Indian Vignette
Sreeparna Sengupta
Ian rolled up his cotton shirt sleeves, and mopped his forehead as he waited patiently in line for a
prepaid cab at Mumbai International Airport. This was not his first trip to India, although it was his first
during summer. It was a long flight from Salt Lake City, Utah via Newark and Frankfurt. Thankfully, there
had been no delays. He looked for ‘No Smoking’ signs around in the waiting area. Finding none, he lit up
and heaved a sigh of relief as nicotine surged through his tired body. Silently, he took in his surroundings
– cinema posters, honking cars, panhandlers, inching traffic, the smell of street food, and teeming
hundreds, even thousands of people going about their business in this busy city. “An assault on the
senses”, he thought and smiled. But, he enjoyed it all. Here, he felt curiously at home. A non-practicing
Mormon, he had long alienated family and friends by deliberately, methodically flouting every tenet of
the religion. He would often quip about his complicated relationship with God.
It was a short cab ride from Mumbai airport to the nearest railway station. On this trip, Ian had decided
to avoid the big metros, and visit smaller cities instead. His first stop was Nasik, a three-hour train ride
away from Mumbai. Ian surprised a couple of co-passengers with his knowledge of Indian literature,
classical music and Hindu religion. By the time the train pulled into Nasik Road station, he had shared
cigarettes, chocolates and jokes with traveling locals. He was advised to hire an “auto”, a popular three
wheeler in these regions, to make the rest of his journey from Nasik Road to the homestay where he
had arranged to live with a local family for 3 nights.
Nasik was a far cry from Mumbai, with its clean air and green hills. It was rapidly getting dark, and Ian
displayed nervous urgency in looking for an auto rickshaw driver. Halfway through some hurried
haggling, the driver Ramu started loading Ian’s baggage into his small three-wheeler. The evening rains,
so common in this area, started soon enough and made the hilly road slippery and treacherous. Ramu’s
steady banter slowed down as he concentrated on weaving his way through traffic in torrential rain.
Noticing several autos pull over to the side of the road, to sit out the rain, Ian ventured to ask Ramu
whether it wouldn’t be a good idea to wait a while for the rains to let up.
Ramu had a better idea. His house was one left turn away. Would Ian mind waiting there? The homestay
was a good hour away, and it was so near to dinner time. Ian weighed the pros and cons of the offer, but
couldn’t pass up on a rare opportunity of stealing a glimpse into the lives of people so different than h is
own. “Sure, I’d love to”, he said enthusiastically. The auto swerved into a narrow lane, its tires
squelching through mud as they finally ground to a halt in front of a humble house made of mud and
straw.
The following hour went by in a blur. Ramu’s children, intrigued by the sudden appearance of this tall
white man, crowded around Ian’s knee. Ramu’s wife offered them water in brass tumblers, and then
quickly produced a meager meal of rough handmade flatbread, watery lentils and a quarter of an onion
served on brass plates. The hot, simple food hit the spot. Touched by the hospitality of a family that
could barely provide for themselves, Ian expressed his gratitude and hesitatingly offered to pay for
dinner. Ramu folded his hands in a Namaste and smiled “It was our honor. No need for money.”
Outside, in the meanwhile, the rains had slowed down to a drizzle. It was safe to leave for the homestay.
Ian took leave of his hosts, and promised to return. Ramu covered the open sides of the auto with
tarpaulin curtains used to protect passengers from mud splatter. Ian noticed the yellow tarp was
covered with writing in native Indian script.
“What does this say, Ramu?”
“It is a popular Hindi phrase. It means “He who serves his fellow man, serves God.”
Ian smiled and nodded his understanding.