Mumbai, Hyderabad, and Bangalore

The train arrived in Mumbai very early, at its scheduled time of 5:40 am. Fortunately I was wide awake, still accustomed to waking up at 6 during the Buddhist meditation retreat. From Lonely Planet’s suggestions, the most likely place to find a cheap place to stay is also ironically the more posh place in town (shopping, eating, even the Taj Palace Hotel), called Colaba, located in the southern part of the peninsula on which much of Mumbai sits. Being so early in the morning with much fewer people crowding the area than during the day, it took little time to navigate my way to a local train running south. From there I used the Lonely Planet map to navigate my way on foot into Colaba, and stopped at the Gateway to India (large arch on the coast) and the Taj Palace Hotel across the street. It was quite experience to see the hotel in person, after having seen so much of it on the news 2 years ago during the terrorist attacks. A chai man at the Gateway to India told me that on that day, he and many others thought that the fighting was a local matter between angered neighbors. It was only after the police came in and told them the nature of the situation that they ran for cover to their homes.

The least expensive place to stay in the Lonely Planet wasn’t located far away. On my way there, an Indian approached me about the guest house that he worked for, having a dormitory fee of only rs. 200per night. Since this was the cheapest price I’d found so far, I decided to take him up on the offer. This was the first time that I had stayed in a dormitory-style setting. There was bunk-bed space for probably 25 people, although only about half of it was filled. I had a locker under the bed that I could fit all my stuff, and even a fan above the bed. No top sheet, but not to worry, I keep one in my backpack for just such an occasion, as well as for the sleeper-class train rides.

After putting my stuff down, I went to a nearby internet café to square away some emails and speak with the parents over skype. Two of my friends, Anu and Ankush, from the University of Hyderabad were in the area, so we planned to convene at Anu’s place (she is living with her older sister while looking for work) that evening, located halfway between me in the south and Ankush in the north. Before getting back on the train though, I stopped for lunch at a suggested restaurant in Colaba on my way to the station. I got several dishes, and they were all really tasty. I was alarmed, however, I find that my feeling in response to the food had a tinge of illness attached to it. I could easily tell that the food was objectively great, but in some way the reminder of having gotten sick from a few weeks ago, attributed to similar-tasting food, lingered in my subjective experience of it. I hadn’t really had much Indian food since the week of my sickness, at Dharamsala I was having spiced-down food, western-esque peanut butter and rolls, or Tibetan-Chinese. By the end of the meal, I became deeply concerned that my affection for Indian food would become permanently altered. Would I be able to enjoy Indian food as much as I had before getting sick, ever? Troubled, I continued to the station.

My face filled itself with a smile upon seeing Anu again. Last summer I had met with Ankush in Calcutta, but I hadn’t seen Anu for almost two years. Being with her again reminded me of being back in Hyderabad, and in a way had me realize how things have changed since then, as well as everything that has happened (a year and a half of college etc) in my life since Hyderabad. At her sister’s apartment over tea we chatted for a good while until Ankush arrived, having finished his studies for the day at his college where he was taking a brief course before starting a job. When he came we decided to have dinner there, as Anu’s older sister offered to cook. I of course watched intently over her shoulder, hoping to glean more experience at preparing Indian food, an art which I someday hope to engage myself without being tethered to every step in a cook book. Our meal consisted of rice, daal, aloo gobi (potato-cauliflower fry), curd, spicy pickle relish, and fried onions that the grandmother of anu’s brother-in-law had prepared. I was absolutely perfect. Perhaps my taste in Indian food wasn’t lessened permanently after; perhaps just more seasoned. This was food that I would deem quintessential. Not food that one would seek out at an acclaimed eatery in the center of a city, but food that is enjoyed just about every day by just about everyone in just about every home: Indian food—food that Indians eat. Or so my experience and conceptualizations go; what do I know really, I don’t live here. In any case, my two platefuls were an absolute treat and left a clean and satisfying aftertaste. Continuing to talk amongst ourselves for hours, I didn’t reach my bed in Colaba until about 2 am. Because it was so late, I didn’t bother finding the ticket booth to get a ticket, figuring there probably wouldn’t be someone checking anyway. Wrong. As I was leaving the platform, I was asked for the ticket. A rs. 250 fine isn’t hefty, but is disappointing, as it turned out to be one of those the-one-time-you-don’t-do-it-you-get-screwed events.

The next day panned out in a similar pattern. After waking up and visiting the internet café, I showered and got ready for the day. My first stop was to meet Anu at Mumbai Central station where we would walk to a restaurant nearby that sold famously-regarded “snack food.” It’s hard to call snack food as it’s certainly leaps and bounds above a potato chip. We got minted flat rice pancakes, a Fasri (Irani) rice dish, dahi sev puri (small fried breads underneath a bed of crunchies, liquidy yogurt, and spices), and many others. Again, some remote tastes during a bite conjured up a slight sickly feeling, but all was delicious. How conflicting.

Anu and I hopped back on the train; she was headed home for a puja ceremony, and I was heading up north to Andheri where Ankush was staying. Above Anu’s location is an entirely different section of Mumbai, and Andheri was in the thick of it. The southern portion, especially Colaba, was relatively spacious, only harbored taxis (no noisy and lower-class autos), and had sporadic British colonial architectures that would remind you of a cathedral or Big Ben. The northern portion smacked me in the face as I stepped of the train at Andheri. I’ve seen some pretty chaotic and crowded places, and this was certainly up on the list. It was a sensory-overload stimulation of a whir of autos, closely weaving people, street food and shops, and a full range of wafting delicious and not-so-delicious smells. Dizzying indeed. I knew Ankush was taking a nap after his classes anyway, so I decided to find a seat on a box where I wouldn’t be in anyone’s way and simply close my eyes. A bit of internalization and sorting things out was just what I needed, as well as time to process everything going on. After a few minutes, I was recharged to tackle Andheri once again all the way to the college, with a cleared mind along the way.

The college, much like the University of Hyderabad, was contrastingly spacious and green. His dorm was also new and very nice with tile flooring. After an hour or so of meeting roommates and resting, Ankush and I headed off to a spot where I knew I would like to eat. Out at the main road, autos were everywhere. But not a drop to spare. EVERY one was occupied, and every once in a while when one would come by empty, the driver wouldn’t want to go where we were asking. It took a good 20 or 30 minutes to finally get one, but the time in the choking pollution and honking herd of tightly-weaving autos was worth it. We went to another college, where on the street sat one after the other a line of food venders where the students would frequent. The smell was enough to convince me, as well as the display. The man assembling dosas (think Indian quesadilla) that I watched for a good half hour was obviously experienced, his hands flying fast, spreading out rice batter, tossing around chopped vegetables, sauces, and powdered spices amongst three different dosas at one time. Dosa is a typical south Indian food, usually filled with potato and spices. These were made with the fusion of the culinary traditions of both the north and the south in mind. The form was a dosa, the content much different. The two that Ankush and I got had the tastes of saucy, robust, mouth-watering north Indian masala. And melted cheese. I reminded me of an Indian cross between a quesadilla and pizza, although that of course is a gross oversimplification. Ankush was full after one, but I was so smitten, I had no choice but to order up another one. Worth it, worth it, worth it on all accounts. I have a pretty strict policy against giving out 10s and perfects. My favorite restaurant in Hyderabad earned one though. And this is the second that comes to mind, and the only street food I’ve had that justifies just a high prize. I knew I could count in Ankush I take me to a place that would hit the spot.

Ankush went back to study, and on my way back to Andheri station I stopped at a sweet shop and sampled about a dozen different ones. I have become increasingly wrapped up in the fig flavor, and got several of those. After topping it all off with a stick of kulfi, or Indian ice cream (think ice cream with a strong sweetened-condensed milk taste), I made my way to the station. The local train I got on was one of the ‘fast’ ones, only stopping at the select larger stations. Fast indeed. We booked down the track as if we were rocketing out from the underworld, the train jostling sideways back and forth as if we were in the middle of an earthquake. Getting back to the dorm at midnight, it wasn’t difficult to fall asleep immediately, despite the audible television in the lobby and a snoring dorm-mate.

The next day, again, internet and shower in the morning. I also checked out and put my bags for the day in a locker at a different hotel. I had heard great things about the local Chowpatti beach, and decided to head there. The beach was a short walk after a short train ride away. Before heading to the beach though, I was sure to pick up a refreshing cup of rose milk at the train station. Just about every time that I was getting off or going onto a train in Mumbai I would have a glass of this. It’s easily recognizable at a vendor’s stand, as it’s bright (practically neon) opaque pink. The milk has a satisfying sweet initial taste, and then a refreshing floral rose aftertaste that lingers. They also add these gel-like fruit seeds in it, giving it a sporadic bubble texture.

The beach was probably three-quarters of a mile long and had lots of chaat (snack) and kulfi (ice cream) vendors at one end. The coast was pretty crowded with people, although no beach accessories like umbrellas and towels to get in the way. Most everyone enjoyed the area fully clothed, including the few people in the water; I was astonished to see people in tight jean swimming and then spreading out on the sandy beach after. My perceptions of uncomfortable sensations evidently didn’t apply here. After spending a good deal of time simply sitting on the beach and soaking up the atmosphere, I walked to the other end and eventually found a famous kulfi shop, selling dozens of flavors of the Indian ice cream. I got into a discussion with some similar-aged Germans who were traveling around the world for a year before school started. We shared flavors of fig, banana, mango, chocolate, and pistachio. In the mood for more tasty treats, I made my way over to all the chaat vendors on the beach. First I got this rose-flavored milk slushy (still smitten with the rose flavored milk I’d pick up at the train stations). After that, I found a place that sold kulfi falooda, the sweet ice cream but with flavored noodles spread out on top. Curious, I ordered up a fig kulfi falooda and was completely amazed by it. What a fascinating texture the sloshy noodles and the cooling ice cream made! And lots of flavors involved; half the noodles had rose flavoring and half were flavored with something orange. Filled with my share of sweets, next I got some actual food, a dish that I had been intending on getting for some time called pav bhavi. I hadn’t been really exposed to this in the South, perhaps it was more of a North thing. The plate had a red, blended, masala-laden veg curry on one half, and came with two halved garlic bread-like buns as well as the essential condiments on the side: a heap of chopped onions and lime/lemon slices. Yummmm. Stuffed and actually not feeling too great after so much sugar, I sat at the vendor’s eating area and watched people go past for a good hour: families playing with children, people eating, imagining what the heated conversation was about over there, seeing potential customers be scared away by half a dozen competing and shouting vendors. Heading back at about sunset, my day consisted mostly of relaxing on the beach and eating ice cream.

Back in Colaba, the man who showed me to the dorm I stayed at was eager to show me around after I mentioned I wanted to go to the nearby market bazaar. I didn’t realize it, but there was also a massive celebration going on. Today was a festival to Krishna, and the whole day massive truckloads of celebrating men wearing colored shirts could be heard here and there honking and shouting and cheering and clanging their drums like a marching band percussion section. That wasn’t the end of it though. Originating from one of Krishna’s stories, the custom was for these excited groups to form human pyramids in the middle of the street in order to reach a lofty clay jar strung between two buildings. The man at the top would shatter it and colored liquid dye would shower everyone. Walking around the market place, every once in a while you’d see a smaller group assemble and try to get to one. Once the point man got to the top of the 3-or-so story pyramid, I was surprised to see him smash his head into the pot, sending bright pink color everywhere. Jumping back, I still was splattered with a few spots. In other areas, massive crowds of cheering people would fill large intersections in front of a bright colored stage blasting music from massive speakers, shaking the whole area. A large team would assemble under a pot strung from a crane or from what must have been the fifth stories of buildings. One layer after the other, the pyramid would be constructed, and if the whole mass of people didn’t collapse before reaching the top, smashing the pot would send everyone back into a frenzy of cheering.

Back at the hotel I gathered my bags and chatted with an Israeli traveler until it was time for me to head to the train station. After a goodbye and a thank you to the hotel man who I had spent the evening with wandering around the celebration to Krishna, I loaded into the taxi to take me to CST terminal and reached with time to spare observing the thick scurrying crowd that filled the 14 platforms. CST is probably Mumbai’s most famous train station, adorned with a picturesque massive colonial building face and shoveling in and out record numbers of thousands of people every day.

The ride to Hyderabad was an exciting one, not because it was eventful but because I couldn’t wait to get back to the city as I reminisced of my favorite restaurants and other nostalgic sights, smells, and friends that I associated with the area. Unloading at about 12:30 in the afternoon with my bags and all, I hopped right back onto a local train and headed immediately to my top priority for my visit to Hyderabad: a massive lunch at Paradise Restaurant. I had been waiting for this for almost 2 years. Still remembering the way from the train station and recognizing some buildings on the way, I basked in the aromatic waftings of the restaurant after I reached and contemplated what I would order. I knew I wanted chicken biryani (flavorful rice dish cooked with ghee and layered with spices), of which the restaurant and Hyderabad as a whole is famous. I also knew I wanted the malai kofta. I decided to order a new dish as well to see how I liked it, a pepper curry. And boy did I chow down. Helping after helping, I chowed down enough food for about three people. Remember my hesitancy to dish out 10/10? The malai kofta at Paradise is the second 10 that I have no problem admitting. Too hard to describe. Just go and get it, then you’ll see. Like a pig rolling around in a mud pit, I must have had a wide smile spread across my face the whole time, as I was finally back to my favorite and long-awaited-for restaurant.

Taking care not to crush my bulging stomach with my backpack in my front, I went back to the train station and headed toward the other end of the city to the University of Hyderabad where I intended to stay at the new international guest house. The old guest house that I had spent a good deal of time in 2 years ago had been converted into a Ladies Hostel (as well as the International Student Hostel where I used to live), and starting the semester after I left, the SIP house and international hostel were combined into a massive dorm located at the other end of campus. I was excited to see the new place, however its great distance from the front part of campus meant that I’d need to take a rickshaw from the main gate there. Despite even the speed of a bicycle, a 15 minute ride is required if you want to get from the entrance of campus to the new international hostel. The Muhlenberg students that went there after me complained a bit about how far away it was from the rest of campus, including the academic buildings, and I don’t blame them. Of course it is so much nicer and more spacious than the old guest house. We used to have to squeeze through thin halls that could barely fit two passing people, but now the halls were so spacious you could drive a car through them. Voices would echo down the concrete halls but never reach the other end, dissolving into the spacious area as the halls extended past dozens and dozens of rooms. One could barely recognize another from one end of the living room to the other. Our old living room crammed in about 15 chairs, usually filled, as that was the only area to get internet access. Now all the rooms have their own Ethernet jacks. Suffice it to say, I was quite wide-eyed at the changes. Since I’ve been on campus, not only has the new international hostel been finished, but also several other dorms that hold 400 each on that end of campus, as well as many other buildings including a new shopping center. With thousands of acres, the university sure had the space for expansion.

It was a treat to see Mr. Das, the house coordinator, again. The familiar face brought back a great deal of memories, especially about the lazy afternoons I would spend by his desk writing or checking emails on my laptop, as well as all the advice that he would share about traveling and the city, whether leisurely over a cafeteria meal or in one of many, many prompted conversations. He has always brought an air of relaxation and calm to the sometimes irritated guest house (especially in the close quarters we used to be in). After chatting and catching up for some time, I unpacked all my things into my room (with two large windows, a/c, desk, stone floors and all) and took a much-needed shower. That evening I spent meeting many students, exchanging stories, playing sitar and tabla again, and chatting well into the night.

The next morning was an early one. At 5:15 my alarm woke me up mid-dream and I got dressed for yoga. Almost a dozen international students in the certification program do this every day except Sunday. I used to roll out of bed 5 minutes before and be there more-or-less on time; now with a lengthy bike ride ahead of us to north campus, the wakeup call was much earlier. Fortunately one of my new acquaintances let me borrow his bike. The yoga class went same as always, and it was refreshing to get re-familiarized with the routine that I had grown accustomed to 2 years ago but since have mostly forgotten. Both yoga teachers recognized me, well at least by the end. The older teacher that would correct our postures (who the international students would affectionately call ‘grandpa’) stepped into my vision at a few points in time with a confused look and a furrowed brow. By the end, he not only remembered me but also my family, as I had shown him pictures on my laptop 2 years ago.

After class, two students, Jeff and Amanda, were interested in seeing a part of the north campus that I had used to go running in. They hadn’t seen past the yoga studio, but the life sciences/biochemistry and chemistry buildings were further down the road, as well as several others I didn’t know and another massive one that I was surprised to see under construction. We continued to ride farther and farther all the way to a precarious rock formation that I was glad to see still standing in its mind-bending balanced position. Exploring farther into unchartered territory for all of us, we continued down a dirt road to a ‘town’ of skeletal concrete buildings, consisting only of their frames as if the entire town was simultaneously under construction…or devastated by an atomic bomb. The town spread out for at least a kilometer or two; we reasoned that perhaps these were to be workers buildings or a new housing complex for professors. Riding farther still we climbed to the top of a rocky hill that rose up above the area to see if we could manage a vantage point to see if it were possible to continue down a road or pounded cow path back to the international hostel rather than circle back. From the top, we could see the chemistry building by the yoga studio, as well as the spread of campus back all the way to the south end, including the international hostel probably 2 km ahead in the distance. Although we felt like it would be a possibility to reach by continuing forward, we were deterred by realizing that from the top of our massive hill, things must seem closer in the distance than they actually were. Additionally, what looked like thick brush surrounded the international hostel and seemed like it would be hard to get through. The view was worth the hike, and a massive man-made gorge sank into the earth on one side of our view and stretched probably half way to the hostel. Our jaws dropped upon first spotting it. Perhaps it was a quarry for stone that the university needed for all of its new construction projects. From our view, it was easy to see how massive the campus is. That’s not the lot of it though, there are several lakes I’ve heard about that I haven’t seen too.

Reasoning that it was too much of a risk to continue onwards, we headed back the LONG journey back to the hostel, hoping to arrive before our much-deserved breakfast ended. With flattening tires, it was a chore for me to pedal and I spent most of the way pedaling standing. Sweaty, muddy, and exhausted (and only just before 9 am), the guest house breakfast of French toast, granola with milk, eggs, and bananas was just what I needed. We decided to take a quick nap afterwards.

At 11, I joined my friends along with several others to visit an organization that schooled women as well as sold cloth, clothing, sheets, and other merchandise that they made. We even got a tour of the multiple sari looms, mesmerizing sights when in operation that can entertain for hours. Everyone was heading off to visit Hyderabad’s famous tombs afterward. Having already seen them, I hopped back on a bus heading into the thick of the city to visit my favorite chaat (snackfood) location. My favorite dish consists of a pie crust-like pastry filled with spices and potato crushed and underneath a heap of sweet liquid curd, tangy tamarind sauce, crunchies, spices, coriander leaves, etc etc for a treat jam-packed with multiple flavors, all intermingling and jumping around in the palate as if it were a party. Having, again, eaten enough for 3 people, I strolled around the crowded shopping area and picked up a fig-almond milkshake, a cup of sweet lime juice, and a mouthful of freshly made sweet paan (leaf rolled with spices, sweets, nuts, berries, and coconut bunched up into a cheek-stretching roll). By the time I made it on the bus, it was the busy time of the city. Suffice it to say, the trip back to campus (for most of which I was standing) took 2 full hours. Worth it.

When I got back to campus (well, the south campus hostel area after a lengthy bike ride), I visited with a few Indian students that I had briefly met 2 years ago and who Ankush and Anu put me in touch with. Their new dorms, although scaled down a tad (no a/c, no internet yet) from the international hostel, were even more massive and seemed to house as many people as a high-rise apartment building. For dinner I joined them in their mess hall, enjoying for only rs. 20 a plate of mixed veg curry and limitless rice and daal. They brought a homemade pickle (not dill, a chutney-like picked mixture of pepper, fruit, and spices) to enjoy with the meal. When I asked to taste some, one of them turned and looked at me with unwavering intention. With conviction he said slowly *Matt. This is so. Spicy.* I was like “That’s no problem, I can handle spice!” *Matt, you don’t understand, this is made from the hottest peppers in the world. They come from the Northeast and are rated by the Guinness book of records as spicier than any other pepper in existence.* Excited, I took a tiny, tiny amount to taste. Mixing in a small portion of that into a few bites was quite a punch of spice! Certainly nothing that I couldn’t handle, just making sure that I didn’t get in any bite more than a square half centimeter of pepper. Not only spicy but flavorful, it made the already delicious food twice as tasty.

That evening I headed off with Elliot, a student from the US, to Lingampally, a town nearby. I used to visit the area quite a bit 2 years ago, as it was relatively close to campus. There we found good haleem (a plate of paste consisting of pounded meat, flour, and spices), a dish eaten after sunset during the Islam holy fasting month of Ramadan. After a cup of chai and some chatting with others seated around the stone haleem vat, I bought Elliot some sweet paan and giggled as he would exclaim a loud “WHOA” every time another one of paan’s multiple intense flavors emerged. We strolled around and got some sweets and juice before heading back to campus, followed by a movie on my laptop with about a dozen other students crowded in someone’s room, followed by collapsing into bed and sleeping until 11 the next morning.
That afternoon I headed down into the thick of the old city. I had always remembered the area as a fascinating place: the place to go for authentic food, the Charminar four-pillared monument in the middle of the center intersection, the massive mosque nearby, women in burkas, sparkley bangles, captivating perfumes, and a packed dusty crowd to fill in the gaps. I don’t think I had gone during Ramadan though. From the train station, the auto driver dropped the passenger load off near the main road, as there was no possible way to get closer to the Charminar area. I’ve seen a lot of crowded places in India. This experience took the cake. From the moment I stepped out of the auto, I realized that my personal space barrier needed to shrink to literally only the space my body was occupying. In the whole road, there was not a space that was not filled with a person or occasional irritating motorcycle trying without avail to navigate the crowd. Dazed, I was following as closely as possible someone I had met in the auto. He was half Swedish and half Syrian, and we had struck up a conversation in the auto from the start, realizing that we were both foreigners. He had been working in the Hyderabad area on and off with an NGO for some time, and we were surprised to find that we had both been in Hyderabad at the same time two years ago. A few times he had been on the campus during that semester, and we must have crossed paths at least once because he was able to list all of the friends I had had living in the international student hostel. So anyway, I had followed him to his NGO and then decided to set off (this time not on the main road) to find a famous biriyani place. Eventually stumbling upon it amongst the thick crowd, I ordered up a bowl of their chicken biriyani and a suggested vegetable curry. Good thing I arrived early, the dinner crowd was so huge the wait must have been an hour or so. The meal was delicious, although not surpassing my favorites at Paradise restaurant. Picking up a sweet milky rosy creamy…noodle…dessert and paan just outside the restaurant, I headed back to the train station area, but not without sampling some of my favorite (lotus, sandal, other flowers) perfumes along the way. Disappointed to see that the train had already left, and unexcited about the hour and a half wait for the next train, I took an auto back to Lingampally, which was more costly than I thought, and with traffic, turned out to take much longer as well.

In the shared auto from Lingampally back to campus, a few of the others in the auto started asking me if I had been taking classes on the campus before. They nodded and smiled when I had said I was studying through the SIP program 2 years ago, as they had been students then too and had seen me perform in the cultural performance at the end of the semester (sitar, tabla, kathak, etc). Evidently it had made an impression if two years later they recognized my face in the inside of a dark auto. Despite the long time since being back on campus, it was obvious that a pool of people still existed that knew me. In addition to the coincidental meeting in the old city of all places, as well as the run-in inside the auto back to campus, the day before I was walking out of my friends’ dorm when Sarves (anthropology classmate from 2 years ago) rounded the hall corner on his motorcycle. I hadn’t seen his face, but he yelled MATT, immediately recognizing me. In the same way, 2 days later another classmate from anthropology, Nagaraju, shouted for me as we passed by each other simply walking on the road to and from the hostel area.

Back on campus, I decided to head to Gops, the student canteen where I always used to spend time, to get paneer masala for dinner. This dish was another I had waited for for 2 years. Although I suppose you could call it fast food, the taste of the dish was so distinct and upon my first bite, my memory filled itself with late night dinners with Ankush, Bikram, Sumedha, Anu, Vipin, Rakesh, etc etc., how all their personalities would converge in our conversations, hanging out after dinner at the rock nearby or watching House on someone’s laptop in a dorm room…all that stuff we used to do came flooding back to me. I also could compare how I used to perceive the area with my perceptions now in a way. It’s difficult to articulate, but much of the impact of my second visit to Hyderabad has been attributed to triggered memories emerging not just for nostalgia’s sake, but to readily demonstrate how things used to be for me, in comparison to what they are now. For instance, I had been so starry-eyed upon first being in India that everything had this glitter about it. Of course that didn’t last forever, and this doesn’t mean that I’ve become less interested in India or what my time is like in the country, but just that what is around me doesn’t mean the same anymore. Just as we grow desensitized to patterns and normalities around us, eventually not everything catches my eye in the same way it did before; in addition, you start to realize and notice other things. Such ‘other things’ I still have yet to really explicitly grasp, but it certainly has something to do with being less interested in the consumer nature of travel. I don’t feel like I have to soak up everything to the extent I used to, and so much so that I realize now in a way I lost sight of my own self and perspective/world view. It’s not about losing oneself anymore in an exotic fantasyland. It feels more like bringing oneself to the table to have a conversation with an eccentric friend who in a way is an old acquaintance, but in another way always has something unexpected to say, emerging from depths that extend limitlessly into the unfamiliar.

Although there was no one at Gops that I knew (reaffirming how times have changed), I was about to have another coincidental run-in. Amidst my reminiscing thoughts, a girl about my age approached me from the across table. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I figured she was a crony of my circle of new-fashioned and open-minded friends. *Hi. You don’t know me but I know you.* A smile came across my face. “How?” *Umm, mostly through facebook pictures; the year after you left, I became friends with Sumedha and Anu and Ankush and all them.* Her nickname is Sid, she’s a second year Biochemistry master’s student. After some conversation, we joined Arpan, Pavel, and others in a classroom in the humanities building where I met another of this second generation of the same circle of friends.

The next morning I woke up for yoga, had the delicious guest house breakfast afterwards, took a nap, and did laundry. Since it had been quite a while since washing my clothes at Tushita, I needed to wash just about every article I owned. Washing clothes in a bucket is no problem, but drying them always is. I was disappointed to smell that the odor from my washed clothes was much worse when they had dried the next day than before I had washed them. For this reason I do not like to wash clothes. The smell of clothes that haven’t dried quickly enough (at least I think that’s the reason) puts the strongest frown on my face. I’m baffled. How do people wash clothes here? There are no machines on campus. Why doesn’t everyone smell awful? We all have to dry them in the same air. It’s extremely confusing.

That afternoon/evening Elliot (SIP student from Utah) and I ventured back into Lingampally for biriyani. Actually, we had many things. In fact, if there were any culinary endeavor one were interested in experiencing in Hyderabad, I think we hit it up. First, we stopped at a sweet shop and ordered about a dozen different treats to sample; after assembling a box of our favorites to take back to the university, we moved onto a few dishes of chaat. Elliot hadn’t experienced chaat before, so I was sure to include all my favorites. After a glass of fresh squeezed grape juice and relatively full but still not on to the main course, we hopped into the well-known Lingampally biryani place and shared a plate of beef biryani. And got a plate of beef haleem on the side. After finishing, we made our way to a nearby place that we had already visited a few days ago; we knew that they had delicious sweet paan. While chewing on our juicy, sweet, betel medleys, we watched some men pounding haleem in a vat. With massive 7 foot wooden hammers, two men would alternatively forcefully slide their hammerheads into the vat back and forth, as synchronous as rowing a boat, and obviously requiring at least as much energy. The mixture of meat, flour, and spices needs to be pounded in this way for hours during the day time before it is ready for breaking the daily fast in the evening.

Back on campus, we shared our box of sweets with about 6 others who congregated in my room to watch another movie on my laptop called “What the Bleep Do We Know?” The movie details neuroscientific, psychological, and quantum physical realities that question the foundations of how we know what we think we do about the world around us. I highly recommend it.

The next morning I woke up to late to make it to the yoga session, but ran to the studio to say goodbye to the teachers. The morning and afternoon was jam-packed with saying goodbye to friends, organizing and packing things up, and enjoying one last meal at the guest house. The guest house lunches were always my favorite. For an entire week 2 years ago, I remember only eating lunches every day, having so much that there was no need to eat until 1 pm the next day. This last day, lunch contained my two all-time favorites, eggplant and the sweet gulab jamun (balls of milky dough fried and soaked in rose-flavored sugar syrup). I don’t know whether someone had overheard me talking about my hopes of feasting on these again or whether the will of God that day was merciful, but somehow I this lunch came together as the perfect last meal, having the remaining dishes that I could have hoped to taste again while in Hyderabad. Feasting down several helpings of eggplant and gulping down nearly a dozen gulab jamun, my culinary expectations of returning to Hyderabad were fulfilled.

Although this was only my fifth day in Hyderabad, it was difficult to say goodbye to my new SIP friends. I felt like I knew them in the same way I knew my old exchange friends from two years ago. I felt as though we were going to spend a lot more time together exploring the city and such like we used to do. All good things must come to an end though, and after saying farewell to Mr. Das (who five days ago was really the only person that I explicitly knew on campus), I made my way to the station, meeting a friendly local named Siddharth who I talked with while waiting for the train to take me to Bangalore.

The area near the train station in Bangalore was littered with relatively budget guest houses, but one after the other was filled. It took scouting out about a dozen places before I found one that had a vacancy. That evening I met up with Sumedha (undertaking PhD in economics) and Meenakshi (working at an NGO focused on revitalizing indigenous healthcare practices) at a bar/restaurant in an upscale mall to celebrate Sumedha’s 23rd birthday. I hadn’t seen either of them for 2 years, but once seated at our table, it was just as if we were back at Gops. Sam was also there, a friend of Sumedha’s and Meenakshi’s. After a pitcher of beer, food, and chocolate cake under conversations of the US economy and Indian nationalism alongside jokes about our past at Hyderabad, we walked to Sam’s close-by apartment to spend the night. We fell asleep to a Robin Williams standup comedy show and the ‘Soup Nazi’ Seinfeld episode on Sam’s laptop.

The next evening I met Annapurna for dinner at her home. Annapurna was our CIEE tour guide on the two trips that our group took while staying at Hyderabad. During those trips Annapurna and I spent a good deal of time conversing about India and our lives. I was glad to still have her number, as visiting her again was just what I needed. After meeting her newly-adopted 4 year old daughter and a delicious meal of guacamole, mint chutney, kichiri rice, and veg pulao, we chatted for hours about pasts as well as Buddhist ideas of being and knowing, and how this relates to intelligence vs. feeling. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the relationship of intelligence and feeling, and whether conceptualization, analysis, rationalization, and objectivity (what might be called intelligence) are inherently separate from the subjective feelings, experiences, and emotions that we have. Perhaps my recent investigation into the Buddhist dharma dealing with the investigation of subjective experience has prompted this in a way. The seemingly vast rift separating these areas I think is a construction based on the value judgment that is placed on emotion being rash but substantiating life, and on logical rationalization having long-term objective applicability and defining life based on principles and codes. I’m sure many of us relate to being caught up in deciding between the two. Also, consistently serving one over the other can understandably lead to problems like mid-life crises, an insecure lifestyle, and a mind-body disconnect. But I wonder if such a divide is inherent, as if in any decision we need to choose between emotion and intellect, or whether such a lens of looking at ourselves in the world is a construction in order to understand things better, in which case the boundaries of our conceptualizations of rationalization and personal experience become much more fluid and blurry, suggesting our role in forcing the two apart. Just another facet of how we understand ourselves in the world around us. And as such the queries of a curious mind, prompted by this stimulating environment, proceed.

The following day began one step at a time, first with a lazy wake up, then with some stretching, then with laundry, then with a shower. Most of the clothes I was washing I was rewashing in the hopes of having them smell normal. I craftily strung my computer chord and cell phone charger wires diagonally across my room to hang dry them under the ceiling fan. With the fan on high and all the windows open, it was my hope that drying would proceed as fast as possible.

That afternoon I went by bus to the M.G. Road area, a very posh and trendy part of Bangalore, no doubt a section of town to which Bangalore owes its reputation for being one of the most developed cities in India. Walking around my jaw was practically perpetually dropped. KFCs, McDonalds, designer clothing, several multi-level shopping malls, frozen yogurt to rival LA and New York’s Pinkberry, and fancy adolescent groups of friends all about, as well as families with children who always seemed to be dissatisfied and screaming. My only indulgence (this isn’t my kind of area to actually consume) was a smoothie from a Jamba Juice-esque place. I was sucked in to the mango madness flavor along with the appeal of health-boosting antioxidant, brain power, metabolism, wheat grass, protein, and spirulina smoothie accessories. After people watching and exploring, I stopped into a restaurant Annapurna suggested to me in the area and ordered a delicious meal of Keralan chicken curry, palak, and rice. While waiting for the food I browsed through some new books that I had bought from street-side stores (selling copied books for fractions of the fixed prices you see in the States). One is a book on the 2012 prophesies, another a book about reality suggested by a friend in Hyderabad, and another that Annapurna suggested: an account of spiritual mindfulness drawing its material from the ancient cultures of Tibet and the far east and dovetailing nicely with the dharma of Mahayana Buddhism.

That evening back at the guest house I was happy to smell that the clothes were relatively normal and to feel that most were sufficiently dry. And I went to bed happy.

The next day I met Annapurna and her daughter for lunch at a south-Karnatakan (of the southern state Bangalore is in) village home-like restaurant that served a meal like I wouldn’t believe. Laid out on the table was a wide banana leaf for each of us, and as the meal progressed, men would stop by with pales of food and give you a spoonful. One after another after another, soon the banana leaf was filled with an assortment of tasty servings. Then they kept coming with different ones, and more and more. Initially the taste was so delicious I was sure that I would need second and third helpings of every dish, but by the time we rolled around to what must have been the 25th dish, I realized that I’d only be able to fit one serving of each. For the first time in my remembered history, it was necessary to be creative with how you ate this meal. With one or two dishes, it’s really no issue; you can combine, eat separate, whatever. With a dozen in front of you, things change. You want to get the best taste out of it, and that doesn’t mean eating one thing at a time nor eating random ones right after the other or combined. Becoming familiar with the taste of each, you realize what tastes good combined with what, what after what, what before what, etc etc. As they kept coming with more and more, at times I would practically short-circuit, unable to figure out how to proceed. The process became an art, creating the taste in your palate with the painting-board of culinary colors and varieties in front of you. One shock after another, my mouth filled itself with a brand new taste I had never before conceived of over and over. It was like swimming for the first time or riding a bike for the first time or something, simply astonishing, and totally new. And as we concluded, I realized that the meal had been the tastiest that I can remember having in India.

We headed back to Annapurna’s home and the three of us painted a small Ganesh statue (it was Ganesha’s birthday, as well as the Muslim holiday of Eid). After a quick nap and more conversation over afternoon tea, I headed back out into the trendy M.G. Road area to meet Sumedha and Meenashki again. We’d peruse through the streets; when they’d step into a purse or shoe shop I would sit on the front steps and watch people pass. Then we had a banana split. And more exploring and chatting over coffee. Soon enough, it was time to say our goodbyes. In the same way as I loved being back in Hyderabad, it had been a very therapeutic experience to meet with these people again. To realize that they still existed, that time continued here too, but these people still were here just as I remembered them. Not floating away in some far-off fantasyland, as India had felt to me before, but other people on planet Earth that didn’t feel as far away as they used to be.

Today I took one last adventure through the bus system to a nearby area for lunch. The bus system in Bangalore is the main means of public transportation. It is arguably the most extensive and intricate of any city in the country, and the city bus stand by where I’m staying has dozens of platforms. For me, it was too difficult to figure out. Asking people/drivers/bus conductors where buses were going and where to find the buses I needed was a must. Basically, amidst hundreds of buses, a complicated numbering system, and thousands of destinations, the process became relatively simplified by just asking around. So, after about 5 attempts, I found someone who knew where I wanted to go, and he led me to the correct bus. Annapurna had suggested this place, a dhaba (eatery) right next to a sikh temple, for its delicious Punjabi food. Punjabi, and north Indian food in general, is what we from the US usually think of when Indian food comes to mind. Food from the southern regions is largely neglected in the US, but is a wonder to enjoy. I had debated on whether or not to revisit the Karnataka restaurant that Annapurna and I had visited yesterday, but after much deliberation, settled on this Punjabi place. I was interested mainly trying something new and also seeing whether or not it upheld its championed seat as one of the most famous and delicious Indian food types. The dhaba was surely maintained a small, homely feel. With only about 10 tables inside a concrete and steel-roofed hut, the wait to enter was about an hour. Guess that means it’s well liked by the locals. I had ordered an eggplant dish, a paneer dish, and a dal dish, along with rice and paratha bread. The other three at my table ordered the same dal dish and paratha for each. They understandably left much before I had finished. Guess that means I finished 9x the amount of food that any of the other 3 at my table had. I served up everything onto my plate, and tasted the dal before the bread arrived. The look on my face must have been one of astonishment; my eyes widened and my eyebrows raised, and a smile creeped up one side of my mouth. This was one of the best dals I had ever tasted. It was hard to describe, but we’ll leave it at very good. I had to finish my helpings even before I introduced bread and rice into the mix. The other two were equally shockingly delicious, as well as horrifyingly heavy. The food swam under a thin layer of oil, and was drizzled on top with a heap of ghee (clarified butter). Similarly, the paratha had a dollop of ghee on top. Filled to the brim, and stomach tight and heavy, I waddled outside and visited the temple for some time. I bet when I sweat I’ll start to smell like spoiled milk and cheese. The meal was very filling and delicious, but in comparison to the Karnataka meal I had yesterday, not as satisfying nor refreshing. All Indian food types have their pluses and minuses, but one thing is for sure, over the past cumulative 7 months I’ve been in India, I’ve surely warmed up to the south Indian taste of things quite a bit.