Is a thing still itself if every part of it changes over time?

This ancient thought experiment, known as the Ship of Theseus paradox, has puzzled philosophers for centuries. The story goes: as Theseus’s legendary ship aged, its wooden planks were replaced one by one. By the time every piece had been swapped, was it still Theseus’s ship — or something entirely new? What makes something original: its form, its materials, or its essence?

I found myself thinking about that ship not in a lecture hall, but in my kitchen — oceans away from home. I was surrounded by unfamiliar shelves, foreign labels, and a quiet so unlike the bustling kitchens of my childhood. It had been long enough since I’d moved that I’d exhausted the last of my mother’s lovingly packed spice blends — those little packets of home that had travelled with me. What remained was a longing for comfort. And for me, comfort had a very specific name: Rajma Chawal.

Growing up in New Delhi, Tuesdays had an unofficial ritual. After school, I’d rush home knowing exactly what would be waiting for me — a plate of steaming, fragrant jeera rice (cumin-spiced rice) paired with a rich, tangy kidney bean curry: Dilli-wali Rajma Chawal. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was perfect. The scent of slow-cooked beans with garam masala and the earthy bite of cumin rice felt like a warm, familiar hug. It wasn’t just a meal — it was a ritual, a homecoming, a small ceremony of belonging.

So when I moved, the first thing I tried to recreate in my new kitchen was that plate of Rajma Chawal. I sliced the onions the way my mother did, used the spices I had brought from home, chopped fresh garlic, and blended tomatoes in a smoothie blender. However, I had to resort to using canned kidney beans for convenience.

I cooked with hope, and when I took that first bite, it was close — not the same, but close enough to stir something in me. The spices didn’t quite sing in the same key, and the canned beans lacked the soul of the slowly simmered kind. Yet the dish brought back flickers of memory: my mother’s voice calling me for lunch, monsoon afternoons spent at the table, the sheer ordinariness of a beloved routine.

I tried again. And again. Tweaking ratios, chasing a flavour that existed as much in my head as in my memory. And then, I stopped. I realised I was chasing a ghost. The truth was, this wasn’t her Rajma Chawal. This was mine — a hybrid of convenience, distance, and longing.

A few weeks ago, I took what might be considered culinary blasphemy by a purist’s standards. I made Rajma using bright red European passata instead of hand-puréed fresh tomatoes, canned kidney beans, frozen garlic paste, and pre-ground coriander powder with a label that claimed “Product of India” but smelled faintly foreign. I even added a handful of spinach for some greens. Instead of rice, I served it over jeera-spiced quinoa for a boost of protein.

It was wonderful. Different, yes — but still unmistakably Rajma Chawal in spirit.

It brought me back again to the Ship of Theseus. If you replace every plank of a ship, one by one, is it still the same ship? Or something entirely new? At what point does something lose its original identity? Or does it, in fact, carry its essence through change?

Maybe recipes are our edible Ships of Theseus.

Is it the ingredients that define a dish?

Is it the execution?

Or is it the story it tells, and the feeling it evokes?

Perhaps a dish’s identity isn’t rooted in perfect fidelity to its original form, but in the continuity of meaning it carries — the way a recipe adapts while preserving a core idea, an emotional resonance. A way to belong, to remember, and to reinvent.

Consider how immigrant communities everywhere recreate recipes with what’s available: tofu replacing paneer, tortillas standing in for roti, or baking samosas when deep-frying isn’t an option. The flavours shift, the methods adapt — but the soul of the dish, the reason it exists on that plate, in that kitchen, in that moment, remains intact.

This flexibility is what keeps food alive. Not as a static relic of the past, but as a living archive of our movements, compromises, and inheritances. Every substitution and tweak tells a story — not just of what was lost, but of what was preserved, and what was created anew.

My Rajma Chawal now carries both the memory of home and the story of where I am now. It’s my edible ship — changed in parts, but still carrying me back to myself, one bite at a time.

Maybe authenticity isn’t about precision. Maybe it’s about intention — the act of remembering, adapting, and keeping something precious alive, even if every ingredient has changed.

And perhaps, like the Ship of Theseus, what matters is not whether it’s the exact same dish — but whether it still carries us home.