Home sweet home in Delhi: A culinary adventure.

“The language of friendship is not words but meanings.”

— Henry David Thoreau

Anu greets me at the door with a hug and a kiss on each cheek.

Before I can even take my shoes off or set my bag down, there’s a cool glass of fresh lemon soda in my hand–and the sugar-to-soda ratio couldn’t be more perfect. Anu’s husband Rakesh leads me to their sofa, extending a tray of Ritz crackers towards me.

“Take, take,” he urges and I don’t resist.

This wouldn’t be so strange if not for one fact: We’re complete strangers.

I arrived in Delhi a few days earlier on assignment with a travel company called Viator. While the week had included various programs throughout Old and New Delhi, what I had been most looking forward to all week was this–a final cultural night tour with a family dinner.

Lemon soda in hand, we first sit around their living room getting to know each other. Anu, whose name means “love,” is a housewife. “But I also like drawing and painting,” she says. Already, I can tell we’ll be good friends.

Then there’s her husband Rakesh, a real estate agent, and their two children: 22-year old Kuntal, an accounting student, and his 18-year old sister Smriti–“Her name means memory,” Anu tells me–who has just started her first year of university studying geography.

Conversation is slow at first. There are plenty of smiles exchanged, little waggles of the head, but mostly my guide Akanksha speaks with them in Hindi, translating bits and pieces for me. Finally, though, it’s time to get down to business.

“First we make onion and spinach pakora,” Anu says as she leads me into their kitchen.

She points out the family’s water filter, the cupboard of metal plates and cups, and–what I imagine is the key weapon in every Indian woman’s arsenal–her spice collection. Tucked inside a round silver tin are smaller pots of bright red chilli powder and yellow turmeric, coriander and cumin, salt and black pepper.

We combine red onion, raw spinach, chick pea flour, vegetable oil and spices in a bowl, stirring it all together until the vegetables are fully coated. Little balls of floured onion and spinach are then dropped into a pan of oil, sizzling and popping until ready to be eaten with ketchup.

After we finish the pakora and a round of chai, Anu takes my plate and asks, “You want to wear a sari?”

I’m not sure if it’s a general question or an immediate one, so I respond with a hesitant yes.

“Come with me,” she says, already standing up.

“Really?” I ask with a look over at Akanksha.

She smiles. “I didn’t want to spoil it for you.”

“Yes,” Anu says, “I have many surprises.”

She closes the curtain to her bedroom behind us. “I have thirty, forty saris. What is your favourite color?”

Without a pause, I tell her blue; a moment later, she’s pulling out a dark blue dress, so rich in color it’s the shade of an midsummer night’s indigo sky. She shows me three different ways to wear the sari, moving the fabric around my waist and over my shoulder with deft, knowing fingers, but we settle on the last option–the Rajasthani sari–for the way it shows off the detailed silver embroidery.

“Now you need an Indian name,” Akanksha says when I walk out of the room, modelling my new look. “I’m going to call you Santi. It means ‘peace.'”

My transformation complete, it’s time for dinner.

Anu commands the kitchen like my mother on Thanksgiving. Pre-boiled potatoes are diced, mixed with raw methi (similar to spinach), and a few quick dashes from the spice tin to make aloo methi. Water is boiled for rice, into which potatoes, a thickly chopped red onion, and frozen peas are thrown for rice pulau. An already prepared dal lentil is heated up on the stove, with a spoonful of chilli powder swirled in for color like a painter mixes pigments.

“Do you always prepare this many dishes for a meal?” I ask.

“Oh, no, but you are a V.I.P. guest,” Anu says, without batting an eye from the four courses she has going on the stovetop. Anu, I think to myself, would give Rachel Ray a serious run for her money.

What I’m most looking forward to, though, is sharing the food together. As the dishes are brought to the table, I go to move it out from the wall so there’s a seat for everyone. But apparently I’ve still got something to learn. Rakesh tells me he and Anu will serve the meal while the rest of us eat. I try to protest, insisting we all share it together–but it seems there’s no fighting tradition.

“Normally the husband would eat while the wife serves,” Akanksha tells me, “But Rakesh is a good husband. They will eat later together.”

Part of me never feels truly comfortable as Anu whips up baskets of fresh roti from the kitchen and Rakesh won’t let me refill my own water–but part of me knows it’s just their way of hospitality.

As Akanksha and I go to leave–my sari sadly removed and folded back into Anu’s closet–I’m not entirely sure what I’m so grateful for. Maybe it was finally learning how to make masala chai the Indian way. Maybe it was having such a deliciously full belly. But mostly, it was that I’d finally been able to put a face to Delhi–a city that had thus far eluded my attempts to get to know it.

Well, that–and a full belly.