India Sunday Night Where to Begin

I’ve been writing stories in my head, trying desperately to figure out how to share with you what has been happening. Unable to sleep during afternoon nap today, I decided to recreate scenes. So, this is where I’ll begin:

Sunday nap
The pigeon on the grillwork outside the window was watching me. I decided to listen and list the things I could hear all at the same time:
Car horns
Jackhammers
Bicycle bells
Motorbikes
Voices
Children at play
Kitchen clean up
The fan overhead
The woman who helps take care of Dadi (Riddhi’s grandmother) eating her lunch on the floor beside the bed.
Veena napping beside me.

As I thought about all of these sounds, they got louder and I gave up on sleep and opened my eyes. There was a woman I’d never met standing by the bed looking at me.

Eating
We are sitting on the mat in the livingroom of Palluben’s house. Many tins and platters of food are spread out before us. I haven’t been very good at learning the names of things, but just imagine many things. There is no such option as tasting something. Everything is offered, served and served. The word “bus” is supposed to be the signal that means “really, I am done.” That worked yesterday, but its power seems to be weakening. Every bite is monitored to be sure you are getting enough and that you are enjoying each bite. I’ve eaten 6 meals here, plus snacks and juice and treats in-between—and every meal has many dishes and condiments—and I’ve never (except for ghordana) eaten any of these things before. The preparations for every meal seem so complex, so many ingredients, so many steps—the spices and flavors are amazing. It’s hard to say how much I like each thing because it’s all so new and interesting. I am trying hard to say yes to every experience, and the only real error so far is popping “paan” into my mouth! Wow, it’s like every powerful spice imaginable, with flavors ramped to maximum, all served up on an innocent looking leaf.

Being noticed
Anjali told me that I would be stared at and just to stare back. Good advice. I forget how I stand out. Yesterday in greeting, Palluben gave me a bouquet of flowers and then painted a bindi on my forehead. As the day wore on and warmed up, the dye ran quite a bit. So people who didn’t notice me for other reasons might have been struck by that.

So, yes, imagine a sari shop, or the most incredible fabric store ever with beautifully stacked fabric folds in every color you can imagine. So Riddhi pulled us in because there was something she wanted to see (I’m not so sure about that) and we went to the back where the most amazing saris were—not the most elaborate or gold or blingy, but the most meticulour and varied textile artistry. One after another, all colors, which do you like Bonnie, do you like this one, what do you think of these colors? And then, of course, why don’t you try it on? And so it evolved that this salesman draped the orange and magenta sari on me. Remember, I am not having good hair here, and it’s the end of the day, and I’m wearing something cool but not so becoming AND everyone in the shop which is quite large is watching this happening. Well, I must say that if I were going to wear a sari, I would love one like that. Veena said Roger would fall in love with me all over again. It does make one wonder why all women don’t wear saris.

First Experiences
This just isn’t Redmond!

Taxiing from the airport in the middle of the night, the air was humid, the streets were alive. It was dark, but there was life everywhere. It was like suddenly being IN the movie in India, and all these scenes were whizzing by. I tried to just see and take it in but it was all too fast. And I kept wondering, did I really see that? I’m trying to just let this happen to me—not to think too much, that can be for later.

Walking with Riddhi around a neighborhood park last evening, people gathered in all sorts of groups, many walking the circuit. One woman joined up with Riddhi (people seem to do that quite often), and talked away about the park and neighborhood. Then she asked who I was. “My mother-in-law.” Shock and disbelief! “Yes, she’s from America.” “What caste is she?”

Yesterday we went for ice cream and watched people, rickshaws, taxis, bikes—so much action and movement. Riding in a rickshaw is like having a personal driver. Stop here, buy some potatoes, move along, stop here, buy some fruit, move along. It’s hard to see the landmarks as you can only see the bottom half of things because of the roof, but it’s very exciting as there truly are no traffic rules and it is chaos. So, I’ve just decided that I probably won’t die in a rickshaw accident in Bombay and try to think of it as an adventure ride.

And then there’s the cow
We whizzed down the highway in the rickshaw to the market and shopping. As we walked along the street, trying to avoid things you didn’t want to step in or on and trying not to be hit by any vehicles, there were garlands of flowers with jasmine-type fragrances, beautiful fruits and vegetables, sugar cane and pomegranates, and there were stories and tragedies. And then suddenly there would be a cow, just there. I want to remember that.

Entry point
I know that I’ve had such a rich entry into this country. I’ve been introduced first to people who have welcomed me and taken care of me. They’ve welcomed me into their homes and shared with me. There have been flashes of reality that I haven’t been ready to see. In many ways I’ve been protected by the stories of people who have tired to prepare me and I’m grateful for all of this. Tomorrow we leave the outskirts and go into the city and there will be different things to see and experience. I have no idea what that will all feel like or the impact it will have on me, but I do think that the gift of welcome will fortify me in some way.

And then tomorrow night, Monday here, we’ll be taking the train to Ahmedabad . . .