As a part of our monthly splurge ritual, my boyfriend and I had brunch at a fantastic South Indian restaurant.   Now, to give you a little backstory, I can (really, our parents can) come up with hundreds of differences between the two of us that would make us incompatible: my family is Pakistani, his is South Indian; mine is Muslim while his is Hindu; I’m Texan, he’s Californian, and on and on.  Despite all this, while sitting at that restaurant I couldn’t help but realize how obvious it was that we were of the same people.  The delicious dishes had unfamiliar names but incredibly familiar tastes and the aromas filling the room carried a type of comfort that is hard to explain but easy to understand.  Even the chatter, while not always in a language I explicitly recognized, had a tone that I had heard my entire life.