I’ve been thinking about India lately. Disparate thoughts. Not terribly coherent. It’s hard to be coherent about a subcontinent; I worry about simplifying or fetishizing.
My partner, E, and I moved last month, and since then I’ve eaten dinner at Momo N Curry, a Nepali and Indian restaurant a few blocks away, about once a week. I ate momos (Nepali steamed dumplings) for the first time in McLeod Ganj, a community in the foothills of the Himalayas, and I’m always excited to see them on menus in the US. But what really sold me on this restaurant was the carafe of free chai by the front door because it tastes like the chai I drank in India.
And I know that’s probably not that big of a deal, and it’s not that hard to prepare chai at home, but it’s a ubiquitous flavor in India and I didn’t expect to taste it a few blocks away from my new apartment.
Other recent moments have jolted my senses back to India or gotten me daydreaming, wanting and not wanting to go back. To try again. To stop stumbling over my words when I talk about India.