It didn’t begin with a paintbrush.
It began with words.

English was the first world I built, not out of color, but out of rhythm and emotion. I fell in love with how a single phrase could change the air around me, how punctuation could hold feeling, how silence could mean just as much as sound. Writing gave me language when my heart felt too full. It was the art of saying without always explaining.

Then came food, the second language of my soul. In the kitchen, I learned that creation could be tangible, that love could be measured in teaspoons, and that patience had a scent: the slow bloom of saffron, the toast of cumin, the sweetness of cardamom in milk.
Cooking wasn’t separate from art; it was another kind of storytelling, one you could taste. Each dish became a little poem in disguise, each meal a memory painted in spice and care.

And somewhere between metaphors and masalas, I found drawing.
It began quietly, pencil smudges on the edge of a notebook, color bleeding into curiosity. But soon, art became the bridge, the place where all my languages met. In every brushstroke, I heard rhythm; in every hue, I felt warmth; in every quiet line, I saw the patience I’d learned from stirring something on a stove.

That’s where I realized: it’s all connected.
Writing, cooking, art, they’re not different things. They are the same heartbeat expressed three ways. All of them teach me to listen. To slow down. To find beauty not in perfection, but in the honesty of the process.

Because my art isn’t just ink and pigment.
It’s milk and ink.
It’s the softness of what nourishes and the permanence of what marks. It’s culture and chaos, stillness and motion, words and flavor, all held in one trembling line that somehow makes sense.

This is where it all started:
with stories I could taste, feelings I could paint, and languages that finally felt like home.