A few days ago I was at an Indian-Pakistani restaurant sipping tea when my thoughts turned to Gothenburg, Sweden. This one month trip in many mundane ways shook me out of our smugness; a vice many of us living in suburbs of city like San Francisco inadvertently develop.
Well, this is not a flashback of some graying memories of yesteryear that come in black and white shades. In fact, it only dates back to January 2011.
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The only tint that the city of Gothenburg had at that time was white as all you could see was snow-clad mountains and roads. Having lived most of my life in subtropical New Delhi and now sunny California it was not a very welcoming sight.
I was only few hours old in the city when hunger pangs lead me to a Swedish restuarant. Bereft of the Swedish vocabulry, the menu or 'meny' made little sense to me. I spent the next 15 minutes communicating with our waitress in sign language only to find out that my only option was a veggie salad.
As I headed out on streets again, I found an Indian restaurant just few blocks away from our hotel.
---
It was the first time in all day that I had seen curly black hair and brown skin clad in Indian attire. Suddenly, the joy of seeing a fellow Indian and speaking my own language became exhilarating.
Back in San Francisco, I never seemed to miss anything Indian. Infact, plethora of everything Indian be it restaurants or grocery stores killed the idea of ethnic diversity, and sometimes made me wary of our desi bhais.
Yet, that day I was thrilled to taste some of the most mundane Indian dishes and hear that polite 'namaste,' the Hindi word, which means greetings or hello.
Well, this is not a flashback of some graying memories of yesteryear that come in black and white shades. In fact, it only dates back to January 2011.
---
The only tint that the city of Gothenburg had at that time was white as all you could see was snow-clad mountains and roads. Having lived most of my life in subtropical New Delhi and now sunny California it was not a very welcoming sight.
I was only few hours old in the city when hunger pangs lead me to a Swedish restuarant. Bereft of the Swedish vocabulry, the menu or 'meny' made little sense to me. I spent the next 15 minutes communicating with our waitress in sign language only to find out that my only option was a veggie salad.
As I headed out on streets again, I found an Indian restaurant just few blocks away from our hotel.
---
It was the first time in all day that I had seen curly black hair and brown skin clad in Indian attire. Suddenly, the joy of seeing a fellow Indian and speaking my own language became exhilarating.
Back in San Francisco, I never seemed to miss anything Indian. Infact, plethora of everything Indian be it restaurants or grocery stores killed the idea of ethnic diversity, and sometimes made me wary of our desi bhais.
Yet, that day I was thrilled to taste some of the most mundane Indian dishes and hear that polite 'namaste,' the Hindi word, which means greetings or hello.
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