Blog

In what was to become a common theme of the next two days, Ranjeet invited us back to his house for parantha. We had just eaten lunch, but no matter. FBR is always ready for second lunch. Ranjeet, an man soft-spoken enough to require many a ‘what?’ on our part comes from a line of cooks. His father cooked for a big hotel in Delhi, and now he cooks for an Indian restaurant in South Africa. He spend ten months out of the year there, earning the coveted foreign salary, and then comes back home for two months.

Ranjeet and friends with FBR (Ranjeet is in the middle in the white).

We happened to catch him while he was at home. After we had polished off many a parantha (delectable thin bread fried in ghee) Ranjeet took me to observe the village cricket match. The cricketers played in a bare field and dodged the odd tree looming overhead. There was an announcer-plugged in, and concessions complete with cold drinks and betel nut. A surprisingly sophisticated set-up for low scale sports.

A bowler at the more official of the two village games I attended.

We dodged around the open sewers to get back to his home, only to find Drew and Pete trying to sleep. Ranjeet went out again, this time to actually play cricket with a different yet even more informal village league. Ever since I began listening to the BBC, cricket has mystified yet intrigued me. The villagers played a fast paced game, more interesting than, what I’ve seen on TV. The folks involved in the cricket on that day tried hastily explaining this rule or that, but the game was too intense and my questions too complicated to lend easy answers. I can speculate why batsmen switch places, just as I can guess what makes an out, but how many outs each side gets is beyond me.

After cricket, night fell. “What would you like to eat?” inquired Ranjeet. We assured him anything would be ok. As we watched hungrily, a neighborhood kid deftly caught a chicken and held it squawking for Ranjeet’s inspection. To our great relief, it passed, and soon was flopping around in a pool of its own blood. We hardly ever get meet, and the chicken made our night. We busted out the music, while Ranjeet’s sister began bustling about in her red shalwaar kameez, preparing us yet another meal.

We asked the villagers gathered around us to sing a Hindi song. One man finally burst forth with a slow tune. His big eyes held mine as his prominent facial features exaggeratedly expressed the emotions embedded in the music.

Song from the man with big eyes.

We played another song, but the villagers wanted to hear a faster song.  Faster, faster, faster.  Drew did his best, but soon we were out of fast songs.

FBR song (recorded live in Chalu).

A huge Indian double-headed drum showed up, and the crowd urged a young man sitting near us to pick it up and play. He slung the shoulder strap over his head, and used the double-ended drum sticks, one in each hand, to knock out a great Indian dance beat. Two slinky men in tank tops leapt up and sauntered about the circle. They gyrated their hips, painting circles in the night with their huge belt buckles, and carried the crowd to hysterical acclamation.

The kid with the drum and a dancer.

Drum beat.

The singer urged us to dance. I was dead tired. I did not want to paint circles in the night with my ass. I skipped about half-heartedly. It was almost ten at night, and we still hadn’t eaten. The drummer was even slowing down. The singing man was calling us frauds. What? We couldn’t figure out what was going on. Perhaps my lackadaisical effort had failed to impress. I faded in and out. An argument seemed to ensue.

Luckily, our host came to the rescue. “Do you want to eat now?” he asked. We responded with enthusiastic affirmation. Suddenly a huge pile of roti (non-fried flat bread), salad, and plates of steaming rice and-oh boy oh boy- chicken curry appeared before us. We enthusiastically dug in, savoring the meal as we had relished few others.

After we ate, it was high time for bed.  Ranjeet gave us his bed, despite our protests.  We collapsed into it and slept fitfully.  The next morning, it was more parantha, and we said good bye.

I did not, but I should have dreamed of how many parantha I will have to make random people I run into in the U.S.  The idea of hospitality in the classical sense, the hospitality that saved Odysseus, that rules nomadic culture, that has smiled upon FBR so brightly of late, no longer seems to exist in the U.S.  Before this trip, I would never imagine inviting strangers into my house.  Now, however, I can’t wait to go back and begin repaying all of this kindness.

This entry was posted on Thursday, May 29th, 2008 at 4:10 am and is filed under Jim's Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.