('Selfie' is an inward-looking column on the everyday anxieties, ambitions, and contradictions of Kiwi-Indian migrant life. No hard feelings please.)

Among Kiwi-Indians, few traditions capture our diaspora spirit quite like the potluck. It’s how we gather, how we feed, and- let’s be honest- how we quietly measure one another’s culinary worth. What began as a practical way to share the load has become an art form, layered with pride, nostalgia, and of course, competition.  

Ah, the delicate dance of the potluck.   

Do not for a minute be fooled by its name- a potluck involves everything but luck. A potluck is a performance. It begins in a banged-up pot and ends in a pristine serving pot and never the twain shall meet.   

Empires have risen and fallen over a good meal. Even today, on occasion, it decides who gets to sit at the very top. And while the throne may be a sofa, the politics remain the same.   

Fast forward to your Aotearoa living room, the invites go out, the group chat lights up: Who’s bringing what?  Now comes the real dilemma: which prized family recipe to whip out- and why does it hinge on whether bladdy Costco has dhania?  

In the diaspora, food is both an offering and a statement. This is where reputations might be made, where newbies bravely place their dish amongst the veterans, where silent competitions unfold: who’s foil tray will empty first? Who gets the recipe request, whose dish lingers untouched…   

And then the payoff- the look of someone closing their eyes on the second helping, as if your masala duck has briefly eclipsed the universe. Be ready to sign your house, dog, and Netflix password to this good fellow- because that triumphant feeling is dangerous. It lingers. Even long after Lalita unveils her prized gulab jamuns.   

Now, thanks to Whatsapp and a bit of organisation, everyone knows what they’re bringing. Everyone brings their A game, the dishes hit just right, and the garage is alive with uncles, whiskey, and a playlist stuck in 1997.   

And if democracy fails, there’s always the Alphabet Rule: Amar gets Aloo Gobi, Bhanva tackles Biryani and Chandni is cornered into Chicken Tikka Masala. It works beautifully - until all three Sanjays show up with Samosas.   

Wherever we are in the world, the one thing you can count on is some glorious food. Not just to fill bellies- but to tell stories, carry legacies, and settle scores.   

And at the end of the day, who really wins? The one whose dish disappears or the one who goes home with leftovers?