Ramnagar, Part II

**video added 5/11, post complete**

Well, in the intervening few hours between my last post at Ramnagar and leaving for the overnight sleeper train to Varanasi, I decided to go on a walk to look around.  As I said before, the Corbett Motel is set in a mango orchard and it continued on a bit farther.  I walked into the orchard proper and back a bit, and found some men in a little camp area off to my right.  It looked like they might live there.  I stood looking in each direction for a 15 seconds or so, surveying the scene and trying to figure out which way to go, so as not to encroach on their territory, but then I heard some calling and it was them motioning me over (the American way of non-verbally saying “come here” is with the palm up and the pointer finger curling in toward the palm and extending again, over and over.  Well, if you take all the fingers (no thumb) and make them do the same as the pointer finger, and then flip the hand 180* so that the palm is facing down, you have the Indian equivalent gesture).

 

I walked over and they spoke a bit more English than I speak Hindi, so there was very little easy communication going on.  I understand that they are Muslims as they are all “brothers”.  The senior brother, who did not look to be the oldest, was named Mehboob (as it was written for me later).  They did in fact live in this little encampment, and I found out later that they were responsible for the caretaking of the orchard.  They showed me around on a tour of the orchard, and were especially proud to show me the lychee trees (they must have more status than mangoes).  On the tour we start passing tons of a wild-growing marijuana they call “charras,” and they laugh when I take a picture.  I saw cannabis growing in lots of places, not just in Ramnagar, and it did not look cultivated, just wild stands.  In some places, it was so thick, it was just like a mini-weed-forest.

 

After the tour, we sit down (they bring me a plastic chair), and we sit and try to talk.  Progress is slow, but eventually, I start understanding more.  They sleep in the tent structure made from bamboo and fabric and held together with ropes.  There is a small cooking area that had a plastic tarp over it that looked like two layers of triple thickness trash bag.  It was held up by ropes into the mango tree above.  The stove itself, they have fashioned out of dirt that has two cooking slots with each three-sided fire bin about 10”x10”x10”.  There is a small cleaning area opposite the cooking area where they wash the dishes and pull the water from a bucket for the cooking, and presumably for washing their hands as well.  Off from the camp about 30 yards is the toilet area, but I didn’t go over to see it.  Flour and spice storage and a couple of tools were in a small cabinet inside the sleeping quarters.

 

At least 3 of the 6 men/boys have cell phones (one of the boys didn’t come til later).  They play some music on one of them, and the sound is remarkable.  I had heard “people” with music coming from them before, and figured it was a transistor radio tucked into a the clothes, but apparently they were phones.  I played some music on mine, like some Bach organ stuff, something from Wynton Marsalis’ classical stuff trumpet, something from Dave Matthews, something from the Indigo Girls trying to give them some sample.  They didn’t seem to like anything I played.

 

Mehboob calls to one of the men and they start looking through the cart of very small mangoes (they are apparently too young, but that’s all they have of the fruit).  They find one suitable, wash it with the bucket water, peel and cut some for me to eat and put it in a small metal dish that they have rinsed out (same water).  I really don’t want to eat this offering, as the water is suspect.

 

I refuse several times and they become more insistent.  A few more rejections and I can sense that I am seriously offending them.  I find the smallest slice I find in the dish, and using my fingers, covertly try to get as much water off as possible.  I take a small bite, hoping that if I go slow enough, the water will evaporate from the remaining morsel.  The fruit is very citrus-y and not at all like what mango tastes like in the States (for instance, a mango smoothie).  Some more calls from Mehboob and one of the boys grabs a rock and starts crushing something between the rock and another flatter rock.  He puts it in another small metal dish and lays it next to me and indicates to dip the fruit into it.  I do.  It is salt.  It cuts some of the bite from the mango.

 

I motion over to the pot and ask “dal?” which is a daily staple food of lentil stew.  I actually just wanted to know because the lid was on, but sure enough, we start the mango play over again.  They bring me a spoon with some dal in it, I refuse and then end up eating it.  It tasted good and not at all “off.”  There was a chunk of meat in it that I supposed was lamb, but was goat.

 

With my new Indian boldness, having decided if I’ve already had the most dangerous food on the trip so far and that having the same food but cooked to proper temperature would be ok, and as it was nearing dinner time, I decided to be ask if we could eat together.  One of my interests is in the way Indian people, especially those without much money, go about living their lives, and I really wanted to see chapattis made besides (ubiquitous Indian flatbread).  Once we get through the translation issues, they agree with nods and smiles and Mehboob starts giving some orders.  The youngest boy tears off on a run past the toilet area and out of sight.  Two of the other “brothers” start to assemble the cooking implements.  One opens a large burlap sack onto the ground which becomes the food prep area.

 

They wash (rinse) the utensils and a thin plastic bag of flour comes out and they grab some water from the bucket.  They start kneading the flour with the water and make balls which I know are going to end up in chapatti form.  The boy comes running back through with a single piece of newspaper and a few small sticks and twigs.  A match sets the small bundle alight and it goes into the left side of the chamber (of the left “burner”).  A little round, slightly concave cook surface (looks like cast iron?) goes on top, and soon the chapattis are rolled and patted and put on the little “pan” one by one.  They flip it with their fingers, and then put it in the right side of the chamber (of the left “burner”), which means onto the ground or ash in the stove, and the chapatti starts to puff from the steam.  He rotates it around a bit so that it puffs more or less uniformly, and I can’t believe how this thing is not getting burned in the least.  This process repeats for each chapatti.

 

Chapattis done, the pot goes back on the same fire (very small fire by our standards, I might add), and after a long time the dal is ready.  They guide me into the tent, and pull out a platform and have me sit down on it, having me take my shoes off first.  I sit indian-style (pardon the pun) on the short side of what amounts to a rectangular coffee table.  The main translator and Mehboob both sit up there with me, and the two that did the cooking bring the food over.  I seem to have my own dish of chapattis (the other two share a dish), and each of us has a small dish (maybe 4” diameter about an inch and a half tall) of the (now-hot) goat dal.

 

The others don’t eat.  I ask why, and he says something about 8:30, so I’m not sure if they eat at a certain time, or if there’s a caste thing going on here also.  The others sit and watch politely.

 

The translator (the third youngest of the bunch, and about 23 I’d say), shows me how to fold the chapatti in half first, then tear that half-circle in half.  You still end up with a half of the chapatti, but it’s folded in half.  You tear pieces off the half and pinch them at one end so that you can use it as a scoop for the dal.  I can’t seem to get the goat in the scoop and he indicates that you don’t do that anyway.  You pick the meat up out of the stew with your fingers and eat it directly; the scoop is just for the lentils and liquid.

 

About halfway into my second chapatti, it makes a crunch, and Mehboob shakes his head, takes the chapatti out of my hand, and replaces the top piece in my dish with one from his, which is less crunchy and more foldable.  I nod.  He nods.

 

I didn’t really want to eat the meat, but it was apparently a real honor to have that much (there were 3 chunks in mine, and I think one or maybe two in the others), and I think that Mehboob had (probably!) hand picked the pieces out for my dish.  The chunks the other two were eating had fat and other bits on them, but mine had none.  As I ate the last chunk, which was huge (probably an inch and a quarter cube), Mehboob cheered said “Buhriyah!” which means “Great!”  I think he got a real sense of importance and probably status amongst the others by having us share food.

 

During this whole time, I was planning on giving them some money for their generosity, if they would take it.  But as I finished my food, the translator said something to the effect of “250 rupees only,” and motioned to the food on the table.  Now, I don’t know if he was saying I should pay that (I hadn’t indicated before that I was planning on paying), or if he was just giving reference to how much they pay for their food, or what, but it did take a bit of the shine off of the whole experience.

 

I mean, I was happy to pay, and more than 250rs anyway (that’s about 5 bucks), but when it appeared to be expected, I think I started to consider how much of the generosity was real and how much was offered in anticipation of a payout.  We transferred over to the outside chairs for bidis before giving 300rs.  Mehboob had the translator write down Mehboob’s mobile number on a piece of paper that appeared out of his undershirt, and they wanted me to write my address down on another sheet for them.  I can’t imagine getting a letter.  We all shook hands at the end, and after a few namastes and smiles, I made my way back to my tent for the final pack-up at dusk.

 

When I was looking at my money a bit later, I remembered that I had a 500 on the outside of my bills, but it was missing.  So, I’m pretty sure that Mehboob got a 500 note and two 100 notes (which ends up being about 14 dollars and explains the several rounds of excited “Buhriyah”’s upon the transfer!).  I wasn’t sad that I had made the mistake, and I’m sure they could really use it.  I had an excellent and very unique experience only tainted by the last 15 minutes, but still largely shining.

 

I settled up my bill with the Corbett Motel for food and lodging and got an “auto” (remember “auto”=tuk-tuk=auto-rickshaw, and “car”=actual automobile) to the train station and caught my train after a bit of stress, language difficulties, and of course staring.