She was Gujarati. “I heard you talking,” she said. “We have diabetics in our family,” and smiled.

Sometime in 2014, the Indian writer V. Gangadhar was at the crowded Kuwait Airways counter at New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport, annoyed that his flight to Mumbai was canceled. Tempers were short. Gangadhar was tired and diabetic. His wife was anxious. He needed to eat, but the cafe was some distance away. Suddenly, a woman turned up and offered him masala puri, chutneys, and biscuits.

Sometime in 2014, the Indian writer V. Gangadhar was at the crowded Kuwait Airways counter at New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport, annoyed that his flight to Mumbai was canceled. Tempers were short. Gangadhar was tired and diabetic. His wife was anxious. He needed to eat, but the cafe was some distance away. Suddenly, a woman turned up and offered him masala puri, chutneys, and biscuits.

She was Gujarati. “I heard you talking,” she said. “We have diabetics in our family,” and smiled.

Gangadhar later wrote: “I was not surprised at her kindness to a stranger—during my long years in Gujarat I have experienced this sort of warm consideration for others.” He recalled Gujarati kitchens preparing food for the drought-affected, even feeding starving cattle.

You don’t have to look far to witness Gujarati generosity. Take any Indian train journey, with its erratic schedules, unscheduled stops, noisy passengers, and endless rounds of tone-deaf Bollywood singing—but if you’re lucky, you will have Gujarati passengers traveling with you.

Once the train leaves Mumbai Central, heading north, and reaches Palghar, Gujaratis will open their round steel boxes and bring out delicious, crisp khakhras (hard-flattened chapattis) or theplas (the limper version spiced with fenugreek), served with chhundo, the grated mango pickle that can be hot and sweet at the same time.