“Actually, my mother made these. But I can make them.” Omkar felt shy to admit it. The truth was, he had taken some of the food his mother had made for dinner and told her he had to attend a late-night study group. “If you don’t like them, we can go get something else somewhere.”

He handed her a slab of bread. Demonstrating what to do with it, he tore through the structure of the bread with his hands, removing a piece from it. He used it to spoon some of the curry from a Tupperware container into his mouth.

Aria copied him gingerly. When she placed it in her mouth, she was in disbelief. The tomato was creamed; its flavor was heavy in her throat. It was suffused with spices that contained all the memories of a foreign land within them, all the celebrations. It tasted like pure indulgence, like luxury and wealth on the tongue. “What is this?” she asked him.

“This is chapati,” he said, holding up the bread in his hand. “That’s tikka masala.” He pointed to what she had just eaten. “And this is tadka dal,” he added, indicating a yellow curry in another Tupperware container.

“Where is all this from?” Aria asked him. The emotional feel of the food had made her suddenly curious about his heritage.

“This is Punjab food. Which is part of India, close to Pakistan, where my family’s from. Do you like it? You can tell me if you don’t like it, it’s OK,” Omkar said.

“No, I love it. Can I try this one?” Aria asked, reaching toward the yellow stew.

“Yes,” he said, dipping his bread into it first to show her it was OK.

The second stew was both chalky and creamy; its filling consistency reminded Aria of split pea soup. But it was sunrise yellow. Toasted cumin hid in its thickness. It was comforting to eat and Aria imagined it would be even more comforting if it were a familiar flavor, like it must be for Omkar.