We didn’t bring too many things with us when we moved to Berlin from India. When we landed at the Berlin-Brandenburg airport, all we had were two big suitcases. Two suitcases that somehow managed to hold our entire lives—the life we had left, and the life we were going to start.

We got all the basics: paperwork that proves we’re legit humans, devices that allow us to earn a living, clothes that make us seem like decent people, and a few knick knacks. I packed some things I knew I wouldn’t find in Berlin. A pressure cooker (the whistles are too loud in Germany, and I’ve often wondered if our neighbours will complain), a rolling pin (barely used it; making rotis is a pain), and a steel box to store all my spices.

Once we found an Indian store, I excitedly bought all my spices. Red chilli, mustard seeds, turmeric, garam masala, coriander, cumin seeds and dry mango. (Did I hear you whisper curry powder? My good human, there’s no such thing). And the first thing I did was fill up my spice box. And order was restored in the universe.

In the initial few weeks, we ate a lot of pizzas, döners, croissants and sandwiches. They’re easy to find, not too expensive, and when you’re spending 70% of your free time looking for apartments, you invariably end up checking out a bunch of cafės and restaurants.

But. We always craved Indian food. The Indian food you get in restaurants here is an often bastardised version of what Europeans think it is, and what Indians think Europeans want. (Be warned of sweet tomato paste, eek!) Very often, it’s not great. So we cooked our own food at home. Every time I opened my spice box, I opened a box of possibilities. Sometimes I needed only one or two spices, sometimes more, and sometimes ALL of them. There are no rules when it comes to food.

You know how all the songs in the world are made up of 7 basic notes? That’s how I feel about spices. Sometimes it’s a dance between mustard seeds, curry leaves and thin slivers of onions, sometimes it’s a symphony of cumin seeds, turmeric and potatoes. Depending on the mood or the season, you can create wonder and beauty with just some veggies, lentils and a handful of spices.

Knowing I have my trusty spice box is like having a security blanket. It’s a promise of good food, an ode to my family, a nod to the smells of my childhood home. It’s knowing that on a bad day after failed attempts at talking in German with a disgruntled cashier, I can still whip up my favourite comfort food, plant myself on my sofa, watch TV and all will be right with the world.

When you move countries, you’re stuck in limbo for a while: between what has always been home and what is about to become home. And in that liminal space, you hold pieces of what really feels like home close to you. My spice box is one such piece. And as long as it has space to hold my spices, I will be fine. We will be fine.