Born in the bustling suburbs of Durban and raised on a steady diet of spicy tales and soulful Bollywood melodies, Prashin Sudesh Premchand Rocharam is a man with simple desires—chief among them, a well-prepared Bunnychow. The son of a tailor and a school teacher, Prashin grew up surrounded by family values, cricket commentary, the scent of masala, and the ever-enticing promise of Saturday afternoon takeout from the local Indian quarter.
But Prashin doesn’t just “like” Bunnychow—he reveres it.
“I don’t care what the chefs on TV say about gourmet burgers and truffle oil. Give me a quarter loaf of soft white bread, hollowed out and brimming with fiery lamb curry, and I’m in heaven,” he often proclaims with a proud slap on his belly.
To him, Bunnychow is more than food. It’s memory. It’s identity. It’s the steaming parcel his grandfather used to bring back after long shifts at the spice market. It’s the greasy paper stained with turmeric he used to unwrap like a treasure chest. It’s shared laughter with friends under beach umbrellas, curry dripping between fingers, beads of sweat forming not from heat, but from sheer chilli-induced ecstasy.
When Prashin travels—and he often does, for his job as a textile merchandiser—he carries with him his own masala blends and has tried to recreate Bunnychow in hotel rooms from Joburg to Jakarta. None compare. “It’s not just the ingredients,” he says. “It’s the vibe—the Durban air, the corner shops, the aunty behind the counter who calls you ‘baba’.”
He even started a blog called ChowChaser, reviewing variations of Bunnychow across the world—from vegan tofu attempts in Cape Town to pulled pork travesties in London. He awards stars for authenticity, spice level, bread softness, and whether the curry leaves are fresh.
Prashin dreams of opening his own Bunnychow café one day: modern, but rooted. He envisions street-style dining with Bollywood murals, thali-style desserts, and an old radio in the corner playing Lata Mangeshkar classics. But until then, you’ll find him every Sunday, back in Durban’s Grey Street, standing patiently in line at Patel’s Curry Den, inhaling deeply as he edges closer to his weekly fix.
“I may be a modern man,” he grins, “but my heart will always belong to a loaf filled with curry.”
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