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.