There is nothing like piping hot jalebis on winter dusks. Some of my fondest memories of Delhi itself revolve around the anticipation as vendors take their sweet time churning these syrupy love knots over and over in large cauldrons of fiery oil with cautious ennui. My habitual reticence gives way to an ebullient prattle, suddenly agog at the goings on around me but my eyes glued to the oil frothing at the sensuous curves like sizzling lace. At the Singhu border I watched as little Arsh distributed steaming jalebis in