Strangers with Curry: A Dinner Invitation on the Street

It’s a relief to be in Bundi after the harrowing 13-hour train ride. After the freezing cold, nauseating smells, and being in a horizontal position for 12 hours, this little village feels like an oasis.

It’s quiet. It’s tiny. Our room is bright and colorful with stained glass and rajput paintings on the ceilings and walls. This is the first real breath of calm we’ve had thus far. And now we’re at our leisure to rest or wander as we please.

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I’ve never experienced so much humanity as I have in India. I’ve felt such generosity and desperation in equal measure. In Bundi, the people were lovely and warm. Children kept asking us to take their photo, and amidst the mild chaos of picture-taking and handing out spiderman pencils, one of the boys asked us up to his house for tea. So we went in their rickety house up a series of very steep and narrow stairs, where we met the mother. We were ushered into a little bedroom where they served us chai masala. An older brother appeared, who could speak English. He was a very gentle boy, but insistent that we come back at 8:00 for dinner. We gave a non-committal “we’ll try,” and he said “No try, it is necessary for you to come!”

With much trepidation (and visions of gastro-intestinal explosions dancing in our heads), we arrived at their house at 8:00. We returned to the little bedroom, where we met a sassy aunt who was openly burping and showing off her English skills. The father, who was wearing nothing but a towel and a shirt, greeted us warmly (and later stood up on the bed and put his trousers on in front of us!). When we sat down to dinner (on the floor), the whole family sat around and watched us eat. They presented us each with a big round silver platter covered with little piles of food and a basket of chapati. It was a bit awkward, especially as we had to eat on the floor… with our hands. They chuckled at our clumsy fingers fumbling around the little piles of food, but tried to make us feel comfortable. The food was very interesting: there were delicious spicy chick pea curries; some sort of odd, crunchy, dry mixture; a strange gelatinous dessert made from ghee and cinnamon.

When we finished, they insisted on showing us their other house in the country. The next thing we knew, Matt and I were both on the back of a little motorcycle behind the teenage boy, driving fast and furious down the tiny streets of Bundi! As we sped over the cobblestones, dodging cows and oncoming traffic, my life was flashing before my eyes. I kept thinking, “I’m so glad we bought travel insurance!”

Finally we arrived (in one piece), and they proudly showed us around their house and their little garden. We were shown everything, from the bathroom to the storage room. They were absolutely beaming with pride. The mother even managed to get out a few words in English: “Our personal house. Personal.”

We capped the night with a cup of chai and watched the beginning of Obama’s inauguration on their (plastic-wrapped) T.V. I thought it was interesting what Shabhom (the teenage boy) said about him: “Obama is very lucky.” We never see our presidents in this way, as the recipients of good fortune. We see them as extremely hard-working and deserving of what they receive, good or bad.

While we sat with them for the last few minutes, they invited us to stay with them at their house. We were surprised, but of course declined, explaining that we were already staying in a hotel. They said it would be easy to go get our things and come back to their house together, but we had paid for our hotel in advance. They were visibly disappointed, but accepted this explanation and offered another invitation for the next time we come. “Next time you come to Bundi, you must stay for seven days, and you must stay with us!” The father declared that they felt a deep friendship with us. I’m still bewildered by their hospitality.

We climbed back on the motorcycle behind Shabhom, and the rest of the family (all four of them!), piled onto the second motorcycle. When we were safely ahead of the family, Shabhom tentatively queried, “Can I ask you a question?” I said, “Of course.”

“Did you know each other before you were married?”

“Yes, we met at University.” (That seemed to please him.)

“Because… I have a girlfriend.” (said he shyly) “I met her at a marriage ceremony.”
(wedding)

“Do your parents know about her?”

“No, no! It is top secret!”

“Do her parents know about you?”

“Top secret! Sometimes… when I’m alone… I call her.” (pause) “She is soooo pretty.” And thus another Indian tale of star-crossed lovers, albeit a perfectly innocent one.

We finally arrived, wind-blown, back to their house. The youngest son presented us with a gift (a daily planner?!) and they would not say goodbye, because they invited us to dinner the following night. We never went back.**

We will never ever forget those people. I still don't understand why the opened their hearts and their homes to us so dramatically, or what kind of world is so free of suspicion. I definitely learned something from that.

**However, we have already been in touch through email. The modern world!