Raghu Babu, you too

Last time you lied. I knew you were not well and you were looking frail.” Today you are gone. The city’s rhythm—once punctuated by the fold of sal leaf plates and the gentle ladling of curd-soaked Dahibara—is missing a beat. Raghu is gone.

- CHARUDUTTA PANIGRAHI

Raghu was born to hold fort. Thirty-eight years my senior, yet a friend for forty-three. He was in the middle of fast vanishing legacy of Cuttack, standing tall in his humility, his blue kurta slowly turning white with time—like a flag weathered but proud.

In the 1980s, at his personal peak, Raghu’s spartan dekchis of Dahibara and Aludam pulled entire households to Stadium Padia, No marketing, no menu boards, no gimmicks. Just consistency, purity, and love. Every afternoon, every evening, the same treat. No monotony. No health scares, Just Raghu.

For seventy unbroken years, he was a living monument, a custodian of Cuttack’s soul, and a friend to generations. His passing isn’t merely the end of a culinary era—it’s the fading of a city’s heartbeat.