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 yoghurt—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.
Now, I’m rarely one to turn down homemade food—especially something so deeply tied to summer memories. Add to that the warm rapport we’d already built through social media, our shared love for Delhi’s flavours, and it felt only natural to say yes. We made plans, loose and unhurried, to one day share this dish that had sparked our connection.
But, as it often happens in this city of delayed plans and shifting schedules, time slipped through our fingers. Promises were made, rescheduled, and made again. Life—busy, unpredictable, relentless—kept getting in the way. Months passed, and the conversation about dahi-vadas became something of a running joke between us, a little thread we tugged at now and then, hoping to tie a knot.
Then, a few nights ago, entirely without ceremony, she messaged to say: tonight’s the night. She was finally making the dahi-vadas and bringing them over. No fuss, no build-up—just a quiet declaration that the promise was about to be kept.
Strangely, I didn’t hesitate. There was no second-guessing, no last-minute nerves about inviting someone I had never met into my home. There was only a sense of ease, as though something simple and good was finally coming to fruition. A gentle intuition told me that this would be one of those encounters that slides naturally into memory, as though it was always meant to happen.
Later that night, long past the usual dinner hour, Shalika arrived at my door with her husband. Both are designers by profession, having recently returned to India after years in Hong Kong. Their return, she explained, was partly to pause and breathe, and partly to be closer to aging parents—a sentiment that has echoed with many in recent years. In her hand, she held a cloth bag. Inside: a generous box of homemade dahi-vadas and a jar of saunth chutney—thick, dark, fragrant with tamarind, jaggery and a whisper of spice.
From the very first exchange, it didn’t feel like a first meeting. We slipped into conversation as though we were resuming something rather than beginning it. There was laughter, that quiet comfort that comes when you realise someone speaks the same language—not just in words, but in tastes, rhythms, and warmth.
And then, there were the dahi-vadas.
Soft isn’t quite the word—they were tender, almost fragile, but miraculously held together, drenched in chilled yoghurt with just the right consistency. A subtle note of ginger crept through each bite, balancing the creamy coolness with a touch of warmth. The saunth brought its sweet-sour depth, and together, the flavours sang.
Shalika told me she had learnt the recipe from a friend many years ago, and over time had refined it—so much so that now, among her circle, she’s the designated dahi-vada maker at every gathering. I could see why. These were crafted with care, precision, and a certain kind of quiet pride that is hard to fake.
But beyond the dish itself, it was the gesture that moved me. Someone showing up at your door, late in the evening, with food made from memory and meaning—that’s more than hospitality. That's the connection. That’s what food can do.
That night, over spoons of yoghurt and easy laughter, I was reminded of why I write about food. Not for the trends, or even the taste, but for these moments—when something cooked by a stranger becomes a story, a friendship, a feeling you’ll carry long after the plate is cleared.