It was like a Norman Rockwell painting gone very, very wrong. There they were—eyes closed, holding hands, heads lowered in prayer and singing. Crooning oh-so-casually, as if every day they came to the Taj Mahal to gather hands and praise their country in a round of “God Bless America.” I just sat there, mouth stuffed with garlic naan, fork perched above a steaming heap of saag paneer and eyeing a mango lassi (I am a bit of a glutton when it comes to Indian food), when I heard the first notes. I blinked a few times to make sure I wasn't in some candid-camera version of the “Twilight Zone.” I swallowed. They eventually finished. I polished my plate and occasionally darted my eyes in their direction, but they didn't repeat the ritual. Later, I left with my dinner companion … a little dazed, ridiculously full.
I'm not sure saag paneer will ever be the same.
