It’s been two days since I’ve been back at work, and I actually feel quite comfortable and fine. I was wondering how much jet lag I would feel given that there’s a 9.5-hour time difference between New York and India, but I somehow managed to still wake up in time for my morning workout, shower, and get ready for work at the usual times I do this during the work week during the last two mornings. The worst thing that has happened was that this morning, I woke up at 3am and wasn’t able to fall back into a fully deep sleep, then woke up at 6:45am to go to the gym, but that was really it. I even made cold brew coffee and had it this morning just in case I’d get sleepy at work, but the sleepiness never seemed to come.

One funny thing that has repeatedly happened during the last four years of summer Asia travel is that at some point during the return week in New York, I will wake up in the middle of the night and think we are still in the destination we were in, whether it was Japan in 2015, Korea in 2016, Taiwan in 2017, or now India this year, and then be a little bewildered when I blink my eyes a few times and realize that I’m in my own bed, back in my own room, in our own apartment here in New York. I’m not sure if it is a good feeling or a neutral one.

During our short stay in India, we’ve been fortunate to try a number of different “fusion” Indian cuisines. As I’ve always loved Indian Chinese food since I discovered it at Tangra Masala, an Indian Chinese restaurant that was just a five-minute walk from my old Elmhurst apartment, I knew that Indian Chinese food would be high on the list of things to try while in India. Back in the 1700s, the Chinese had been visiting India in search of Buddhist teachings, and so many Chinese people settled in India and established businesses of their own. The Chinese assimilated the Indian ways of living and beliefs.They even embraced the Indian spices and masalas, and created their own version of the cuisine. This gave birth to things like chow mein with Indian spices, “Sichuan style” dosas, and vegetable Manchurian, which is usually some vegetable coated in corn flour, fried, then tossed in a reddish-brown sauce that has a base of onions, green chillies, garlic, vinegar, and soy. The rumored epicenter of what was the beginning of Indo-Chinese food was Kolkata.

In addition to Indian-Chinese food, we also enjoyed Goan-Portuguese food (an incredible Goan-Portuguese fish fry with a fish called rawas, which is considered Indian salmon – this is probably one of the biggest highlights in terms of individual bites I had on this entire trip); Muslim Indian food in the form of these delicious grilled mutton and lamb kebabs; and finally, the most surprising for me was the Burmese-Tamilian noodles and lentil soup. Before we arrived in Chennai, I had no idea that this type of fusion food had existed. But based on what I read, the Tamil-Indian population in what was Burma was quite large during the British rule in the 19th century, as Indians were considered the backbone of civil administration and were very influential in Burmese society. But during the civil unrest that occurred during the ’60s, many Indians were forced to leave the country. When the Tamilians came back to India, they came in droves to Chennai, and some of them brought back the foods that they made on the streets in Burma and set up shop here.

The dish that I read the most about was atho, which is a Burmese-style stir-fried noodle made with cabbage, tamarind-based gravy, fried onions, spices, and other vegetables. Just the sheer thought of Burmese-Indian cuisine had my mouth watering, so I insisted to Chris that we go to one of these places on Saturday night.

We arrived at what I thought would be a restaurant, but was actually a food stall off the street. A man was standing, stir-frying noodles to order, while another man was dishing out bowls of hot, spicy lentil soup to patrons. We ordered the large chicken atho, and although it didn’t look particularly impressive, after the first bite, it was pure love. It was spicy, salty, sweet, sour, tangy, and amazing. I was sad when the last forkful was done. It’s probably high on the list of favorite bites of this trip next to the Goan-Portuguese fish fry we enjoyed in Mumbai. It came with a bowl of the spicy lentil soup, which was also incredibly fragrant and flavorful.

These types of fusion foods are always so exciting to discover and eat. I wish we could have access to Burmese-Tamilian food back in New York.

Ever since we saw some signs for mehendi in Jaipur, I knew I wanted to have this done on my hands while we would be in India. Mehendi is a form of body art in India and the surrounding regions in Asia where decorative designs are created on the body using a paste that is made from powered, dried leaves of a plant called henna. Traditionally, as least from what I have seen and read, henna is done for special occasions such as weddings or major holidays on the hands, arms, and feet. Some women even get this done on their pregnant bellies. If done and maintained properly, the temporary paint on the skin should last anywhere from two to three weeks.

I’m honestly not sure where that ballpark estimate came from because everything seems to be the enemy of henna: sweat, lotion, sunscreen, washing of the hands. Those are all things that you have during the heat and humidity of summers in India! We found a henna artist in Chennai today, and he did my right hand/arm on the top and the bottom. Using his booklet of images, I pointed out the design I wanted, and he immediately shut the book, pulled out his henna cone, and started painting away, completely free hand, without looking at the images at all — all from memory. It was pretty amazing how skilled he was, and how swiftly he did each of the strokes. Watching him in action was like watching an artist paint, just on my body.

It took about twenty minutes for him to complete both the top and bottom of my right hand and arm, and he suggested another twenty minutes to dry. Well, I read that you should really keep the stain on as long as possible before scraping the dried paint off, and then afterwards, keep the area away from soap or water at least overnight. So I followed this general procedure and woke up to a much darker stain on both sides. I obsessed over how good the design looked, and then I immediately felt sad knowing that all the things that degrade henna would have to be a part of my everyday life for the next week, so there was no way my mehendi was going to last as long as the general guides say. But I’ll enjoy it as long as it lasts.

Yesterday and today, we’ve had meals at Chris’s maternal grandmother’s home that were prepared by her servant helper. Although they are called servants, these helpers are obviously paid and are not in any way slave labor… well, at least not with Chris’s grandmother. I’m not quite sure what a “fair” wage is in India, but I read a case in the local newspaper about a servant who was murdered in Chennai, and she was only paid 5,000 rupees per month — that’s not even $75 USD. There’s no established, regulated living wage for household help, so it’s hard for me to say what is “good” or “not good.” But whatever should be considered “good,” 5,000 rupees really sounds like a steal for the boss and slightly like robbery for the paid help to me.

Chris’s grandmother’s servant was willing to prepare anything for us. On Friday night, his grandma asked what we’d like for breakfast the next morning, which the servant would prepare. “Anything you want — she will make it,” his grandma said. I felt extremely spoiled and a little guilty. In the end, we asked her to prepare puttu, which is a South Indian grated coconut and pounded rice breakfast dish, something rarely if ever seen back in New York City Indian restaurants. You mix it with your hands with some sweet steamed Indian banana (or plantain as they call it there), a little sugar, and eat it. Her servant was extremely thorough; she not only laid all the plates and napkins out for us along with the food, but she even squeezed us fresh Indian lime (or mousambi) juice for us. She got annoyed anytime it looked as though we were lifting a plate or going to toss something into the rubbish bin and would quickly snatch items out of our hands.

It felt like too much for me. I know that she’s hired help and that’s her job, but I wasn’t used to this level of attention and service in someone’s personal home, and so it felt a little uncomfortable to me. I certainly was not raised with this type of service or this level of classism, and so it’s hard for me to imagine having this every single day. Chris’s grandma told us that her servant stays with her full-time six days a week, and she usually goes home on Sundays to her own family. Since his grandma’s eyesight is deteriorating, she really needs this level of support at this time in her life.

We also chatted over breakfast this morning with Chris’s grand-aunt, who is Chris’s grandmother’s sister. She told us that servants are absolutely needed. She never really enjoyed cooking but did it because she had to do it, and the part that made it the most unattractive were the dishes that remained to be cleaned after all the food was ready. “With that, you really need someone to clean all that up for you,” she insisted. “I already did all the cooking, so someone else should do the cleaning. So the servants can do that!”

I chuckled a little. “Sure, of course you need hired help to do that for you. In our case, our dishwasher is the actual dishwasher and Chris!” I said. And for really dirty and greasy pots, that dishwasher is actually me. And none of us get paid for this, sadly.

It’s all about different expectations in different societies. In India, paid labor is cheap, versus in the U.S., where paid labor is extremely expensive. Our values are not the same, which create these differences in expectation.

We arrived in Chennai today, which will be the last leg of our seemingly packed and rushed India trip. After some wandering around, which included walking along an extremely dirty and trash-filled beach, we ended up at Ratna Cafe, a very local eatery which serves much loved South Indian specialties such as idlis and vadas soaked in sambar. The restaurant keeps its doors wide open, so obviously the front of the restaurant is going to feel exactly as hot and humid as it does outside. Luckily for us, the humidity in Chennai was far lower than in the previous four cities we visited further north, so it wasn’t as hard to sit in the restaurant. But as we went further into the cafe, we realized that “A/C Hall” was actually marked as a sign. We were currently sitting in the “Non-A/C Hall.” And if you look at the prices of the menus for each, you’ll notice that every dish is two rupees more expensive in the air-conditioned hall than in the non-air-conditioned hall. I’d never been in any eating establishment that was like this before.

Since it wasn’t too humid, we decided to have the more “authentic” experience of sitting in the non-air-conditioned hall and enjoying our vada in sambar, ras malai, and rose milk. They were all just as delicious as they looked. And we saved six rupees sitting in the non-AC hall!

This morning, we wandered around Mumbai and ended up stopping at the famous B. Merwan & Co. bakery, a much loved Irani bakery that’s been around for over 104 years which is famous for its bun maska pav, mawa cakes, biscuits, and breads. Chris found it when doing a search for must-eat things in Mumbai, and so of course, we had to stop there for a bun maska pav, which is basically a slightly sweet, cottony soft bready bun that’s filled with a layer of butter and cream on the inside. You can tell it’s extremely popular given the number of patrons coming in and out with their breakfast buns. It’s a simple but seemingly nostalgic place where it’s obvious that it’s been much loved and appreciated for countless decades due to the wear of its walls and floors.

As soon as we walked in, a little elderly Irani lady that was probably just an inch or two taller than my own mother walked up to me and put her arm around me. She asked me to sit down and asked what I’d like. I asked for a bun maska pav, and she immediately called out my order in a soft but commanding voice to the staff, who soon after brought over my pillowy bun and chai tea cup and saucer. She came over to check on us a couple of times and was constantly warm and smiling with us. She was like the epitome of Persian and Indian hospitality. You definitely never get treated that kindly at any Chinese spot; I can guarantee you that.

Before we left, I had to use the restroom. She noticed I was standing up and asked what I needed, so I told her. She hesitated. “We have a toilet, but it’s an Indian toilet. And the staff use it. Is that okay with you?” she asked, unsure of how I would respond.

I said it would be fine. She responded, “Are you sure? The staff use it.” She seemed more concerned about how I’d feel that the bakery staff use the restroom rather than the fact that it was a squat toilet.

I prepared my tissues for toilet paper and my hand sanitizer. I can deal with this. It’s the first and only time so far on this trip that I’ve had to use a squat toilet. I became an expert at using these things in China and Vietnam years ago.

That’s where the classist aspect of India still persists; she didn’t think I’d approve of using a toilet that people of a lower class or social status would want to use. She also probably didn’t think I even knew what an Indian toilet was.

I loved that cushiony bun, and I also thoroughly enjoyed my tiny cup of Irani chai. The bun came with the chai, and Chris got a juice, which all just cost 40 rupees, or barely 60 US cents. I’m starting a very long and even more endless lists of things I want to try to make as a result of this trip. That soft, milky, pillowy sweetness could become addictive.

The last time I was traveling in a very conservative place was in Istanbul in July 2011, and it was so hot that I let go of my desires to be respectful and just exposed my cleavage, arms, and legs. The heat was killing me. I figured that since I was a tourist, I could feign ignorance and get away with it. Notably, I got stared at a lot, but I didn’t really care. Occasionally, I will admit I did feel a little bad, though.

This time traveling in India, I made a mental note to stick with covering my shoulders and legs above my knees as much as possible since I read that exposing these body parts would be frowned upon. I packed five different shawls for this trip to cover my shoulders, and I even bought two pairs of loose linen pants so that I could wear pants that were breathable that wouldn’t stick to my legs. Chris hates those pants; he calls them paper bags. But I didn’t care since they were comfortable, and it would mean I wouldn’t garner attention.

Given that we were traveling to five different cities, I read that Mumbai was considered one of the most progressive Indian cities, so if I wanted to bear my shoulders and legs in any city, I could get away with it there. People, even locals, were more likely to push things to the edge there. So I packed one dress that ended above my knees and a pair of (very short…) shorts for this segment of the trip. And… walking along Marine Drive in Mumbai, and in the Muslim district of the city, I got stared at constantly, by men and women alike. Men stared because they just stared… and I could feel the eyes of the Muslim women staring through their burkas. The staring — I honestly wasn’t quite sure how to read it. Were they staring at me disapprovingly or in admiration? Did they think I had beautiful, sexy legs, or short and stumpy ones? And Chris lapped it all up, looking excitedly around as he noticed countless pairs of eyes running up and down my legs. This completely thrilled him. It did not thrill me.

“They want to wear what you are wearing,” Chris declared, proud of his wife for exposing some skin on this trip. “Someone has to show them and lead the way. They need to stop being so prudish and just show some skin and kiss in public. Do what they want! Screw what the old farts say! We need progress and change here!”

During our walk along the beach on Marine Drive, we noticed countless couples, all seemingly trying to restrain their public displays of affection as passersby like us glanced at them. Some held hands. Some actually nuzzled and kissed. Others hugged openly. Chris was so impressed; he said that he never saw this twenty years ago when he was here, and that India certainly has made some social progress during this time. One couple had their arms around each other, and as we approached, the man quickly looked up at us, then took one arm of the woman off him, then the other, almost mechanically, and then inserted about a foot’s distance between them. Chris laughed out loud at this. Another couple was sitting with their arms around each other, and as we approached, they immediately removed their arms from each other and separated themselves from touching at all.

Chris, always wanting to be an inspiration, made sure to give me far more public affection than he normally does by constantly putting his arm around my shoulders and waist, and occasionally even slapping me on my butt to be playful (and annoying). And it was ridiculous the amount of attention that drew. Men stared constantly whenever this happened. Some even turned around to watch us. “They’re staring because they want to do what I am doing,” Chris said, gleefully. “I’m going to teach them.”

Now, Chris thinks he’s like a savior, preaching the gospel of open sexuality and love to the people of India, slowly taking away the conservative restrictions that have so plagued the country for decades, if not centuries.

Our time in Jaipur sadly came to an end today. I just couldn’t get enough of the architecture of this city and all the Muslim influences everywhere. It was like endless eye candy, and I couldn’t stop staring at everything.

We upgraded our flight from Jaipur to Mumbai so that we’d be sitting in business class, and Chris pointed out something that I completely overlooked. A man sat himself in a business class seat without any luggage or bags across from us. He was traveling with his servant, who not only placed his bag in the business overhead compartment above his seat, but even rearranged it just so, in the way that his boss asked him to correct. Then, the server went to seat himself in the back of the plane in economy class. He would eventually come back to the front of the plane to pick up the luggage, far after his boss would already have deplaned.

It’s strange for me to witness things like this because I see it so rarely back in the U.S. Even when you do have hired help, it tends to be hidden away in the home, or via women of color pushing excessively expensive strollers with super white babies in the Upper East Side. It’s not so out in the open like on a plane ride. And, I think it would be quite accurate to say that whatever that business class man was paying his servant that it is minuscule in comparison to what hired help is paid in the U.S.

Chris’s mom messaged him that it is customary to tip the servant when staying at Ammachy’s (Chris’s maternal grandmother’s) home. Granted, due to water rationing in Chennai, and being able to shower only between the hours of 6-8am, we ended up getting a hotel for our three nights there. But his mom said it would still be a nice gesture given that she’s doing some extra work given our visit. I suggested to Chris that we not only give her a tip, but also ask her to accompany us to dinner on Sunday night. His eyes widened. The look on his face was as though I just told him I was planning to shave my head bald.

“Babe, you don’t ask the help to go to dinner,” he said, wrinkling his eyebrow, as though he was educating me on the ways of life here. “They are the help. Unless they are doing something like caring or feeding a child, they do not come to dinner with us.”

I told him I didn’t understand what the problem was; it would be a nice, generous gesture, and I’m sure she would appreciate it.

“You just don’t do that here,” Chris insisted. “It would be unheard of.”

“You’re so classist!” I retorted, annoyed. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“I am not classist; India is classist,” he responded. “That’s the way things are here. You just deal with it.”

“You have to be the change that you want to see,” I said back to him. “How is anything going to change with an attitude like that?”

Chris: “I don’t live here, so I’m not going to change anything! I just deal with it for the short time I’m here, and then I leave!”

Fine – that’s fair enough. Sure, you just deal with that here. But you want to change Indian society and get them to be more sexually open?!

Chris has his priorities laid out.

I studied a year and a half of art history. The first year was during my sophomore year in high school when I took Advanced Placement (AP) Art History, which is basically a class you can take to get college credit assuming you take the College Board’s AP exam, pay the stupid fees, and score at least a certain level (I surprisingly scored a 5, which is the highest score… my art history teacher didn’t think very much of me and probably would have been floored if I told her after). The second semester I did was during my first year at Wellesley, where it was a requirement to take a writing course. Because I felt a bit insulted that I was going to be forced to take a course just on writing (I already had an ego then, clearly), I figured it would be the most efficient use of my time if I took a writing course that combined a credit for some other requirement, so it was a writing course on art history in the end for me.

The academic study of intro-level, general “art history” in the U.S., if not in the western world, really stinks because the powers that be do not give a crap about Asian art. All the focus, because most of the world seems to value the accomplishments of white men, is around Western European and American art. The one surprising thing about my American art study was that it actually did cover some Mexican art (maybe because Mexico is part of North America… I have no idea what the logic there was), which was how I learned about famous Mexican artists like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. Maybe it was because Rivera was commissioned to do some pieces in the U.S. Who knows?

I thought about this today because given that the Persian/Mughal empires used to control the subcontinent of India and the general sounds for centuries, Persian/Muslim architecture and art in general is so massive here, notably in Jaipur where we’re spending our next two days. I’d been exposed to this type of architecture while in Istanbul seven years ago, and I was already in love with its intricacies then. So much love and passion is apparent in these stunning mosques, forts, and archways; the level of complexity of Persian art in general is hard to rival. Their culture, like Indian culture, is so colorful and ornate, so it’s no wonder that everything from their walkways to the walls of their buildings would be so lavishly decorated. It’s as though every wall is a work of art that wants to command your attention.

The highlight of the day for me was at the Amber Fort, which sits just 11 kilometers outside of the city of Jaipur atop a hill. It is a fort and palace that is built of red and white sandstone, and is known for its blend of Rajput and Hindu style of architecture and its mixture of Hindu and Muslim ornamentation. The ornamentation is a mix of paintings, carvings, and jeweled pieces.

Sheesh Mahal or the Mirror Palace is the most beautiful part of this fort. This hallway is embellished with glass inlaid panels and multicolored ceilings; since the mirrors have a convex shape and are designed with colored foil and paint, the walls and ceilings would glitter brightly under candlelight at the time it was in use. The mirror mosaics and colored glass were called “a glittering jewel box in flickering candlelight.” Although we were there during the day, even in the regular bright daylight, the entire hall glittered endlessly no matter what angle you were looking at it or walking past it. Unfortunately, it was packed with tourists, so it was really hard to get a photo without people in it, so I resorted to just taking photos of the tops of the arches and its ceiling.

I’m just in love with the arches of this palace. I took so many pictures of them and stared at them constantly. I’m still looking at the photos I took on my phone now. The idea that someone could arbitrarily decide that this type of art is not worthy of being covered in an art history course is just so stupid and ignorant to me. The level of creativity and craftsmanship that went into structures like this rival, if not outdo, artwork that is famous in France or Italy. People in the west can be so oblivious and deluded.