A switch went off in my head three decades back and, before you could say “Mahabalipuram,” I was infatuated with India. The obsession is not rational, and it has nothing to do with eating, praying, or loving. I just can’t get enough of the place. Now, after visiting there many times, I have a closet crowded with attire more suited to Chennai than Chicago, and my bedroom channels a fantasy Bombay bordello. I can rustle up an eight-course Indian meal (after a week of cooking), my bhangra dance steps are starting to resemble the real thing, and I hanker after Shahrukh Khan rather than George Clooney. Go figure.