Her mother-in-law's secret recipe

The fidgety toddler grabbed at the book beside me. Her mother apologised quickly. What was I reading, she asked gently, politely, gauging whether my reaction would be warm. Her eyes lit up at the mention of my theology degree.

‘And do you believe in God?’ she questioned earnestly.

In a rattling carriage on a night train to Mumbai, I met Nitin, Deepa and a restless Pari travelling home to Chennai. I ignored my sleep-deprived brain, so enthralled instead by this stranger’s beautiful description of her gods, delighted by her greedy questioning of my own beliefs.

I must eat with them, she exclaimed, delving into her bulging bags. They groaned with foil trays: she had obviously come prepared to meet new friends. Pearls of golden rice found themselves pooled in a crimson sauce that dribbled from the edge of the paper plate onto her fingers. Pungent and spicy, it burnt my lips, mellowing only as it reached my throat. Chunks of fleshy mango, pitted with cumin seeds, swirled in zesty sauce, viscous and slick like lava mixed with honey. The lid of another tray struggled painfully to contain golf ball-sized chaats, studded with green chilli.

At every mouthful she topped up my plate, nodding her head. Pari gurgled chithi, meaning aunty, as she mushed together rice and sauce and insisted on feeding me – her parents laughed as they probed me on England, my university, my future.

Another dish emerged: in spite of my gorged stomach, I peered in. Creamy, sticky nuggets of kaju katli, shimmering with silver leaf, bordered honey-glossed laddus: crumbly, buttery and coconutty on my tongue. Her last tray contained plum cake: it was her mother-in-law’s secret recipe - she leaned in - and this was the best plum cake I would taste in India.

She smiled with pride at my bloated, satisfied belly. I must visit Chennai and I must stay with them, she ordered. In fact, there’s a wedding in a few weeks’ time and her family will want to meet her new friend. She’ll be making her plum cake.