The Magic in the Flame

BY THE TIME we took our seats on stage in Ranchi, the room had already begun to hum with the reverence of a cinema premiere—or a spiritual gathering.

I was seated among giants. Rahul Rawail, who gave Indian cinema some of its most enduring frames. Rahul Mittra, who moves between genres and roles with easy gravitas. And Kunickaa Sadanand, who generations have grown up watching—but who today stands even taller as a human rights attorney and women’s rights advocate.

Before the applause and the discussion, we were fed. At the home of Aditya Vikram Jaiswal and Vijay Shri Shahdeo Jaiswal, we were served litti chokha. The kind that doesn’t come plated in curated still life, but straight from the fire. Baked wheat balls filled with sattu, served with mashed potatoes, charred tomato chutney, and the kind of mustard oil that doesn’t ask for permission to dominate—it just does.

The magic was in the restraint. In the purity of ingredients, and the quiet confidence of the dish. This wasn’t just food. It was sustenance that had survived centuries because it never tried to be anything it wasn’t. That simplicity, that honesty—that’s what I carried with me.

Kunickaa, with her fire and clarity, reminded us why voices matter, especially the ones long ignored. Mittra, the storyteller, spoke of cinema as soft power and of stories waiting in the wings of smaller towns and forgotten corners. His successful campaign for Arunachal Pradesh reimagined a state’s image through the lens of culture and cinema. Now he believes in Jharkhand with the same conviction and vision.

Rahul Rawail gave us perspective, anchoring the present in decades of cinematic evolution. But to stop there would be a disservice to his legacy. He is the man who defined romance and rebellion in Hindi cinema with Love Story, Betaab, Arjun, and Anjaam. His films weren’t just hits—they were blueprints for a generation. He mentored stars, reshaped genres, and left behind a visual and emotional language that directors still borrow from today.

It wasn’t just memory we were swimming in. With Mittra pushing the audience to dream big—to use social platforms to create, to document their stories—the fire lit in the room was palpable. Jharkhand was being spoken to.

When members of the audience stood up to ask for opportunity, for access, for support from the outside, I told them my story. Of being a 20-year-old student in New York. Of daring to dream in a place where the odds were stacked high. Of making it work. And of how that journey, while now adorned with success, was built on struggle, grit, and relentless effort.

Then Aditya spoke. Not like a politician or a host. He spoke like someone who had something sacred to share. His words didn’t land like sound bites—they landed like balm. This wasn’t performance. It was presence. The kind that draws people in, that allows for disagreement, that leaves room for emotion.

What Aditya said was simple: that Jharkhand deserves to tell its own story. That its people need to be the narrators of their own narratives—not filtered, not curated for metropolitan palettes, but honest. Raw. Proud. On their terms. It’s not about branding. It’s about truth, which is ready to travel. Jharkhand isn’t waiting to be discovered. It’s waiting to be seen. And evenings like this—where stories were shared, ideas exchanged, and litti chokha was served like an heirloom—that’s where the shift begins.

I walked off stage full. Not just from the food, but from something deeper. From the fire that roasted the littis, the fire in Kunickaa’s words, and Aditya’s vision. Call it what you will.

I call it magic.

Biharethnic foodJharkhandlitti chokha