Street Food Nostalgia and The Mighty Indian Immune System
A few weeks after arriving in India, I received news that my friend from the US, Sangeeta, was visiting India with her family—a customary annual trip for many Indian immigrants in the US to reconnect with their roots. It was usual for us to swap stories about our India trips, often involving someone falling ill from street food or contaminated water. Curious, I decided to check in with her.
“How’s your trip, Sangeeta? Are you enjoying your time in the motherland?” I exclaimed over the phone.
“Uff, don’t even ask. This trip has been a disaster. We’re leaving tomorrow,” she replied, sounding disappointed.
“What happened?” I inquired, taken aback.
“Well, the first week was fine, but then my son fell sick and was stuck in bed for most of the trip. We couldn’t go anywhere. Most of our vacation was spent indoors,” she lamented with a sigh.
“I tried my best to protect him. I made sure he didn’t eat outside food and always drank bottled water, but he still got sick. He always falls ill in India, but this time was the worst!” she continued, frustration evident in her voice.
Her story brought back memories of the Indian CTO who visited us in Pune and always chose packaged drinking water during his trips to India. Everyone who visited India from the other side preferred bottled water, no exceptions.
After having suffered through a bout of sickness during my brother’s wedding a few years ago, I became hyper-vigilant about eating out, especially when it came to drinking water. I started training my immune system to handle India’s culinary challenges slowly, taking tiny bites of street food, thinking I was toughening up. After a month, I foolishly believed my immune system had fully embraced its desi roots and was ready for anything. Oh, how mistaken I was!
The Lure of the Mela
As fate would have it, the annual mela in Gwalior beckoned me with its nostalgic charm. Enticed by childhood memories, I couldn’t resist visiting for old times’ sake. The day was packed with reliving old memories, hopping from one ride to another. But the ultimate test of my nostalgia came when I succumbed to my childhood favorite—a vanilla soft serve cone we affectionately dubbed “softy.”
One cone down, I waited with bated breath, wondering if my worst fears would come true. Had my experiment in culinary bravery paid off? Had my immune system adjusted? Two hours later, I had my answer. A barrage of hot and cold flashes hit me like a ton of bricks. “Here we go again,” I groaned, realizing the experiment had ended in another dismal failure. I turned to my friend, who seemed unfazed and was merrily enjoying the rides, and pleaded for a swift exit back home. By the time we finally made it home, my temperature had spiked to a scorching 104°F, confining me to bed for the next couple of days. It seemed my immune system wasn’t as forgiving or forgetful as I had hoped. Clearly, there were more hurdles to overcome.
