Adieu to a legacy, and onward…

Today, my sadness carries many layers.

A ninety-year-old family business, founded by my great-grandfather, has finally said goodbye. Annapurna Bhandar—a traditional Bengali sweet shop (bakery) in the heart of Delhi—was an institution. An icon. A place that appeared on every list of must-eat spots that defined my city, Delhi.

I am sad because some of the sweets and savories made there were singular—flavors I have never found anywhere else. Not in Kolkata. Not at the most famous sweet shops. Not even in the oldest and most celebrated bakeries. That taste, balance, and texture belonged only to us.

I am sad because no one will ever again taste those grainy kanchagollas, those perfectly spongy rosogollas, the crispiest nimki, the delicately balanced mishti doi, and—most of all—the one-of-a-kind singara so impossibly flavorful. Our recipes were handed down through generations and preserved with reverence.

I am sad because even after ninety years, we never compromised on quality. That kind of consistency decade after decade, is rare. To have sustained it for ninety years is something to be profoundly proud of.

And all of this leads me to the part that leaves me most bittersweet.

My father’s devotion to the family business spanned his entire life. And it never wavered for a single day. Growing up, I never saw him take a day off. His punctuality was unwavering. His discipline, unshakeable. Hard work, diligence, and consistency were carved into him like stone.

He ran a well-established store that did not require his presence every waking hour. He was the owner; he did not need to eat his meals alongside the men who worked for him. But he did. Always and without hesitation.

From him, I learned humility. I learned that no one stands above another. I learned the value of hard work. And that it must be done again and again, every single day.

He often spoke about his conversations with his father. My grandfather had told him to start from the bottom, to learn every step firsthand. That way, no one could cheat you, and you would understand the true challenges of running a business.

Dad followed Grandfather’s guidance to the letter, and it shaped him. He never saw himself as the boss, the owner of four stores; he only saw himself as an equal.

Today, our store has closed its doors. And my father begins a new chapter.

I wish him the happiest retirement—one filled with late mornings, long naps, vacations, endless carom games, and finally using those VIP cricket tickets he receives for every match in Delhi.

I love you, Dad. You have always been my hero, and you will always be my first love. Everything I am is because of you. And even if I don’t say it often enough, I mean it—from the deepest part of my heart.