“Impossible!” That’s the refrain at my grandparents’ if anyone visits and tries to leave without having a drink or a bite. My grandmother, Mumji, is especially notorious for force-feeding guests. Some of us don’t tell her in advance that we’re coming, so she won’t have time to prepare – because she makes way too much food, pressures you to over-eat, never sits with you since she’s too busy hurrying between hob and table, piling plates with fresh chapattis.

She keeps a mental log of what you consume and is at her nicest when you’ve had too much. Mumji puts care into cooking, but is slapdash about serving: she isn’t bothered by sauce drips on the side of a serving bowl, the way the table is laid or how the conversation flows. If there’s any talk, she prefers it to be about her culinary skills, but the best compliment is simply to eat – a lot – and quickly, while it’s hot. A few family members have become so habituated to being served steaming fare they pop their plates into the microwave mid-meal. My grandfather used to send back food or coffee in restaurants asking for it to be re-heated, dismissing concerns that this would affect the flavour. Mumji’s food is so intensely spiced, nothing can alter its flavour, which is created to leave the distinct after-taste of power. Her hospitality dictates that even as you indulge guests, you demand certain treatment in return: she cooks in order to be praised, adored, respected – even feared.

I have enjoyed and suffered under Mumji’s regime and, involuntarily, adopted some of her hosting habits. Try as I might to be reasonable and sustainable, part of me remains prone to being profuse. I wonder if it is even possible to be a modestly generous host, for isn’t it in the very nature of hospitality to offer more than is necessary, more than could ever be taken?

The French philosopher Alain Badiou wrote: “Love begins when something impossible is overcome.” The same could be said of hospitality: the act of accepting from another, of receiving the other, only begins, only touches the rim of true hospitability, when it pushes you beyond your limits, discomfits you, allows in the unexpected, brings about what you never imagined.

My grandmother cooks in order to be praised, adored, respected – even feared

The word for hospitality in German is gastfreundschaft, which literally means guest-friendship. Besides connoting food, sharing and community, the word is understood as a philosophical and political term. Living in Berlin and learning German helped me see what an extraordinarily all-encompassing notion hospitality is. In English, the word has been co-opted by the “hospitality industry” so the first association is often to do with being a paying guest in a restaurant or hotel. Yet, historically, the word has rich associations: its ancient Indo-European root, ghos-ti, meant host, guest and stranger, the trio of roles through which we – consciously or unconsciously – shift our lives. It seems so apt that this inescapable flux was once contained in a single word.

Ghos-ti also birthed “hostility”, sibling-word to hospitality. Learning of this linguistic lineage helped me make sense of the tension I’ve experienced at Mumji’s table, the way her well-meant excesses could suddenly tip into a form of assault. Hospitality, for all the sense of accommodation it implies, can also be an imposition – on both sides. This is the case at the table and in society at large. What becomes decisive is how we handle the burden of obligation, deal with the frustration; what counts is how we surmount the feeling of not being able to take any more, how we try to overcome the impossible.

With Mumji I tried different strategies. Inviting her to be your guest is also testing: she eats before coming over, makes disparaging remarks about what’s served and is impatient to leave. Yet, there are rewards: her enduring curiosity about new flavours, her delight on the rare occasions she likes something you’ve cooked, her gratitude for the small amount of time you spend with her.

My relationship with Mumji has been one of the training grounds for tolerance. In some arenas, practice does not make perfect, it just makes clear how much more practice is needed. We are forced to exercise forbearance in the family and, because of the deep bonds, we are generally more accepting of the challenge. Again and again, even in the most difficult circumstances – and sometimes to our own detriment – we persuade ourselves to reach out again, to try once more, to keep loving. The ability to make this effort may be the foundation of humanity. I’m intrigued by how far the hospitable impulse might stretch: who are we ready to include in the circle of belonging, what efforts are we prepared to make for each other as inhabitants of a shared world, how might actively embracing more distant others alter our sense of ourselves?

On 17 December last year, I was in a small ground floor room in the District Office for Mitte, Berlin. Besides me, two others were present: my husband and the civil servant who had overseen my citizenship application, filed three months before. I signed a few final documents and then stood to pledge: “I solemnly declare that I will respect the Constitution and the laws of the Federal Republic of Germany.” It was the most unassuming ceremony and yet the grandest, most moving occasion, because in that moment a world unfurled, full of promise, saying yes, saying welcome. All the while, I was aware that this admission was the consequence of a rejection, of another world folding up, shutting out. If the UK had not voted to leave the EU, I would not have applied for German citizenship.

Reciprocity only really begins if it discomfits you with the unexpected

As we left the building, I gripped the citizenship certificate. I thought of what some people go through, all they sacrifice and risk, in search of a chance in another country. And here I was with dual citizenship – because of the European Union. I had spent half my adult life in Germany, felt I belonged – yet with official status something was different. I can’t believe I’ve got this, I said. You’ve got the Holocaust too now, my husband said. He went on talking. I didn’t hear a thing. I was annoyed, thinking he could have waited before making that observation. At the same time, I was feeling an awful weight, trying to shrug it off, realising it would not budge. The past had acquired a different charge: a history I had studied as a guest of sorts had become mine to host. It was the most sombre confirmation of a lesson I’d already learned – that citizenship comes with responsibilities, not just rights.

I had experienced this many times, most vividly during the summer of 2015 when millions in Germany warmly welcomed 890,000 mainly Syrian refugees. Angela Merkel had kept the country’s borders open, but the state initially struggled to meet the basic needs of those arriving – so citizens stepped in to house and care for them. Many grassroots initiatives focused on bringing long-time residents and the recently arrived together to cook and eat as a step towards fostering community. These were acts of political hospitality, recognition that the world is ours only if we share it. Later, these events also unleashed hate, parading as love of nation, used to justify hostility towards refugees, minorities and migrants the world over.

Members of my family voted for the UK to leave the EU. On the odd occasion since, when we’ve been around one table, I have adopted Mumji’s tactics and tried to force-feed them counter-arguments without letting them get a word in. No one had a change of heart. We all parted with a bad taste in our mouths.

It’s been said that a society’s greatness is measured by how it treats its minorities and weakest members. I would extend that to say that a society’s greatness is measured by how it treats the stranger – the newly arrived immigrant. And: a society’s greatness is measured by how it deals with disagreement and discord between its different members.

I wish I had listened more at those family gatherings, asked questions instead of lecturing. To hear someone out is to offer shelter: you protect their right to a different narrative, even if you can’t agree with it. In the sanctuary of a story we may find new scope for generosity.

Be My Guest: Reflections on Food, Community and the Meaning of Generosity, by Priya Basil, is out now. Buy it for £9.74 at guardianbookshop.com