Latest news with #SuvirSaran
Hindustan Times
17-05-2025
- Lifestyle
- Hindustan Times
Move over matcha: The warm, nutty hojicha is taking over
As India's culinary horizons continue to expand, Japanese cuisine has become a particular favourite. While the madness over matcha caught on with a sudden quickness, another Japanese tea has quietly been making its mark in the country. Meet hojicha — a roasted green tea with a warm, nutty aroma and a sweet, mellow flavour. Unlike its vibrant, almost floral cousin, matcha, hojicha's signature reddish-brown hue and low bitterness make it a soothing and highly approachable gateway into roasted teas. Rich in antioxidants and low in caffeine, it's comfort in a cup that additionally aids digestion and relaxation. Experts in the food and beverage industry tell us it has less to do with wellness, but rather a global matcha shortage. While hojicha hasn't overtaken its green counterpart, this growing preference for something warmer could be the next big wave in tea culture. Chef Suvir Saran says, 'Hojicha is not just a trend—it's the warm, roasted cousin of matcha. It's smooth, comforting, and hits the Indian palate just right. Think roasted barley meets gentle coffee.' At his soon-to-open Jaipur café, hojicha will star in a limited-time special. 'We're also launching a hojicha dessert at Newmar alongside our mango menu—it's soft, bold, and unforgettable.' Yu Sung Eo, one of the founders of bubble tea company Got Tea, shares that they introduced hojicha to their menu a few months ago. 'When we launched matcha in 2020, it didn't get a great response as it is an acquired taste, but as it became a craze, we started seeing an uptick in signs of acceptance from customers. The introduction of hojicha on our menu has had a similarly quiet response, but we're hoping it will become as big,' he muses. Despite its more muted footprint, Umesh Kapoor, co-founder of Pour Over Coffee Roasters sees hojicha becoming a staple in premium beverage offerings. He also envisions a new movement: Indian tea brands roasting local green tea in Hojicha's style, creating a fusion product that's both familiar and exotic. 'Picture hojicha lattes, sparkling hojicha sodas and cold brews in cafés across urban India. It's comforting, photogenic and ripe for Reels and even branding,' Umesh states. Chef Dheeraj Mathur, cluster executive chef at Radisson Blu, Kaushambi adds that India's growing appetite for international cuisine makes it fertile ground for roasted tea. 'Restaurants and cafés could introduce it as a specialty tea to create a distinctive menu experience. Hojicha's toasty flavour and low caffeine content make it ideal for consumption and digestive comfort,' he explains. The best part? 'It pairs beautifully with Indian desserts like gulab jamun or jalebi, and there's exciting potential for use in marinades, sauces, or even fusion creations like Hojicha kulfi,' he notes, before adding, 'But awareness is key — consumers need to understand its benefits and unique flavour.' Hojicha is made by roasting green tea leaves at high temperatures, which gives it a reddish-brown colour and toasty aroma. To prepare, steep one teaspoon of hojicha in hot water (about 80°C) for 30–60 seconds. Available both in powdered and loose leaf forms, It can be enjoyed hot, iced or as a latte with milk. If you're looking to expand your tea repertoire, check out brands offering hojicha products in India, such as ILEM Japan, Karma Kettle, Brown Living, Dancing Leaf, Sancha Tea Boutique, Satori and Chiran Tea. Hojicha and matcha are both Japanese green teas but differ significantly in flavour, appearance, and use. While complementary, they have distinct places in the culinary and wellness worlds. While hojicha is made by roasting green tea leaves at high temperatures, matcha is a powdered, shade-grown tea known for its vibrant green colour, grassy taste. Matcha is bold, intense and high caffeine content — perfect for an energy boost. Hojicha, on the other hand, is a mellower experience that is more soothing and easier on the gut.
India Gazette
23-04-2025
- Politics
- India Gazette
Grief Is Ours, So Is Grace
By Suvir Saran New Delhi [India], April 23 (ANI): In the heart of Kashmir, where the air carries the scent of pine and prayers, where rivers glide like glass through valleys older than memory, a wound has torn through our peace. In Pahalgam's Baisaran Valley--where the mountains kiss the sky with such grace that the people of Switzerland might believe they have a piece of Kashmir at home--terror walked in with bullets, not boots. The land, known for its stillness and sacred calm, echoed with the crack of gunfire. What began as a quiet afternoon, wrapped in the hush of holiday laughter, became a symphony of screams. At least twenty-six lives were taken. Tourists--mothers, fathers, children--had come in peace. They came to rest, to rejoice, to breathe. And they were met with hate. But let us be clear: this was not an act of religion. It was an act against it. These murderers came not as men of God, but as criminals cloaked in cowardice. They came not to protect a faith, but to profane it. They came as traitors to humanity, to the valley, to every belief they falsely claimed. As Rabbi Shear Yashuv Cohen once said with piercing wisdom, 'The greatest crimes committed against religion are the crimes committed in its name.' These men had no iman, no dharam, no conscience. Their sermons are silent. Their scriptures are soaked in fear. Their god is not known to any temple, mosque, gurdwara, or church. Their only creed is chaos. And today, as a Hindu, I grieve. As an Indian, I hurt. But more than that, as a human being, I weep. What has been done is unspeakable. But we must speak because silence is too generous for those who walk with guns into our gardens. We must speak not just in anger, but in resolve. Not just in mourning, but in memory. We must speak for those who now cannot. In the hours that followed, our nation gathered not just in sorrow, but in spirit. Prime Minister Narendra Modi, cutting short his foreign trip, returned home and addressed the nation with unwavering clarity: 'Those behind this heinous act will be brought to will not be spared. Their evil agenda will never succeed. Our resolve to fight terrorism is unshakable and it will get even stronger.' Congress MP Shashi Tharoor, known for his intellect and humanity, called for national unity over partisan impulse: 'I call on all my fellow citizens, irrespective of faith, to stand up against this foul attempt by Islamist terrorists to divide us in the name of religious identity. We must respond with justice, not bigotry. With courage, not chaos.' Jammu and Kashmir's Chief Minister Omar Abdullah, shaken, but composed, said: 'This attack is much larger than anything we've seen directed at civilians in recent years. But this is not the identity of Kashmir. This is the act of outsiders who want Kashmir to bleed.' From across the oceans, solidarity poured in. U.S. President Donald Trump condemned the attack and said, 'The United States stands strong with India against terrorism.' United Nations Secretary-General Antonio Guterres offered his condolences, stating, 'Attacks against civilians are unacceptable under any circumstances.' The world is watching. But more importantly, India is watching itself. And now, we must choose who we will be in the shadow of this suffering. We remember what the world did after 9/11. The rage, the invasions, the punishments that landed too far from the perpetrators. It is a lesson we must not ignore. Knee-jerk vengeance creates more orphans than it buries enemies. It feeds the fire it claims to extinguish. India must choose differently. We always have. Our nation--flawed, vast, loud, and luminous--has always chosen to walk the harder road of reason. We do not punish the innocent to avenge the guilty. We do not lose ourselves to find justice. And we cannot allow ourselves to do so now. Yes, the victims were Hindus. And yes, we must say so. We must acknowledge their pain, not dilute it. We must see the fear this has awakened in Hindu hearts across the country. But we must not let that fear become fire. Because these terrorists do not represent Islam. They do not speak for the people of Kashmir. They speak only for terror. Kashmir is grieving today. Not just the families of the fallen, but the shopkeepers who watched customers turn to corpses. The taxi drivers who had just dropped off guests. The hotel staff who folded towels in rooms that would never be slept in. Kashmir's economy--rooted in hospitality, in the hands of people who welcome the world--is again on its knees. And we must not let them fall further. Because this valley needs more than our outrage. It needs our embrace. This is not just a time for justice--it is a time for amity. We must be one with the families that are broken. One with the valley that is in shock. One with the soul of India that aches--but must not crack. We must not become what they want us to be. Suspicious. Divided. Broken. We must become what they fear most: united. Let our retaliation be ruthless against those who planned this horror--but let it be precise. Let our intelligence agencies do what they do best: work quietly, strike surgically, and protect every life they can. Let our rage be wrapped in reason. Let our grief be held in grace. To every Indian, this is your moment. Not to shout, but to shelter. Not to divide, but to defend. Let temples ring with prayers, let mosques echo with peace, let churches sing with comfort. Let every home in this country be a vigil for humanity. We are not fighting a religion. We are fighting those who have none. And to the families who have lost, we say this: we are with you. We carry your sorrow in our chests like sacred fire. We walk beside your silence, and we hold your grief with both hands. And we promise you: your loved ones will not be forgotten. We promise them: their joy, stolen in that valley, will return to Kashmir one day. We promise ourselves: that terror will never win. We will walk again in Kashmir. All of us. Together. And the trees will still rise. And the rivers will still run. And the mountains will still wait. And when we return, we will carry not fear, but flowers. Because India does not bend. It remembers. It rises. And it walks again. Jai Hind. (ANI/ Suvir Saran) Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own. (ANI)
India Gazette
22-04-2025
- General
- India Gazette
The Priest Who Preached Like a Prophet: Remembering Pope Francis and the Five Words That Let Light In
By Suvir Saran New Delhi [India], April 22 (ANI): I grew up in a Hindu household in India, in a home where gods didn't compete--they coexisted. Ganpati smiled from the altar, Jesus hung in my grandmother's room, and the Quran sat on our bookshelf like it belonged there--which it did. We were human before we were anything else. That was the first religion I was taught. Faith, in our home, was light--literal and metaphorical. Firecrackers at Diwali, candles at Christmas, diyas flickering through power cuts. The idea that religion could divide us? That was foreign to me. Foreign, until it wasn't. As a boy, I was taken by the pageantry of the Catholic Church. The gold and scarlet vestments, the thunder of the organ, the long shadows cast in stained-glass light. I fell in love with the visuals. The performance. The ritual. Not because I was Catholic, but because it was beautiful. And beauty, to a queer boy with a thirst for drama and color, was sacred. What I didn't know then--what I couldn't know--is that behind the robes and incense was an institution that would one day call me an abomination. I moved to New York. I grew up. And I saw religion up close in a different light. I saw churches as battlegrounds. I saw pulpits used not to lift but to divide. And the Catholic Church, with its sanctified silence and weaponized scriptures, was no exception. I saw what happened to people like me. Our love was a sin. Our presence was a problem. Our joy was a threat. And yet--despite all that--I still wanted to believe. I wanted to believe that religion could be better. That it could be kinder. That it could be beautiful again. Then came Pope Francis. He wasn't supposed to be revolutionary. He was supposed to be a placeholder. A quiet choice. A compromise pope. Instead, he became a radical--not in his rejection of religion, but in his embrace of it. Francis wasn't trying to tear the Church down. He was trying to remind it of its soul. And he did it with five words. 'Who am I to judge?' He said it in 2013, just a few months after becoming pope, on a flight back from Brazil. A reporter asked him about gay clergy. And instead of pivoting, hedging, or hiding behind doctrine, he said it plainly. Who am I to judge? Five words. Spoken softly. But they shook the Church. They cracked open a window long sealed shut. For the first time, someone at the very top saw us--not as sins, not as symbols, but as people. Francis was not perfect. He never changed the Church's teachings on same-sex marriage or priestly celibacy or abortion. He didn't rewrite the catechism. But he changed the tone. The temperature. The tenor. He blessed same-sex couples, even as his bishops balked. He called for mercy instead of dogma. He elevated tenderness over triumphalism. In 2024, he said: 'Nobody gets scandalized if I bless a businessman who perhaps exploits people... but they get scandalized if I give them to a homosexual. This is hypocrisy.' Hypocrisy. That word, from a pope, not aimed at the queer community--but at those who condemned it. He wasn't defending sin. He was defending sincerity. He understood that morality without mercy is just vanity dressed up in robes. Francis didn't lead from the throne. He led from the margins. He kissed the feet of Muslim refugees. He traveled to Iraq and Congo, places no pope had dared to go. He met with imams, rabbis, and gurus--not to debate, but to listen. He prayed alone in a rain-drenched St. Peter's Square during the pandemic, the whole world watching, weeping. In a Church built on power, he chose presence. In a world obsessed with borders, he chose bridges. Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar remembered him as 'a deep believer and a traditionalist with a difference... a passionate advocate of interfaith dialogue.' The Dalai Lama said, 'The best tribute we can pay to him is to be warm-hearted people.' Barack Obama called him 'the rare leader who made us want to be better... who reminded us that we are all bound by obligations to God and one another.' They mourned not just a man--but a moral force. But not everyone welcomed him. I remember asking my partner's father--a Catholic man from New Jersey--what he thought of the Pope's words on gay people. He shrugged. That's just one priest's opinion,' he said. One priest. It was easier to reduce a revolutionary to a rogue than to confront what he represented. American Catholics could dismiss him when his compassion clashed with their comfort. And that's the thing about Francis: he made it hard to look away. He made it hard to pretend that love could be regulated. He reminded us what religion could be at its best: not a wall, but a window. He said: 'The thing the Church needs most today is the ability to heal wounds and to warm the hearts of the faithful. It needs nearness.' He meant nearness to people. To pain. To joy. To difference. 'I would like all of us to hope anew,' he said in his final public address, 'and to revive our trust in others, including those who are different than ourselves... for all of us are children of God.' Religion, across the board--not just Christianity--has too often forgotten this. It has traded humility for hierarchy. Compassion for control. Poetry for policy. But Francis remembered. He remembered the heart. He criticized consumerism and climate destruction not because they were political, but because they were spiritual betrayals. 'The Earth, our home, is beginning to look more and more like an immense pile of filth,' he wrote in his 2015 encyclical Laudato Si'. He made climate change not just an environmental issue, but a moral one. He called for an economy that serves people, not the other way around. He kissed the hands of Indigenous elders and apologized--truly apologized--for the Church's role in colonization and residential schools. He reminded the world: holiness without humanity is just theater. And for someone like me--someone who loved religion's drama but feared its dogma--he was a balm. A bridge. A breath of holy air. He didn't save the Church. But he saved my belief that religion could be beautiful again. Now he is gone. And the Sistine Chapel waits. Smoke will rise. Names will be whispered. Odds calculated. Continuity versus change. Pietro Parolin or Luis Antonio Tagle or someone no one expects. But whoever comes next, they will inherit more than a throne. They will inherit a challenge: not to preserve the Church, but to prove it still matters. Because Francis did what no dogma could: he made people feel seen. And in a world starving for recognition, that is a kind of miracle. He was called 'His Holiness,' but he never acted like he had all the answers. He questioned power. He questioned borders. He questioned the idea that anyone could own God. And in doing so, he brought the divine down to eye level. He gave us five words. He gave us a glimpse of grace. And he gave me--once a boy in love with religion's glitter, then a man scarred by its rules--a reason to believe again. Not in institutions. But in possibility. DISCLAIMER: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own. (ANI)
Int'l Business Times
22-04-2025
- Politics
- Int'l Business Times
Fleeing Pakistan, Afghans Rebuild From Nothing
ANI 22nd April 2025, 16:05 GMT+11 By Suvir Saran New Delhi [India], April 22 (ANI): I grew up in a Hindu household in India, in a home where gods didn't compete--they coexisted. Ganpati smiled from the altar, Jesus hung in my grandmother's room, and the Quran sat on our bookshelf like it belonged there--which it did. We were human before we were anything else. That was the first religion I was taught. Faith, in our home, was light--literal and metaphorical. Firecrackers at Diwali, candles at Christmas, diyas flickering through power cuts. The idea that religion could divide us? That was foreign to me. Foreign, until it wasn't. As a boy, I was taken by the pageantry of the Catholic Church. The gold and scarlet vestments, the thunder of the organ, the long shadows cast in stained-glass light. I fell in love with the visuals. The performance. The ritual. Not because I was Catholic, but because it was beautiful. And beauty, to a queer boy with a thirst for drama and color, was sacred. What I didn't know then--what I couldn't know--is that behind the robes and incense was an institution that would one day call me an abomination. I moved to New York. I grew up. And I saw religion up close in a different light. I saw churches as battlegrounds. I saw pulpits used not to lift but to divide. And the Catholic Church, with its sanctified silence and weaponized scriptures, was no exception. I saw what happened to people like me. Our love was a sin. Our presence was a problem. Our joy was a threat. And yet--despite all that--I still wanted to believe. I wanted to believe that religion could be better. That it could be kinder. That it could be beautiful again. Then came Pope Francis. He wasn't supposed to be revolutionary. He was supposed to be a placeholder. A quiet choice. A compromise pope. Instead, he became a radical--not in his rejection of religion, but in his embrace of it. Francis wasn't trying to tear the Church down. He was trying to remind it of its soul. And he did it with five words. 'Who am I to judge?' He said it in 2013, just a few months after becoming pope, on a flight back from Brazil. A reporter asked him about gay clergy. And instead of pivoting, hedging, or hiding behind doctrine, he said it plainly. Who am I to judge? Five words. Spoken softly. But they shook the Church. They cracked open a window long sealed shut. For the first time, someone at the very top saw us--not as sins, not as symbols, but as people. Francis was not perfect. He never changed the Church's teachings on same-sex marriage or priestly celibacy or abortion. He didn't rewrite the catechism. But he changed the tone. The temperature. The tenor. He blessed same-sex couples, even as his bishops balked. He called for mercy instead of dogma. He elevated tenderness over triumphalism. In 2024, he said: 'Nobody gets scandalized if I bless a businessman who perhaps exploits people... but they get scandalized if I give them to a homosexual. This is hypocrisy.' Hypocrisy. That word, from a pope, not aimed at the queer community--but at those who condemned it. He wasn't defending sin. He was defending sincerity. He understood that morality without mercy is just vanity dressed up in robes. Francis didn't lead from the throne. He led from the margins. He kissed the feet of Muslim refugees. He traveled to Iraq and Congo, places no pope had dared to go. He met with imams, rabbis, and gurus--not to debate, but to listen. He prayed alone in a rain-drenched St. Peter's Square during the pandemic, the whole world watching, weeping. In a Church built on power, he chose presence. In a world obsessed with borders, he chose bridges. Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar remembered him as 'a deep believer and a traditionalist with a difference... a passionate advocate of interfaith dialogue.' The Dalai Lama said, 'The best tribute we can pay to him is to be warm-hearted people.' Barack Obama called him 'the rare leader who made us want to be better... who reminded us that we are all bound by obligations to God and one another.' They mourned not just a man--but a moral force. But not everyone welcomed him. I remember asking my partner's father--a Catholic man from New Jersey--what he thought of the Pope's words on gay people. He shrugged. That's just one priest's opinion,' he said. One priest. It was easier to reduce a revolutionary to a rogue than to confront what he represented. American Catholics could dismiss him when his compassion clashed with their comfort. And that's the thing about Francis: he made it hard to look away. He made it hard to pretend that love could be regulated. He reminded us what religion could be at its best: not a wall, but a window. He said: 'The thing the Church needs most today is the ability to heal wounds and to warm the hearts of the faithful. It needs nearness.' He meant nearness to people. To pain. To joy. To difference. 'I would like all of us to hope anew,' he said in his final public address, 'and to revive our trust in others, including those who are different than ourselves... for all of us are children of God.' Religion, across the board--not just Christianity--has too often forgotten this. It has traded humility for hierarchy. Compassion for control. Poetry for policy. But Francis remembered. He remembered the heart. He criticized consumerism and climate destruction not because they were political, but because they were spiritual betrayals. 'The Earth, our home, is beginning to look more and more like an immense pile of filth,' he wrote in his 2015 encyclical Laudato Si'. He made climate change not just an environmental issue, but a moral one. He called for an economy that serves people, not the other way around. He kissed the hands of Indigenous elders and apologized--truly apologized--for the Church's role in colonization and residential schools. He reminded the world: holiness without humanity is just theater. And for someone like me--someone who loved religion's drama but feared its dogma--he was a balm. A bridge. A breath of holy air. He didn't save the Church. But he saved my belief that religion could be beautiful again. Now he is gone. And the Sistine Chapel waits. Smoke will rise. Names will be whispered. Odds calculated. Continuity versus change. Pietro Parolin or Luis Antonio Tagle or someone no one expects. But whoever comes next, they will inherit more than a throne. They will inherit a challenge: not to preserve the Church, but to prove it still matters. Because Francis did what no dogma could: he made people feel seen. And in a world starving for recognition, that is a kind of miracle. He was called 'His Holiness,' but he never acted like he had all the answers. He questioned power. He questioned borders. He questioned the idea that anyone could own God. And in doing so, he brought the divine down to eye level. He gave us five words. He gave us a glimpse of grace. And he gave me--once a boy in love with religion's glitter, then a man scarred by its rules--a reason to believe again. Not in institutions. But in possibility. DISCLAIMER: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own. (ANI)
