MUMBAI — On my first morning in India, I found myself staring at an egg. That and a cup of coffee was all my hotel’s “free continental breakfast” amounted to, but I didn’t feel cheated. I felt vindicated.
After all, I’d come to India because of an egg.
I cracked the hard-boiled shell and peeled it off carefully, almost neurotically, like I’d seen my grandmother do a dozen times. As each little bit came away from the egg, I captured it in a napkin. When one shard flew out a few inches from my fingertips, I dove to catch it and put it back in its place. A few minutes later, the egg was finally ready to eat. I scrunched the napkin into a ball, holding it tight in my fist as I chewed.
Then I rushed into the blazing sun to see if I could trace this family ritual to its source.
