Don't Cry Over Spilled Yogurt

Dear dedicated reader,

The principal gave the familiar motion with his hand from his porch the other night as I came back from the bazaar that indicated that he wanted to talk with me. There was a man standing on his porch who looked similarly familiar but whom I could not place.

“You have been to that Hanuman temple?” The principal asked me slowly. “The one where there is a holy man living?”

“Ah yes,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. We’d never told him about our visit to Swami-ji. “Some friends of ours in town took us to see him.”

He nodded, satisfied with my answer. “I also go to see him regularly,” he said, a smile breaking over his face and filling me with relief. Since the conversation started, I’d had a baseless suspicion that we were about to be reprimanded for another breach in school rules that I was unaware of. This was apparently not to be the case.

“Yes, he is very wise. And he knows some 17 or 18 languages,” the principal went on. “He has even toured in America, to help the peoples.” I nodded, encouragingly. “He is interested in helping all the peoples of the world,” the principal finished thoughtfully.

I said that yes, he had had been very helpful to Melissa and I when we visited and lent us his book free of charge. But where was this conversation going, I couldn’t help but wonder…

The man on the porch piped in now in Gujarati which I couldn’t follow. He was talking excitedly and suddenly I remembered that we had met him the same night that we went to visit Swami-ji. He lived at the temple and took care of the shrines there. He was a youngish man with an honest, grinning face and he now turned and beamed his smile in my direction.

“He wants me to tell you that Swami-ji has asked for you and Melissa to come to the temple tomorrow night. There will be some teachings and –“ the principal hesitated, searching for the right word, “and – a feast?” I nodded, indicating that I understood. “It will be simple food, but so so many people will come – I think, nine thousand people will come…”

“Nine thousand?” I said disbelievingly. “Really?”

“Yes, or one to two thousand,” the principal said without missing a beat. The temple to which he was referring was rather small and I could hardly imagine it accommodating such a huge number, be it nine hundred or nine thousand.

“So I should tell him that you will go?” The principal looked to me for confirmation.

I looked at the eager face of the man waiting for an answer and at the friendly smile of the principal’s and replied that yes, of course, we would go. We had been intending to visit Swami-ji again to return his book and this would be the perfect opportunity.

However, the next night, after a day of teaching and lesson planning, I was hardly in the mood to do anything except collapse on the beds in our living room and stare blankly at the wall. I hoped desperately that the principal would forget about our promise to go. The Hanuman temple was all the way across Kadod, and now that it was dark I was even less excited to make the trek.

As 7 o’clock rolled around and night had descended on Kadod, I felt sure that the principal had forgotten all about our conversation the other night. We receive about twenty requests in a week from various sources to visit this house or that family or come to watch this ceremony. Maybe one is actually followed up on.

As it happened, this was to be our one. At 7:05, we heard the loud rap on the door that I’ve come to associate with the principal’s family (that is, when they don’t walk directly into the house without knocking). We opened the door to reveal the principal’s expectant face.

“I have just come from that temple,” he began, “and Swami-ji is expecting you for dinner.”

In this way, I found myself grumbling as I walked along beside a more cheerful Melissa holding a large flashlight which we borrowed from the watchman and making our way through the dark back alleys of Kadod to the Hanuman temple. I was in a foul temper when we reached the outer walls of the temple, black thoughts in my mind as I removed my shoes and my stubborn irritation persisted while we made our way into the inner temple complex.

All of this melted away, however, on seeing a surprisingly familiar face: the father of Jayeshbhai the tailor (who had originally taken us to visit Swami-ji and introduced as “those who seek knowledge”) was standing by Swami-ji, along with the principal of the primary school, the physics teacher and a number of other friendly Kadodians. It seems the Hanuman temple was the place to be on this fine full moon night.

On seeing us, we were welcomed by all five men with smiles and “Kem Chos”. They led us to a space on the floor where a number of other people were eating. In front of us they placed a large platter made of dried leaves and onto this was plopped a large unappetizing blob of kitcheri and next to it was dribbled an Indian sweet of small balls of sugar called “booni” along with long dried sticks called “gattiya” (forgive my spelling). A tall steel cup was placed down as well and a whitish liquid that I could only assume was a yogurt based drink was slopped in, spilling down the sides as the teenage boys in charge of the food distribution hurriedly moved on to the next empty container.

I eyed the food. The men had gathered around us and looked down intently as I slowly put out my fingers and pushed them into the sticky kitcheri. I gathered up a delicate handful and brought it to my mouth. Despite its rather unwholesome look, it tasted delicious. Slowly, I helped myself to more.

The primary school principal sat down next to us and was immediately served as well. Others who I didn’t know also sat on the cloth put on the floor and ate with vigor. The primary school principal pointed to the large cup of whitish liquid, instructing me to pour it onto my food to imitate the saucy mess that he was swishing about with his fingers on his plate. I took up the metal cylinder in my hand, ready like a good cultural explorer to follow his example. I made, however, one fatal mistake: I leaned my nose down towards the glass and took a sniff.

My nostrils were filled with a sour milk smell that overpowered me and I quickly put the tumbler back on the granite floor of the temple, trying to get as much distance between me and it as possible without attracting attention. Whatever it was, I wanted no part of it. Surreptitiously I gave a sideways glance to see if my repulsion was apparent to others, but the primary school principal was busy shoveling another handful of kitcheri into his mouth. I slowly continued to eat the kitcheri and sweets plain, but as usual the boys had given me way more than I could ever possibly consume in one sitting and as I got full, I made as if to get up.

The scolding began as quickly as I began to move. “NO!” said the smiling man from the night before who lived in the temple. “You cannot get up,” he told me firmly in Hindi, “until your entire plate is finished. This is prasad, an offering to the Gods… you cannot waste it.” I had been unaware that this meal was prasad or I certainly would not have tried to get up, and so I nodded understandingly and with an apologetic look tried to make my fingers move towards the dish.

I had almost succeeded in making my uncooperative fingers move towards my plate when I smelled Swami-ji towering over me, his shadow ominously cast over my plate. As I looked up, I saw him backlit by the moon, his top-knot piled on top of his head and his white beard dangling down, rustled gently by the night breeze. I shivered involuntarily.

“You are enjoying?” He asked with a well-intentioned smile.

“Oh yes,” I exclaimed, perhaps a little over-enthusiastically. I forced my hand towards the kitcheri. “It’s very delicious.” While I mastered my fingered and made myself eat a few more bites, Swami-ji lectured to Melissa and I on the importance of the day – a lecture I sadly missed in my concentration on pleasing the assembled crowd with my appetite.

“But,” he said chidingly, “you have not taken any of your drink. It’s very good for your health!” He said emphatically.

“Ah, yes, well –“ I began. “You see, I’m allergic.”

The surprised look on their faces was nothing compared to my inner surprise. Where had that lie come from?

“Uh, yes,” I continued. “I can’t eat any dairy like this. It’s very bad for my health. I will become very sick.”

Swami-ji nodded slowly, as if deciding whether to believe me or not.

Melissa chimed in. “Yes, she has a very serious allergy,” she repeated sincerely. I have never appreciated Melissa’s friendship more than at that moment. “She can’t eat anything like this.” I didn’t look over at her for fear of bursting out in nervous laughter.

“Ah well,” Swami-ji finally said thoughtfully, “Perhaps you can have hers then, after you finish yours?”

I could almost hear Melissa’s silent hesitation. She had already drank one fourth of her cup and pronounced the stuff entirely undrinkable. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she picked up her tumbler slowly and took a deep breath. In a moment, she was downing the entire contents of the glass in one big swallow while the onlookers watched approvingly.

“Very good for your health,” Swami-ji said again as he wandered away to talk to other visitors. I finally had the self-composure to be able to look over at Melissa apologetically. She looked a little sick.

Jayeshbhai’s father, sensing perhaps, what was really going on, waited until Swami-ji’s back was turned, and threw the contents of my glass over the wall of the temple.

Thank God.

Best,
Cat