The Nirvik Bureau, Bhubaneswar, 12 March 2026
“Iran Fights with Drones, You Fight with Dry Roti”
In a world torn apart by geopolitics, oil prices, and opinion polls, the real victim has finally emerged: your butter chicken.
Somewhere between Tehran and Tis Hazari, a ship took a detour, a cylinder went missing, and suddenly in Delhi, a lawyer in a black coat stared at a canteen notice that essentially said, “No dal makhani till further notice. Settle for sandwich.” If that doesn’t qualify as a national emergency, what does?
Iran is at war, tankers are stuck at the Strait of Hormuz, and India is facing its gravest crisis since WhatsApp went down last week: restaurants are cutting gravy from their menus. Butter chicken, chole bhature, dal makhani, biryani — all lined up before the firing squad of “LPG shortage” and executed in cold… well, room temperature.
But wait. In this gasless dystopia, one survivor emerges from the smoky rubble: chicken tikka from the tandoor. While your creamy gravies are being rationed like pre-poll promises, tandoori chicken, paneer tikka, naan and kulcha are strutting across menus like nothing happened. Iran may be burning, but your tandoor is still turning.
We were taught in school that wars affect economies, borders, and lives. Nobody mentioned that the real battlefield would be your thali. A missile somewhere there, and here your dosa dies.
Dosa joints, those temples of crisp carbohydrate faith, have been forced to switch from masala dosa and uttapam to humble rice and sambar because the tawa, like democracy, requires constant heat to function. An 83-year-old legendary eatery in Bengaluru is now running fewer tawas, treating LPG like it’s Bitcoin in 2017 — rare, mysterious, and definitely not for everyone.
Hostels and PGs across Bengaluru, Chennai, Lucknow are rewriting their menus like NCERT textbooks. Parathas have been declared anti-national to the gas cylinder. Rotis appear only on alternate days, like comets. Rice, which apparently consumes less LPG, has emerged as the surprise winner of this geopolitical talent show. “Congratulations rice, you are the new national carbohydrate.”
In Delhi High Court, even samosas have been sent to the gallows. When the legal fraternity is reduced to fruit chaat and salad, you know civilization is hanging by a thread. Imagine a senior advocate preparing to argue a constitutional bench matter after a breakfast of cucumber slices and grief.
Meanwhile, the government has calmly denied any LPG shortage, the way it denies everything from unemployment to bad movies. A “committee” of three executive directors has been formed – because if anything can bring back your butter chicken, it is definitely a well-documented meeting with minutes and sub-committees.
Restaurants, desperate to survive, are going medieval. Many have moved to firewood and coal. So to save the planet from fossil fuels and war, we have decided to burn more trees. Climate change is in the corner, slow-clapping.
One Mumbai restaurateur says black marketeers are asking ₹5,000 for a gas cylinder. At this point, it’s cheaper to fly to Iran, negotiate peace, and come back with a personal pipeline.
But in all this chaos, one thing is clear: wars may reshape borders, topple regimes, and change world orders — but the true measure of global conflict in India is simple:
Is butter chicken available today or not?
