisine - A lot can be spoken about one's culture by their food alone. The secret is often what spices and herbs are used in the making of these wonderful dishes, as well as how it is prepared. — Write about a character cooking or eating a culture-centric meal.

Optional Prompts: [Food] Curry, [Plot Point] Travelling abroad, [Word] Sky

Team prompt: Write about a character talking about your favourite (anything). Obviously I picked food lol.

Disclaimer: I'm Indian, born and raised in South India. So everything is based on my personal experience, along with some help from the internet. So if you find something offensive, I apologise as it's not my intention.

Glossary of terms: Aur ek lelo, behen ji translates to 'Please have another,' and 'behen' means sister, with 'ji' being used to show respect, but it's essentially a polite way of addressing someone you don't know. Ao, gudiya, ao translates to 'come, girl, come,' where 'gudiya' means doll and is used as a term of endearment for girls.

WC: 2981

Curry for the Soul

"Then she told me I'm overreacting. When she's the one that showed up at my door at three AM, demanding I confess I seduced her boyfriend!"

Padma nods mutely as her sister continues on her tirade. She sips on her tea and lets her gaze wander.

The small cafe they're seated in is quaint and pretty; the flowery, pastel theme is right up her sister's alley. Padma knows this is the cafe that Parvati and Lavender frequent—until they fight, then Parvati brings Padma instead to prove a point.

Padma takes another sip of her tea and wonders how the two have remained friends for so long, when all they do is have stupid fights and bitch about each other behind their backs.

"Can you believe it?" Parvati exclaims, her voice so shrill that Padma's surprised her throat isn't strained from the hour-long screeching session.

"You need better friends," Padma says nonchalantly as she cuts into her banoffee pie. She takes a big bite, humming at the sweet goodness that caresses her tongue.

"Don't be ridiculous," Parvati snaps, interrupting Padma's moment of joy. "We fight and make up all the time. That's what it means to be best friends." She flips her styled hair over a shoulder. "Not something someone with no friends would understand."

Padma scoffs at the unnecessary jab. "You realise I'm only here because you begged me to come, right?"

Parvati watches Padma take another bite of the pie and crinkles her nose. "Should you really be stuffing your face like that a few days before the wedding?"

Padma pointedly cuts a massive piece and stuffs it in her mouth, watching in satisfaction as her sister scoffs in disgust. Despite Parvati's nastiness, Padma can't help but revel at the perfectly blended taste of banana and toffee.

Because the banoffee pie is one of her favourite traditional English desserts, Padma's always critical of how well it's made. She'd recently turned it into a little game, to order it wherever she goes and rate every place by how good a banoffee pie they made.

"It's not like it's my wedding," she says, pushing the plate towards her sister. "Or yours. So you should definitely try this."

"Um, no thank you," Parvati says in a patronising tone. "I'd rather fit into my outfit. Of course, I'm sure you have no such qualms."

"Right, that's my cue to leave," Padma says, finished with both her pie and her sister's bitchiness. She stands up and says, "I'll see you at the airport. Good luck with Lavender!" before walking away.

Parvati calls after her, but Padma can't be bothered any longer. Why do I even choose to play the good sister when she can never return the favour?

With a sigh of resignation, she realises that with their upcoming trip to India, there was going to be a lot more pretending to be done on her part.

"Paru, darling, look how much you've grown!"

"I'm Padma, Sarita Aunty," Padma says with an awkward laugh as the pudgy little lady engulfs her in a bear hug. She then tosses Padma aside upon realising she isn't her sister and rushes to Parvati. But her sister manages to avoid the vice-like grip and simply laughs loudly in response to everything said to her.

"Padma, have you spoken to Ashok Uncle and Daisy Aunty yet?" her mother whispers, nudging her in the direction of a well-dressed middle-aged couple.

"Oh, Paru! How nice of you to visit us all the way from London!" the man says, clapping Padma on the shoulder with a little too much force.

"Actually, I'm Padma," she replies, no longer hiding her annoyance at being constantly mistaken for her sister.

After Hogwarts, thanks to being part of different circles, she'd managed to forget momentarily that Parvati is the beloved twin everyone thinks of first. But since landing in India, every moment of every day has been a harsh reminder that everyone preferred lovely, friendly, charming Paru over sullen, awkward, quiet Padma.

"Yes, yes, of course you are," Ashok Uncle says dismissively, further proving Padma's point. "Look, they're bringing out the appetisers. Padma, you have to try the paneer tikka—it's my favourite!"

His wife nudges him sharply before saying, "Ashok, don't be silly. I'm sure Padma can't eat paneer."

"Oh, I can eat paneer, Aunty," Padma says as a waiter nears them.

A platter floats before him. Hanging in the air, amidst some kind of glittering mist that she realises is meant to keep the food warm, are skewers of cottage cheese cubes mixed with peppers and onions.

Padma eyes the char-grilled appetiser, her mouth watering as childhood memories fill her mind. Ashok Uncle grabs an entire skewer, dunks it in the bowl of green chutney placed in the middle, and, smacking his lips, stuffs the whole thing in his mouth, much to his wife's disgust.

As Padma reaches out to take a piece, that the waiter has kindly un-skewered for her, Hansa Aunty says, "But don't all you NRI's have that fancy new allergy—what's it called—oh, yes, lactose intolerance."

She says it like it's an incurable disease, and Padma cringes at being addressed as an NRI—or Non-Resident Indian—indiscriminately used as a slang term for any Indian that lives outside of India. She says, "No, I'm not lactose intolerant."

"Are you sure? Because Shanthala—you know, your mother's cousin, that one with the big mole on her cheek; I don't know why she doesn't get it removed, I tell you, it's such an ugly thing—she came from the US recently, and her whole family has it, you know?" She turns to her husband, who doesn't seem to be listening, his entire focus on emptying the platter before him. "You remember, Ashok? Bunty ate my malai kofta and then sat in the toilet for the rest of the night!"

"Aur ek lelo, behen ji," the waiter says to Padma in Hindi, distracting her from Hansa Aunty. Although she doesn't understand what he says, she can guess, based on the fact that he's offering her more of the appetiser.

Padma smiles and picks up a napkin, places a few pieces of paneer and peppers on it, and thanks the waiter, who nods and walks away, much to Ashok Uncle's chagrin.

She manages to slip away from the duo. With her head bowed, she sidles over to a corner of the decked-up halls, trying to find a spot away from the throng. She finds an alcove within which sits a large loudspeaker system blasting Bollywood music, and with a quick muting spell on her ears, she settles down beside it, knowing nobody will approach her there.

Finally having a moment to herself, she bites into the cottage cheese cubes, reveling at the mix of spices that explode in her mouth. She gasps in pleasure as the subtle crispiness of the char-grilled exterior gives way to the soft, moist interior that melts in her mouth. The blend of textures and tastes, combined with the heat from the freshly prepared dish, makes Padma tear up.

She swallows thickly and laughs to herself, taken back to her childhood and all the festivals celebrated by their little Indian community in the outskirts of London. She wonders why her family stopped attending them after her first few years at Hogwarts, and why they wouldn't visit their hometown in India as often as the twins got older.

She had asked them sometimes but had only gotten vague reasons in response. Padma feels a deep sense of loss, now, at having been away from her heritage for so long, wondering why, despite being older and free to travel wherever she pleased, she'd never visited India by herself.

Looking across the large room packed with people dressed head-to-toe in stunning, multi-coloured ethnic garb, she feels under-dressed in her simple, black, floor-length skirt called a lehenga. Her eyes fall on her sister, who's on stage, at the centre of the dancing crowd up front, and Parvati fits right in. With her over-the-top curls and headpiece, the thick false lashes and faceful of makeup, her electric pink lehenga with gold accents and matching blouse and jewelry… she looks exactly like the rest of the bridal party.

She looks like she belongs.

And sitting at the very back, under a loudspeaker set, with magically muted hearing and a soiled napkin in her lap, is Padma. The exact opposite of her beloved sister. Forever the less-popular twin. The forgotten one. The one that nobody would miss even if she left right then and went off on her own.

Padma wonders suddenly if she should do just that—simply take off. She could go back to her hotel room, change, pack a bag, and then do what she's been yearning to do—travel. She would leave a note for her family, of course, and her mother would be furious, but… did Padma really care?

Two children run up to where she's sitting, and one of them points at her. Although Padma can't hear her, she can read her lips enough to decipher Paru. Padma watches as the boy shakes his head and waves a hand. The girl's disappointment is so clear that it physically hurts Padma. Then the boy points towards the stage, where Parvati is. The girl instantly perks up and runs off in the direction of the dancing crowd, followed by the boy.

Padma scoffs. She clutches the napkin in her lap and inhales deeply. She nods, her decision made.

Rising quickly, she exits the hall, discarding the napkin on her way. There are a few more people that holler Paru at her on her way out, furthering her anger, and by the time she's reached the entrance to the building, any guilt she had towards her parents or the bride are forgotten.

As soon as she's reached an Apparition point, she grits her teeth, hefts up her lehenga, and spins on the spot.

It doesn't take Padma long at all to slip into leggings and a comfy, loose-fitting tunic called a kurta. She'd bought it earlier that day, while they were running some last-minute errands. A street vendor had hung up colourful clothing on a line, and this blue-and-grey tie-dye kurta had caught her eye and re-kindled her Ravenclaw pride.

After packing a few necessary items in her backpack, she ties up her hair in its usual high ponytail and leaves the hotel. She isn't quite sure where she wants to go, and the sun is only just setting, so she decides to take a stroll through the city until she comes up with a plan.

However, she very quickly comes to find that despite it being October, Mumbai is still sweltering. Her tunic clings to her sweaty back as she weaves through the throng of people. It doesn't take her very long to decide that the city centre is not where she wants to be right now. Although she's sure Mumbai, one of India's biggest cities, has its own sights to offer, there are simply too many people out and about, and the din of the crowd and the traffic combined with the humidity gets overwhelming very quickly.

She ducks into an alleyway with the intention of Disapparating, but she's shocked to find it even more packed with people and little shops than the main street. With a nervous laugh, she maneuvers through the throng until she finds an isolated spot. Grimacing at the strange puddle of something dark and sticky by her feet, she quickly closes her eyes, pictures an empty beach and a sunset, and Disapparates.

Padma arrives within a rocky cove, and she stumbles within moments of Apparating there. She falls over, grimacing as pebbles cut into the skin of her palms and knees. Gingerly rising, she looks around, wondering where she is.

Although she'd pictured a wide beach, she finds herself off the main coastline and decides she needs to climb around the rocky outcropping. She appears through the foliage onto a grassy knoll and inhales sharply as she spots the sandy beach and the waves gently lapping at its shore.

Digging her toes into the warm sand, she revels in its caress as she takes in the sight before her. A watercolour sunset is painted across the sky, vermilion mixing with crimson before fading into shades of maroon and burgundy. The sun is a fiery ball melting into the horizon, and lavender clouds hang over it, watching its slow descent into the ocean, waiting as the flames are swallowed up in its indigo maw.

Off into the distance, at the far end of the deserted beach, she sees lights twinkle as darkness slowly sets. The tide would set in soon, and she worries it may get too high if she dawdles too long, so she sets off across the soft sand.

A light breeze rustles through her inky tresses, causing them to tickle her skin and make her shudder. The humidity hangs heavy in the air, but the heat isn't as oppressive, and the sea breeze cools down her burning skin.

The gentle lapping of the waves along the shore and the light reflecting off each crest before it sinks soothes Padma and washes away the horrid experiences of the day. She inhales deeply and decides that here, on a beach without a single soul, one with the ocean and the sky, she finally feels at peace.

She finally feels at home.

Sighing in contentment, she makes her way towards the glittering lights. They grow into orange lanterns hanging above wooden stoops that lead up to white-washed porches. She stands at the end of a row of identical houses, wondering what to do next.

The smell of food drifts down to her from the closest house, and she realises that the only thing she's eaten for hours is a few cubes of cheese. Ravenous, and more than slightly exhausted, she walks up the steps and follows the enticing aroma around to the back of the house.

An elderly couple look up from a woodfire, but instead of wariness clouding their expression at the arrival of a strange girl, their faces break out into smiles.

The woman waves her over, her withered skin tanned and wrinkled and her long hair matted and bleached from years of living by the ocean.

"Ao, gudiya, ao," she beckons in a gentle voice.

Padma walks closer and settles down on the ground beside her as her husband disappears into the house. The woman smiles at Padma for a moment before turning to poke the fire with a stick. The embers crackle and hiss, but in a non-threatening way; it's a soothing, homely sound.

The elderly man returns with a large pot in his hands, which he settles over the hearth without hesitation. Padma leans forward to peer into the pot and sees a clear broth begin to boil. The old lady tosses in handfuls of random ingredients, some that Padma recognises, some that're too obscured by the dim lighting to identify.

Meanwhile, the man pulls out a bamboo flute and begins to play a soft, gentle melody. Padma closes her eyes and inhales deeply, allowing the music to wash over her, melding together with the sounds of the wind and the ocean to form a natural symphony.

It's nature's melody, Padma thinks.

The notes are low and sombre, kind but sad, and bring forth a surge of emotion in Padma. Like the slow lull of the tide setting in, her emotions build up from within, gently, gradually, until they overwhelm her by their strength and she can't contain them anymore.

Tears spill down her cheeks, and she sobs silently, hoping the night acts as a veil that hides her sorrow from the kind-hearted couple before her.

The woman offers Padma a bowl of soup, and Padma realises upon tasting it that it's actually curry. She's offered some rice to go along with the curry but no cutlery to eat with. The couple dig in, using their fingers to scoop the food into their mouths, and Padma remembers that it's normal for people to eat with their hands in India.

The curry is both sweet and sour at the same time; there are hints of herbs and traces of spices mixed in with the fishy tastes of seafood and earthy tastes of root vegetables. The warmth spreads through her like a gentle flame, enveloping her in its warm embrace, caressing her in its familiar sensations.

Padma has a second serving, then a third, and she belatedly realises she's crying as she eats the curry, but is unbothered by it. She thinks back to the countless meals she's eaten back home in London, and the myriad of others elsewhere in the world, but nothing has ever touched her soul like this simple bowl of curry shared with genuine kindness and joy.

Nothing has made her feel at home more than that bowl of curry, and Padma feels full, from the food and the profound sense of belonging. The woman watches her kindly, and the man starts to play his melancholic melody once again.

Once she's done, the elderly lady sits back against a sack and shuts her eyes. After a moment, she begins to sing in a dialect Padma doesn't recognise, her voice sweet and clear, and Padma lays back on the wooden deck to look up at the sky. Littered with stars, too far from the city to be outshone by its lights, the night sky leaves Padma feeling a sense of peace so resounding, it's as though her soul has been cleansed.

The events from earlier that evening are distant memories, already fading, and Padma feels untethered and free. Here, far from her family and friends and everything she knows, listening to the flute song of a fisherman and his wife, she finally feels like her own person.

She's finally come home.