Marked By Mumbai

Arriving on Diwali and Leaving Different

I don’t think anyone has ever captured the soul of travel like Chef Bourdain.

“Travel changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life and travel leave marks on you.”

I got the travel bug young. I was seventeen when I traveled to the Middle East by myself. Travel and I have this love and hate relationship. Once I get to my destination, I want to see and eat everything. I want to absorb every second of it. I don’t want to forget a single moment. I’m the guy who doesn’t want to miss the alarm but somehow ends up almost missing the damn flight home. And when I get back, I need an extra day just to recover from the traveling itself.

I left home in mid September and flew out of the US on October 13. First stop was Munich, Germany. From there, I landed in Mumbai, India on the 22nd. We arrived on Diwali, one of the holiest days for Hindus. It was my first time in India.

Two in the morning. We wove through long hallways at the airport with our e-visas and e-cards ready. The line felt like Disney World during Thanksgiving. By three a.m. I was through customs, bags waiting for me. We walked out, shoved our backpacks through an x-ray machine, and stepped into this market pulsing with life. That moment was my first real taste of what was coming for this ADHD brain. The colors. The smells. The noise. I followed behind the group, weaving through the crowd until we hit the exit.

Outside, more people joined us. Ishan and Sonu were there. Matthew flew in from Seattle. I’d never met him before. I was stunned by how many people were waiting at the airport for their loved ones. The air smelled alive. Ishan handed me a peach Ocean drink. I’d heard about it, and damn, it lived up to the hype. After nine and a half hours in the air, it was everything.

Ishan loaded Matthew and me into an Uber. I don’t speak Hindi. I’d learned just enough to order vada pav or chai, maybe count to five, but that’s it. The driver told us he spoke five languages. English wasn’t one of them. I had Maps open with the address locked in. Off we went.

I’d been warned about Indian traffic. Let me tell you, nothing prepares you for it. I discovered muscles I didn’t know existed just from clenching. I didn’t know your heart could stop and keep beating at the same time. It’s a ride you need to experience once in your life. And here’s the kicker. It works. By my third day I understood the beauty of it. It’s chaotic, yes, but it’s organized chaos.

I saw how hard life can be, and at the same time, how strong community is. Faces that looked like they could shank you at any moment lit up the second I said Namaskar. There’s a twinkle in their eyes when they realize you’re trying to connect. Maybe it’s respect. Maybe it’s appreciation. Whatever it is, it’s real. I remember sitting in the back of a rickshaw and saying Aapka naam kya hai to the driver. He answered. I actually said it right. I replied, Mera naam Jeffrey hai. His eyes lit up like I’d just given him a gift.

Every place we went, there was music. Not the kind you dance to or hear on the radio. The city makes its own symphony. Horns beep in steady bursts that say hey I am on your left or watch out. Vendors call out their deals. Men push carts stacked with metal toward a job site. Someone is always on the phone talking to someone else. And the crows. Man, the crows. They scream like they are telling you a secret you need to hear. It is noise, but it is rhythm. It is life keeping time.

Every morning at Perch Coffee and Wine Bar the city was already awake. Someone swept the street. Someone washed a car. Coconut carts rolled out. Men tied bamboo to rooftops. Rickshaws zipped past. Life didn’t wait for anyone.

Mohammed Ali Road

The first night we went out, we ended up on Mohammed Ali Road at Shabbir’s Tawakkai Sweets. This is where everything started to click for me. An older gentleman sitting nearby looked over and offered us a piece of hot jalebi. I’m not a dessert guy, especially not when it’s soaked in sugar, but this? It was crack. Crisp. Hot. Syrup clinging to it like honey on skin. One bite and every idea I had about Indian sweets got knocked on its ass.

We met the rest of the group and headed to the sit-down spot. Dr. Dalal started talking us through the snacks as they hit the table. There was a naanwich stuffed with minced meat. An egg roll with whole egg mixed right in with the meat. More snacks layered with flavor and spice. I could feel the food addict in me twitching. “Oh baby. Binge time,” the voice in my head said. I held myself together.

That’s when someone said it was raining. Dr. Dalal didn’t even flinch. “We move,” he said, cutting through the restaurant like he’s done it a thousand times. We followed, weaving through the back and out into an alley. That’s when I saw it.

Water was spewing from a storm drain like a fountain. The alley was flooded. The only way forward was a strip of dry pavement, narrow as a tightrope. Jon and I balanced our way across, careful not to step in the water. Matthew came behind us, stepping on the one patch that wasn’t soaked. Across the way, the others were already at the next spot, tables being pulled together, the air thick with steam and noise.

Then I heard it, clear as day. Dr. Dalal ordering. I caught pieces of his words. Do for two. I heard nihari. I heard asthi majja, bone marrow.

The food arrived. Nihari and oxtail. I didn’t even care if it was lamb or goat. I tore off some bread, scooped the meat, and dipped it deep into the gravy. I took a breath through my nose, letting the scent hit me before the bite.

The smell was intoxicating. I closed my eyes. Pressed the food into my mouth with my finger. That first wave of flavor hit me like nothing else. I started giggling. Not laughing. Giggling. Like someone who just tasted pure magic. It wrapped around me like a warm hug. Every layer of flavor spoke. Every spice told a story.

I’ve never done hard drugs, but people talk about chasing that first high. I get it now. That was my high. Sorcery on a plate. Then came the oxtail. Something I know well. But their version? It was next level. It didn’t just meet expectations. It carved its name into my memory.

We sat there as Dr. Dalal told us the history of the dish and the place. Jon and I didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. We were too busy listening through the food. Each bite was layered with history. You could taste the pride of the hands that made it. You could taste the patience, the years, the repetition that brought those flavors to life. These cooks don’t take what they do for granted. They’ve fully embraced it. This isn’t food thrown together to fill a plate. This is craft.

It reminded me of Shinto precision in Japanese cooking. That quiet devotion to being one percent better every single time. Every movement matters. Every spice matters. They don’t cut corners. They represent their food with everything they’ve got. The flavors carry their story. Their story lives in every bite.

The Spice Market

We went to the spice market, and let me tell you, I’ve been to markets in France, Italy, Mexico, and the Middle East… but nothing touches this. This wasn’t just a market. This was sensory overload in the best way. Each stall had its own personality. Mace stacked in neat piles. Cardamom pods that smelled like waking up. Pistachios, dried fruit, and spices stacked high like little mountains of flavor. Vendors were laughing, yelling, cracking open jars and letting you taste everything. For a chef, for three chefs like us, this was our version of FAO Schwarz.

I slowed my steps down. I wanted to feel it. People moved around me like water. Some heading to a shrine, slipping off their shoes to pray. Rickshaws zipped past, missing me by inches. I looked at the sides of the buildings, scarred and stained by life in Mumbai. I breathed in. The air was thick with the smell of roasting spices. Not just one smell. Dozens. Layers. Pepper. Cinnamon. Bay leaf. Toasted chilies. It was like the whole city was cooking.

We turned a corner and there they were. Three men working in perfect rhythm. One stirring a huge wok full of spices. Another adding new spices by the handful. Coriander. Cinnamon sticks. Dried chilies. Bay leaves. The third man stood waiting. When the spices were perfectly roasted, the first man dumped them into a big metal tray and slid it to the next station. The third guy lifted the tray, poured it into this pounding machine that crushed everything down into a fine, fragrant powder. It wasn’t just a process. It was choreography.

I stood there watching, mesmerized. The way they moved together. No shouting. No chaos. Just rhythm. This was how legacy is kept alive. And then I noticed a man off to the side, just waiting. He wasn’t a tourist. He was here for something personal. Keith started talking to him, and I caught pieces of their conversation.

It was his family’s recipe. Every year they came here to have their blend roasted, mixed, and pounded into their masala. Generation after generation. This was where their flavor lived. Their story.

I just stood there and took it in. The heat from the wok. The smoke. The way the air wrapped around me with the smell of toasted spices. I thought about how these people don’t just cook. They honor what came before them. This is not a shortcut culture. This is pride. This is mastery.

This is what cooking is supposed to be.

I’ve always said food is the only real time travel we have. Standing there, I felt that more than ever. Every spice they roasted, every grain of pepper they crushed, carried years of someone’s story. It’s why Indian cuisine is what it is. It’s why the world’s cuisine is what it is. If it wasn’t for India, the flavors we take for granted wouldn’t exist.

Benne Dosa

Every morning in Mumbai, we’d hit Perch Coffee and Wine Bar. We went so often that on a Monday the server, Roni, came over to tell us they wouldn’t open until 10 a.m. the next day so we wouldn’t be surprised. I love that kind of rhythm, the kind where the staff knows your face and your order before you even speak.

Tuesday was Benne Dosa day. If you don’t know what dosa is, don’t you dare just Google it. Go find a place that makes it. Sit down. Experience it. Words won’t do it justice.

Picture a thick black griddle, seasoned with time. A scoop of white batter hits the surface, and the bubbles pop like tiny fireworks. The cook moves with this effortless grace, shaping it into a perfect circle. Then comes the butter. Not just dropped. Glided. He rubs it gently, slowly, over every inch of the dosa. You can hear it sizzling, smell it toasting, feel the air change. It’s like watching a slow dance between batter and heat.

Then comes the ghee. Liquid gold squeezed from a bag, cascading over the dosa like it’s a blessing. The cook takes his palta, it looks like an artist’s spatula, and pats it down, coaxing the edges, working with that kind of precision that only comes from doing something a thousand times. He spreads a rich red masala paste (gunpowder) across the top, painting it like a canvas.

Next comes the aloo masala, spiced yellow potatoes, dropped just off-center. He slides the palta underneath, scraping the edges and lifting the crust that’s formed on the bottom. He folds one side, then the other, lifts her, because at this point she is a her, and lays her gently on a plate like a lover being set down softly.

The chutneys are waiting. Coconut and this deep red tomato chutney. That tomato chutney is burned into my memory. The smell hit me before the plate even touched the table. My mouth was already watering. I felt like a dog who knows the food bowl is coming.

I ripped a piece from the center where the potatoes sat and popped it into my mouth. BAM. The crunch. The softness. The butter. The ghee. The masala. All of it hitting at once like a perfectly timed punch.

I went back in, dragging a piece through the tomato chutney. It was creamy. Nutty. A little tangy. Cashews roasted just enough to give it this soft warmth. It wasn’t just good. It was everything I didn’t know I needed in that moment.

I thought of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Yeah. It was like that.

They brought out vada, idli, more chutneys, more coffee, and this soft serve ice cream crowned with a salted cashew crunch. The heat, the spice, the cream, the salt. It all came together like a perfectly built chord. Everything hit hard and smooth. Every bite felt deliberate.

People love to say Indian food is just curries and too damn spicy. Let them keep saying that. It only shows how little they know. Indian cuisine is a living, breathing story that goes way beyond the bullshit stereotypes. India isn’t one flavor. It’s hundreds of languages, thousands of communities, and centuries of history layered on a plate. Empires came, occupied, and left their fingerprints. The Portuguese brought chilies from the New World. The Mughals brought technique, the British brought their arrogance, and India still turned it all into something bigger.

Every region, every state, every community has its own way of cooking. Some dishes will blow your head off with heat, sure. Others are soft, delicate, layered like poetry. Indian cuisine is not one note. It’s a damn symphony.

If you stay stuck in your little curry box, that’s on you. But if you open your mouth and your mind, India will give you flavors you didn’t even know existed.

Lessons from the Road

Traveling doesn’t just teach you about a place. It teaches you about yourself. India hit me in a way I didn’t expect. It forced me to slow down, to watch, to listen. It showed me how life can be hard and beautiful at the same time.

I saw stray dogs and cats that would make anyone’s heart break, and then out of nowhere a man would pull up on a motorbike and feed them like it was just part of his day. I saw a mother lay out a tarp so she and her special needs son could have a place to sleep for the night. I watched the traffic move like a living creature, wild, unpredictable, but somehow it works. It’s not instant. It’s not polished. It’s real.

The weather punched you in the chest. One minute it was 95 degrees and the sun felt like it was sitting right on your skin. The humidity wrapped around you, heavy as an elephant pressing down. And the smells, man, the smells. Some good, some not so good, all of it alive. It sticks to you. Not in a bad way. In a way that reminds you that you were there.

And the patience. India runs on its own clock. Nothing’s instant, but everything happens. Somehow faster than you expect. The morning we arrived, we ordered water. Ten minutes later, poof, it was at the door. It’s not the kind of speed that comes from rushing. It’s the kind of speed that comes from rhythm.

Everywhere I went, India left fingerprints on me. It’s a place where flavor isn’t just cooked. It’s lived. It’s chaos and precision, sweat and devotion, all in the same breath. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t just leave a mark on your soul. It carves it in.