pulled up in front of our house. The trailer was brightly painted, and had iron bars on the back door. Tim, Brian and Lori climbed aboard and squeezed themselves in among the other kids crammed inside. As the rickshaw walla peddled away, I couldnât help but think that the children looked like prisoners being hauled away on their way to jail. But our children loved it. They loved being with other children their own ages and making new friends. And their Hindi language skills improved dramatically. It didnât seem to matter that they lagged behind the others. They were too busy making new friends and learning the intimate ways of children from another culture. Tim developed a close friendship with a young Sikh boy from a neighboring village and would often spend the afternoon in his village learning to plow the fields. During the harvest season, he would join the other boys in the village chasing after truckloads of sugarcane leaving the village and heading for the mills. Sometimes the boys would run behind the truck, pulling out a couple of canes from the back of the truck before a man sitting on top of the load would swat at them with a cane of his own. It was a challenge which Tim and the other boys thoroughly enjoyed, their reward being to extract the sweet juice chewed from the ends of the canes. Lori and Brianâs friends lived in town and before long they were visiting with their school mates. The rest of the time they spent at home, Lori playing with Meena and Paphu, while Brian sat in bhabhiâs kitchen eating chapattis and adding to his Hindi vocabulary, including questionable words which I suspected she was preparing him to hurl at Kaga.
About a week later, a man arrived at the gate and, after a grilling from Chamu, the moochi, was allowed inside. He wore a long kurta and loose fitting pajamas. He had a grey stubble of beard and liquid eyes. His shoes were scuffed and looked as if they might have been discarded by someone else. He said his name was Shankar and that he knew how to cook âwestern.â At this point I was desperate and didnât care what he cooked as long as he cooked. He said he could start cooking that night and that he would cook something special for us. He returned that afternoon with his arms wrapped around his waist, and there was a commotion coming from underneath his kurta, as if something were trying to escape. He turned away from me and went straight outside to the cooking area. I heard a sudden flapping noise and a few âclucksâ before all was silent. Lori ran into the house from the courtyard shouting. âThereâs a chicken outside and itâs not flapping its wings anymore.â I looked outside and Shankar was already plucking the chicken and cutting it up into small pieces. I was thrilled at the thought of a chicken dinner, but at the same time I worried that Ram Swarup and bhabhi might suddenly appear and witness the massacre. What would they say about the dead chicken and the smell of cooked meat that was bound to permeate their living area before long? I hoped they would accept it and I marveled at how they pretended not to notice this intrusion on their strictly vegetarian diet.
Later, I asked Shankar where he got the chicken and he said he found it crossing the road on his way here. âI donât think it belonged to anyone. It probably flew off the top of a bus, from inside someoneâs luggage.â âFrom inside someoneâs luggage?â I mused. I figured he was lying and probably stole it from someone. But at this point, I didnât really care where the bird came from. Shankar continued plucking and skinning the chicken and preparing the spices to boil it with. That night we had a delicious dinner of boiled chicken, vegetables and chapattis. The children were thrilled and so was I. That night we slept well with our stomachs full.
R ESPITE IN D ELHI
A FTER SIX WEEKSÂ of complete bed rest, Pat was at her wits
About a week later, a man arrived at the gate and, after a grilling from Chamu, the moochi, was allowed inside. He wore a long kurta and loose fitting pajamas. He had a grey stubble of beard and liquid eyes. His shoes were scuffed and looked as if they might have been discarded by someone else. He said his name was Shankar and that he knew how to cook âwestern.â At this point I was desperate and didnât care what he cooked as long as he cooked. He said he could start cooking that night and that he would cook something special for us. He returned that afternoon with his arms wrapped around his waist, and there was a commotion coming from underneath his kurta, as if something were trying to escape. He turned away from me and went straight outside to the cooking area. I heard a sudden flapping noise and a few âclucksâ before all was silent. Lori ran into the house from the courtyard shouting. âThereâs a chicken outside and itâs not flapping its wings anymore.â I looked outside and Shankar was already plucking the chicken and cutting it up into small pieces. I was thrilled at the thought of a chicken dinner, but at the same time I worried that Ram Swarup and bhabhi might suddenly appear and witness the massacre. What would they say about the dead chicken and the smell of cooked meat that was bound to permeate their living area before long? I hoped they would accept it and I marveled at how they pretended not to notice this intrusion on their strictly vegetarian diet.
Later, I asked Shankar where he got the chicken and he said he found it crossing the road on his way here. âI donât think it belonged to anyone. It probably flew off the top of a bus, from inside someoneâs luggage.â âFrom inside someoneâs luggage?â I mused. I figured he was lying and probably stole it from someone. But at this point, I didnât really care where the bird came from. Shankar continued plucking and skinning the chicken and preparing the spices to boil it with. That night we had a delicious dinner of boiled chicken, vegetables and chapattis. The children were thrilled and so was I. That night we slept well with our stomachs full.
R ESPITE IN D ELHI
A FTER SIX WEEKSÂ of complete bed rest, Pat was at her wits
Similar Books
