Arriving in Delhi on a summer night, it was scorching hot, like you were in a boiling kettle, evaporating each single drop. Across the street the dog is barking at 2am. Not strange of course, in the middle of airport. People are chatting around. The smell of the street, the dog and the sweat blended into the air. And then you said to yourself. Welcome back baby.
The lady walked me to my room and asked if it was my first time in Delhi. I was so tired but she kept asking. I said no actually my third. Lived here practically for a month. Washed my face in the Ganges river. Walked through the rain cover with cows dung and all that. I used to think I was Indian in my previous life. But yeah, no.
During the short stay, I tried to eat most Indian meal I can, soaking myself in the aroma. I don’t know if I liked it for itself or for the people I was with. It’s kind of both I guess. I do like the food but I wouldn’t try it if not for the people I loved. For the friends who cooked me the meal, got me watch Hindi movies together, stayed with me through the thick and thin, made my heart broke, made my heart full. Places are created by people and so are food. In a way, eating Indian food allow me to reconnect emotionally with my friends, to transport to the multiverse where I am a different person. So yes it is not a shame to like a food because of whatever so long as it brings me good feelings. It felt so good that I ordered myself room service with fish curry. Best ever. And it is such an quite luxury thing to do. I was sitting in the room a lone and having all the food for myself while no one watching. And it feels nice. It feels home.
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