When Food Opens the Door to Friendship

OW a reader's heartfelt message, a box of homemade dahi-vadas, and a summer evening in Delhi led to an unexpected connection.

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Last year, around this very time—when Delhi begins to shimmer with the heavy breath of summer, when the air thickens and everything slows to a sweat-slicked daze—I wrote a column on dahi-vadas for Delectable Delhi. It was more than a recipe or a review. It was a memory piece, an ode to that soft, chilled orb of lentil soaked in yogurt—cool and yielding, a spoonful of comfort against the blaze outside. I spoke of how it brings with it the nostalgia of childhood kitchens, of sweltering afternoons spent chasing shade and solace, and of how this humble dish feels like a balm, both literal and emotional.

Among the many responses I received, one lingered. A message arrived in my Instagram inbox from a reader in Sarita Vihar who said she had been following my columns for a while. This one, she said, had struck a deeper chord. The subject was dear to her—not just for its taste but because she genuinely believed she made an excellent version of it. She was sure of it, not in the loud, self-congratulatory way some home cooks can be, but with the quiet assurance of someone who has been told, time and again, that hers is the best.

Her name was Shalika Kharbanda, and she wanted me to try her dahi-vadas.