After a week at the cheapest acceptable-looking guest house in Vijayant Khand, I was keen to move into the ancestral house-cum-newspaper office-cum-homestay that my Lucknow colleague recommended. I walked into the house and N greeted me. N spoke fluent Hindi with the fast cadence that mohalla ladies have while gossiping. He sometimes broke into English, which he spoke with a striking Western accent and dubious grammar. He was probably in his 60s, had thin hair spread out over his head, and was vaguely pear-shaped but not overweight.
Over a few days, N and I became comfortable and came to accept each other's flaws. I thought N was quite lazy, and N thought I was quite demanding. Both were true. The daily dinner included a small bowl of daal, some sabzi and two perfectly rolled, thin chapattis -- delicious and quite insufficient, I always felt. I often asked for extra helpings, which I think slightly annoyed him. He would disappear into the kitchen to talk to the "cook" but I'm quite certain that he was the cook. When he told me he had only been working at the house six months, I was surprised. "Yes," he quipped in his low, fast manner, "main jahaan bhi jaata hoon, bilkul wahan ka ban jaata hoon." ("Wherever I go, I become one with the place.") He had the gift of familiarity, which he quickly developed with all of us guests, and had clearly cultivated with his employer too. One felt comfortable confiding in him that the bathroom tap had stopped working, or that there was beer in the fridge. He would say "Ah, will you let me have one?" but would never actually take up the offer.
One morning when N handed me my lunchbox, I asked if I could get another helping of upma. N stopped, his eyes widened, and he looked up and down my face. I wasn't sure what to do, so I tried to keep a neutral expression (which might have erred on the side of the defiant) and maintained eye contact. After a few seconds, N took my lunchbox and brought it back with more upma. He half-approvingly said, "You have a bigger appetite than most young girls!"
Oftentimes, N played the Naarad Muni in his crisscross communication. As I paid for my stay, he explained that the receipt book was too old and he would not be able to keep a receipt to show his employer -- I would need to take with me the only receipt made for the payment. When I left, he told D that I had promised to sell him two bike helmets we had bought for our fieldwork. He bought them for a 100 rupees each. It confounds me what the man wanted to do with two bike helmets, and why he wanted to pay for them at all. But well, I didn't have a plan for them either!
Over a few days, N and I became comfortable and came to accept each other's flaws. I thought N was quite lazy, and N thought I was quite demanding. Both were true. The daily dinner included a small bowl of daal, some sabzi and two perfectly rolled, thin chapattis -- delicious and quite insufficient, I always felt. I often asked for extra helpings, which I think slightly annoyed him. He would disappear into the kitchen to talk to the "cook" but I'm quite certain that he was the cook. When he told me he had only been working at the house six months, I was surprised. "Yes," he quipped in his low, fast manner, "main jahaan bhi jaata hoon, bilkul wahan ka ban jaata hoon." ("Wherever I go, I become one with the place.") He had the gift of familiarity, which he quickly developed with all of us guests, and had clearly cultivated with his employer too. One felt comfortable confiding in him that the bathroom tap had stopped working, or that there was beer in the fridge. He would say "Ah, will you let me have one?" but would never actually take up the offer.
One morning when N handed me my lunchbox, I asked if I could get another helping of upma. N stopped, his eyes widened, and he looked up and down my face. I wasn't sure what to do, so I tried to keep a neutral expression (which might have erred on the side of the defiant) and maintained eye contact. After a few seconds, N took my lunchbox and brought it back with more upma. He half-approvingly said, "You have a bigger appetite than most young girls!"
Oftentimes, N played the Naarad Muni in his crisscross communication. As I paid for my stay, he explained that the receipt book was too old and he would not be able to keep a receipt to show his employer -- I would need to take with me the only receipt made for the payment. When I left, he told D that I had promised to sell him two bike helmets we had bought for our fieldwork. He bought them for a 100 rupees each. It confounds me what the man wanted to do with two bike helmets, and why he wanted to pay for them at all. But well, I didn't have a plan for them either!
