Mohali mornings in winter have their own kind of magic. The fog hangs low, the air smells faintly of damp earth, and somewhere in the kitchen, chai simmers slowly. You can hear that faint sizzle — parathas meeting the tawa. And always, there’s that old steel jar of ghee sitting by the stove, its surface catching the light, warm and golden. For many families here, that jar isn’t just food. It feels like comfort, like continuity — and lately, like something science is quietly learning to respect again.