Once upon a drizzle, in the streets of Manchester, I made karipap by hand-hundreds of thousands of them. Each one was a flaky little envelope of warmth, folded with care, filled with spice, and handed over with a smile. For nearly a decade, it was my quiet craft, my little way of sharing a taste of Malaysia in the north of England.

Then, life happened. I stopped. The world spun on. But something about the karipap refused to stay shelved. People remembered. They asked. They missed it. And somewhere in the rhythm of the city and the chatter of family kitchens, it came back to me: maybe the world could use a little flaky magic again.

This isn't just food. It's memory. It's migration. It's heritage folded into pastry. It's the story of Manchester: industrious, diverse, unbreakable. It's also just damn good karipap.

Sometimes, the smallest things can carry the biggest meaning. And this, right here, is ours.

Kari On, Manchester. Kari On.