This past weekend, we have come to a compromise over the ban on going to students houses. We are still testing the boundaries of this compromise, but at least it has arrived.
Two students from the 9C class, the one which I used to teach and is now Melissa’s, are also in Vanisha’s spoken English class. These two boys, conveniently named Amin and Amir, told us that they wanted to take us on a tour of the town, just as the fan club of girls who follow Priya around constantly have done. “We will pick you up at 11!” They told us excitedly.
Every day, they reminded us that we were to meet them at 11 o’clock. Where they were going to take us, they had no idea. When they came for us, we were prepared for anything: sunscreen, bugspray, water, snacks. “Where will we go?” We asked them.
“To the greenhouse,” they said plainly.
The greenhouse turned out to be a mere 5 minute walk from our house, out on the main road of Kadod that leads to other villages. The boys strolled along with few words for us or each other. Touring with them was distinctly different than the clingy, chatty girls, who pointed out this and that local curiosity or repeated gossip they had heard from their mothers. The boys were purposeful and silent.
On reaching the location, they confidently strolled up to the high double doored metal gate which isolated this place from the public thoroughfare and opened it without a second thought. We tentatively followed behind. The idea of private property seems very loose here: children guide us through public and private forums as they please and no one seems to mind. All doors are open in this small village.
Inside, there was a shed in front of a massive glass and tarp structure which I assumed must be the green house. Outside the shed, women workers with their saris hiked up to their knees crouched, sorting flowers into buckets. To my delight, I saw that the flowers they were so carefully handling were Gerber daisies, my favorite.
After spending some time in the lovely, but furiously hot greenhouse, we were led away back to the main road and down some formerly unnoticed gully towards the houses of the students themselves. Along the way, the students pointed out some of the places of interest which factored importantly into their lives. “There, there is my brother’s shop,” or “Here is my house, over there”.
On reaching Amin’s house, we were lovingly ushered into the front room, which was very dark, as most Indian houses tend to be. We were given the place of honor, just under the fan, and family and neighbors crowded around as Amin’s sister offered to do our mehndi (henna on your hands). She did Priya’s first, and while we watched we were offered “cold drinks” or soda by the family, who produced 4 welcome glass bottles of Indian Sprite ‘Limca’.
As Amin’s sister did Priya’s second hand, Vanisha joked, “Don’t drink too much Limca, Priya…” The mehndi has to stay on your hands until it hardens which can take from several hours to all night long. You want to keep it on as long as possible so that it becomes as dark as it can get. This means that certain things, like eating and going to the bathroom, can become…well, difficult.
“No, no,” Amin’s sister assured us. “You can take it off by 3 o’clock.” Only three hours away.
Melissa had hers and finally I had mine. I had been holding out in case we were going to play Frisbee with the boys who stay in the school hostel later, but since we wouldn’t have to keep it on over night and could still play, I gave in.
As so often happens, once we were finished and on our way out the door, Amir insisted that we visit his house as well. There we were served ‘cold drinks’ again, despite our weak protests. A number of neighbors crowded in to his house as well, among them many of the girls whom I teach in 9B.
“Teacher,” one of them said excitedly, “We are all working on our English homework this afternoon. To my house to see?”
“Chup raho!” (Shut up!) Amir said crossly and continued in Gujarati, “They are already here you leave them alone, they are at my house!”
This made everyone laugh, including us once Vanisha had translated. However, Asiya insisted and we found ourselves dragged to her house, a room which was just above Amir’s filled with cooking pans neatly hung on the walls and onions under the bed, waiting to be sold in the next vegetable bazaar. There, her mother again produced a cold, sweating bottle of Pepsi, despite our now loud protests that we really were fine and it wasn’t necessary. The rules of Indian hospitality prevailed, and we carefully accepted another glass, making sure not to hold it with the fingers laden with drying mehndi.
Photo albums having been produced and a list of relatives abroad gone through, it was time for us to go. This time, another student of mine appeared and insisted that I got to her house as well. “On one condition,” we said, carefully. “No cold drinks!”
“Oh yes, yes,” she said immediately, taking us by the hand and leading us a little down the way.
However, what should await us when we arrived, but 4 freshly poured glasses of Pepsi. We looked from them to her mother’s open, smiling face, and kindly held out our hands to accept them. On the sly, we tried to offer them up to the small kids who had followed us through our journey from house to house, but none would accept. It was their duty to be good hosts; ours, to be good guests. And so, we drank.
By the time we reached home, the mehndi was cracking off our hands, almost dry. Priya showed me how to take a kitchen knife and scrape the now dry mint-root smelling paste off of my hands to reveal the red-orange color underneath. It should stay for about a month and every time I look at my hands I feel a little thrilled.
Best,
Cat
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