Judgment Day: Gregory Pecking Order

Being a whitey in India produces a wide range of reactions, including, sometimes, none at all. This lack o' reaction is most often the case in areas heavily visited by tourists, where fair-skinned Europeans are as common as kabuters (pigeons) and don't merit any special attention. Think the Taj Mahal in Agra, the Pahar Ganj in Delhi and Rishikesh in the foothills of the Himalayas. On the flip-side is the wide-eyed wonder of village children in remote regions or even the abject terror of the extremely young who may believe they are in the presence of a ghost for the first time. In Ahmedabad, the reaction to Westerners usually falls between the two extremes. Legions of males ranging in age from the early teens to early adulthood delight in calling out, "Hey, gora!" (Hey, whitey!). In the slums many will drop whatever they are doing and run out of their homes to shake hands Western-style, leaving one with the impression that this is a lesson taught early and often about the beloved customs of the paleface. People everywhere will call out "Ha-low, ha-low," and be reduced to hysterics when you respond in kind. I soon learn that the query "How are you?" can only be properly satisfied by the response, "I'm fine, thank you."

At the Gujarat Sports Club I encounter yet another reaction which might best be described as snobbery. The Sports Club is perhaps Ahmedabad's most exclusive, and Mr. Shah, Director of Memberships, and his bureaucratic retinue are not at all thrilled to be granting a temporary membership to a shabbily-dressed and emaciated American. I have had to pull strings from up high (or rather, had to have them pulled for me by the Goodfather) to finagle the requisite recommendations for a guest membership. No less than the Minister of Recreation for Gujarat and two assistants have vouched for me. Still, as Mr. Shah looks over my application, it is clear that if he had his druthers I would be unceremoniously removed by the uniformed security that flank the entryway to the club. During our meeting in his office he deigns to look at me but a single time and then it is only with an expression of utter disappointment that I haven't spontaneously vaporized. As we sit in silence, waiting for I know not what, I replay the previous day's travails in my mind.

Estrella and I part company with John and Loveleen and head past the schools and shanties scattered on the old grounds of Gandhi ashram, across the large, barren plain, over the river of sewage, and finally up the rise into the Tekra. My motives for the trek are twofold, with one fold ulterior. Firstly it's been months since I promised Lakshmi champels (flip flops) and secondly (and secretly) I want Estrella to meet Anandi and family hoping that it might inspire her to venture out from Swarg more often. Estrella visibly tenses as we wend through the crowded, narrow alleys and residents pop out from all sides to offer handshakes or inquire as to our country of origin. She makes little cooing sounds that sound like they could be a precursor to fainting and whispers bits of German to no one in particular. We arrive at the plateau where Anandi's room sits. "Oh, Anandi! Main apne dost ke saath hoon. Uskaa naam Estrella hai. Voh Germany se hai."

"Oh, Mark!" Anandi says laughing and feeling for hands and arms, eventually settling on Estrella's. Anandi is always amused to meet me and simultaneously reproachful for my not being more regular in my visits. Anandi's geniality (and arm stroking) puts Estrella at ease and within minutes the usual cast of family and locals gather around to get the scoop on the blond-haired newcomer. A local shopkeeper insists on buying Estrella and I a round of ThumsUp, the leading Indian cola with a disturbingly strong chemical aftertaste (i.e. above and beyond what you would normally expect of a cola product). A non-ending stream of youngsters feeds the crowd that surges to get a peek at us, thrusting tiny hands forward for shaking. When the crowd become too unruly Anandi stamps her foot, puts her finger to her lips and shouts, "Choop!" (Shut up!). I inquire as to Lakshmi's whereabouts. A search party is dispatched to her house, and she eventually makes her appearance at the back of the pack, a good head higher than any of her peers. I ask her if she can go with Estrella and me to shop for champals, but she explains her mama (uncle) won't let her leave the immediate neighborhood. Anandi, Meena and Jignesh seize upon the opportunity to offer themselves as ready champal candidates and I half-heartedly decide to accommodate their wishes, knowing full well the potential for unsavory consequences. Immediately a cascade of additional entreaties is loosed. Meena moves to block their requests.

"No, Mark. Hunh, hunh, hunh," she grunts pointing first at herself, Anandi and then Jignesh. Anandi seconds her motion of familial exclusivity and urges us to leave quickly. Estrella looks on in wonderment at the chaotic proceedings. By the time the five of us squeeze into a rickshaw a mini riot of locals shouting shoe sizes after me has developed. The rickshawala is in no mood to see his primary source of income overwhelmed by the hoards and accelerates out of the melee pushing bodies to the side with the blunt nose of his vehicle. I instruct the rickshawala to head to CG road knowing it to be the prime shopping destination in the city. Within 30 seconds of departing the Tekra we pass a roadside champalwala selling pairs of colorful footwear for only 30 rupees (about 75 cents) each but I hesitate to order him to stop. It seems too easy and I worry if Anandi and crew be disappointed to get ordinary flip-flops from a local vendor. I look to Meena and Jignesh who have also seen the cart but do not indicate any desire to stop so we continue the additional two kilometers onto CG road.

CG road looks like it could be a shopping district in any metropolitan area in the US with many of the shops having English names or prominently advertising American brands. I eventually catch sight of a second-story shoe store promising 50% off of everything in stock and being a sucker for sales (real or imagined) order my entourage to disembark. We immediately draw the attention of local street denizens who are fascinated to see me leading Anandi by the hand up the stairs. Inside the shop the clientele reacts with thinly veiled revulsion upon seeing our motley crew and are quick to give us a wide berth. A round-faced, twenty-something salesman descends on our party. His cologne is unmistakably Used Car Lot #5. I explain to him my intention to buy shoes for my three companions and he quickly selects some ridiculously-fragile looking high heels for Anandi and Meena. Meena is charmed and gazes at me expectantly. The shoes are meant to accompany a formal silk sari or evening gown and are priced accordingly. Meena is dressed in her sole soiled frock. The outing was intended to find basic footwear that would protect feet against sharp objects, scorching earth and contact with excrement. The high heels look like they would topple in a slight breeze. I try to steer her toward some more practical shoes, but it is virtually impossible as the store has almost no selection outside the dressy stuff. The salesmen seizes the opportunity of my distraction to entice Jignesh with some sneakers replete with LEDs and neon stripes. "Maaaark?" he intones with doleful eyes, "Aachaa lagtaa hai?"

"What's important is if you like them? Aachaa lagtaa hai?" I envision with horror the reaction of the other Tekrites and Manav Sadhna staff were they to see Anandi and family parading about in shoes that cost as much as a month's rent on a small house. If only we had stopped back at the simple street-side champalwala. Jinesh senses my dissatisfaction.

"Aachaa lagtaa hai?" he probes again. No, they don't seem quite right I let him know. He sets the shoes down and his shoulders droop. He appears doubly crestfallen: hurt that his selection didn't please me and hurt not to be getting his gaudy selection. I pick the shoes up and hold them in front of him.

"If you like them, that's what important," I say. Jinesh isn't buying it and communicates that he will like only what I like. He senses I'm going to be a tough customer to please. My relationship with shopping has always been antagonistic, dating back to the days of wearing Sears Toughskins when the cool kids were all in Levis, and then switching to Levis when everyone else had moved on to designer jeans. And so on. Many shop when they get depressed. I get depressed when I shop. The vast majority of my wardrobe (if one could call it that) is a hodgepodge of clothes donated by friends, left by roommates, or recieved as part of various credit card sign-up promotions. I wear clothes until the holes exceed coverage, which is to say pretty late in the game. In India my clothes are dirty within five minutes of washing, an unfortunate consequence of my enthusiasm for all play and work involving digging, dirt or muddy water. Anandi and family, like most of the slum dwellers, possess one or two outfits which are almost perpetually dirty and frequently torn. But, the condition of their clothes is simply a reality of heavy use and living in unsanitary environs and not out of any shared aversion to consumerism or predilection towards dirtiness.

"Maaaaark?" Jignesh produces another pair of shoes for me to inspect. While still flashy, they are a definite improvement over the first pair. I encourage him to walk around the store. He looks to the salesman for approval and hesitantly takes a few steps as if someone might strike him with a cane at any moment. He has been conditioned by a lifetime of being the low boy on the caste totem pole.

"Go. Jao. Chalo. No worries. Fikar mat karo." I urge in my peculiar mix of broken Hindi and simple English. "How much are they?" I ask the salesman who is all unctuous smiles.

"I have seen your picture in the newspaper and read about the work you are doing, so don't worry about the price. I will give you a deal," he assures seductively. I look over at Estrella who is steering Anandi and Meena toward slightly less high, high heels. Anandi takes a pair in her hands and clucks approval. She tries them on using Estrella's arm to balance herself.

"Oh-ho, Mark!" she calls out laughing in a way that suggests she is suffering from vertigo. I ask Estrella to search for something more rugged with even less heel. In the meantime, Jignesh has completed his circuit of the store and presents himself in front of me.

"Maaaark?" he says, "Aachaa lagta hai?"

"If they feel comfortable to you, then I like them," I answer and ask the salesman to translate. He could say practically anything to Jignesh and I would be none the wiser.

"You weel tell the meester Marx that you like da shoes veery much or I will keel you twice!"

Jignesh confirms the fit. I waggle my head to confirm approval. One down and two to go until I can relinquish the unwanted role of the practical papa. Meena whirls in front of me in yet another pair of heels. I pick up a similar pair and point to the heels. "Not good. Baaaaaad. Four legs good. Two heels baaaad." She smiles even though she has never read Animal Farm or any book for that matter. The salesman disappears up a hatch into the attic and throws two boxes of champals down.

"These will work," he predicts confidently. Although vastly improved over the earlier selections they are far too small for Meena's or Anandi's feet. More boxes are tossed down. Meena is finally fitted into relatively expensive, but attractive and solid-looking sandals, while Anandi settles on a dressier pair of shoes with modest heels. The entire ordeal is played out under the glare of unabashed staring by the other customers.

The total cost for the three pairs of shoes comes to 800 rupees which is the exactly the price marked on them. The salesman explains that this price is the special sale price, but he is willing to take another 50 rupees off because I am me. "But I thought everything in the store was half off," I complain.

"Yes, everything is already labeled with the half-off price." The ruse is transparent and if I were by myself I would simply walk, but I am eager to bring the episode to a close and so I pay the fake sale price minus fifty. Estrella leans in as I go to my wallet and intimates that she would like to help pay because she supports the cause. I suggest instead that we take our gang to lunch and she can help with the bill there. She readily agrees.

Our group, three fifths of which are incongruously bedecked in dazzling footwear, walks only a few dozen yards to a somewhat trendy eatery in a trendy square off of the very trendy CG road (do you detect a trend?). Meena is giddy that lunch is being included in the outing. The waiter gives us the twice over, but doesn't seem terribly put out to have us enter the almost empty AC section. Meena arches her back and nods her head like a bobble-toy with and unleashes a teeth-bearing grin when I read the pizza section of the menu. She is a kindred clown who smiles nearly 80% of the time. Estrella, Anandi and Jignesh also opt for pizza while I settle on samosa. The pizzas come heaped with a conical super-abundance of cheese and each one looks like it could feed a family of four. Meena is ravenous and transfers the food from her plate into her mouth with clockwork efficiency. She pauses only to supplement the gorge-fest with generous tears from my tomato uttapam. Within the next half hour, Jignesh and Estrella also manage to finish their pizzas--Anandi is simple undone by the preponderance of cow curd. I am inclined to reprimand her with the line about people starving in India but hold my tongue.

A curious onlooker in business garb leans over from his table to ask me where I am from and what I am doing in India. I give him the usual spiel on the India trip and he nods his approval. "I am in the diamond business," he says flashing a watch adorned with the precious little rocks. "Can I order you something?" he says. I decline, but thank him for the generous offer. He inquires about Estrella next and then invites the two of us to sit with him at his table.

"Oh, we're eating with our friends," I say, waving my hand in the general direction of Meena, Jignesh and Anandi, "but we could squeeze you in at our table." My hope is to extend Mr. Diamond's sociability to my guests. Instead he is visibly put off and declines my offer, but continues to probe as to mine and Estrella's occupations, interests and so on. When I try to weave Anandi into the conversation she is as loquacious as usual, but the stranger's replies to her are mainly curt dismissals of one or two words. She quiets. Meena eyes the man with distrust and uses subtle facial expressions to communicate her unease to me.

When I suggest ordering dessert all are immediately ready to indulge. Everyone, save I, orders sundaes that come heaped with chocolate syrup, sprinkles and miscellany of unknown origin. Again Meena is up to the challenge and expands like a blow fish to create room in her modest frame for the three scoops of ice cream. Estrella also manages to complete her sundae, while Jinesh tosses in the towel with one scoop left and Anandi two.

The businessman loiters while our meal is being finished. "Where do you need to go, my friend? I can take you to my office and show you the work I do." he suggests. I explain that I have plans to take my guests to Law Garden, a local park with ample greenery, but suggest I can take him up on his offer some other time. "I will give you a ride to the park, no problem. But let's talk outside for a second," he says, getting up from his table and pointing toward the door.

"I need to pay our bill first," I protest. The invitation to speak to him in private is not particularly enticing. He insists repeatedly on a minute alone with me and I finally I acquiesce despite my reservations. Meena looks on and wrinkles her nose with disapproval. Once outside, Mr. Diamond sidles up alongside me as if he is going to share a deep secret.

"I hope you don't mind me telling you this," he begins dramatically, "but the people you are with are bad. You must leave them here and get away from them or they will take advantage of you." I reassure him that they are my friends, but he isn't swayed. "I am telling you this for your own good, you must get away from these people. I know them. They will try to take all your money."

"You actually know them? Where do you know them from?"

"Not them, but I am knowing their type, my friend. You will not be understanding because you are not from here. I am trying to warn you. They are bad people."

"They may be bad, but their shoes are nice," I joke. "No, seriously I can vouch for them. I have spent many days with them, eaten with them and even slept at their house. They are incredibly sweet. Far better people than myself in fact, and I am sure you would like them too if you got to know them." Mr. Diamond shakes his head with frustration. "You don't have to give us a ride if you don't want," I say, "I would understand." I still harbor hopes on sharing the joy of connecting across social strata with him.

"Okay, come," he says unenthusiastically and disappears into the parking lot. I motion for the rest of the gang to join me outside and Meena looks at me questioningly.

"I think it will be okay," I assure her, "He is going to give us a ride to the park."

I sit up front as the four others cram into the back seat of the compact car. Mr. Diamond cringes as his car is invaded by Anandi's motley-dressed trio and looks in the rear view mirror to Estrella for comfort. His eyes dart repeatedly between the mirror and the road. "I hope you don't mind my saying this," he begins, "but you are very beautiful." Estrella, a very ordinary looking German, is accustomed to the flattery laid on by Indian men attracted to the paleness of her skin and responds to the businessman's advance politely, but with little interest. Mr. Diamond takes a road that I imagine to be away from the park, but not knowing for sure I remain quiet. He continues to glance at Estrella in the mirror, but she keeps her focus on the passing streetscape. Anandi attempts to make conversation with Mr. Diamond, but he shoots down her entreaties with undisguised contempt. Meena furrows her brow in distress and Anandi's expression, normally indecipherable, also registers worry. I look at Mr. Diamond and imagine his mind to be squirming like a toad--it's clear he is wrestling internally with some horrible decision and I begin to think that I have made a colossal mistake in accepting the ride. It should take five minutes by foot to get to Law Garden and we have been driving for at least ten.

"Isn't Law Garden in the other direction?" I ask as innocently as possible.

"Yes, we are taking the back way," Mr. Diamond explains unconvincingly, "We will go to my house first, so I can show you around."

"That would be great some other day, but today we need to go to Law Garden. We have to meet friends there." He acts as if he hasn't heard me and turns his attention again to Estrella.

"I hope you will let me offer to gift you a necklace," he says, "A beautiful girl like you should be having something very beautiful to wear." Estrella laughs nervously and refuses the offer. I reassert our wish to go directly to Law Garden.

"Let's just drop these people first," he says indicating Anandi, Meena and Jignesh, "Then we can go to the park or wherever you want." It's almost as if I can see the thoughts forming in his mind in slow motion now. He intends to whittle the party down to two and eventually one. How he will dispatch of me is anybody's guess. His demeanor is rapidly going south and we are continuing further still from the park.

"Why don't you drop us at Law Garden today and then tomorrow we can spend the whole day with you," I suggest disingenuously, in the hopes of allaying his lustful impulse.

"But I have to go to Dubai for two weeks starting tomorrow," he complains.

"That's perfect," I say, "We are going to be tied up with work at the Gandhi Ashram during that same period, but are going to have so much free time afterwards." Mr. Diamond pouts. His malformed plan isn't shaping up as he had hoped. The wheels in his mind are turning a little more slowly, but he is still proceeding in the opposite direction from Law Garden. "It wouldn't be nice to only be able to spend a few minutes with you and then have to rush off," I say. "Let's make a definite plan to meet in two weeks and spend several days together." The offer sounds preposterous to my own ears, but Mr. Diamond eases off the accelerator.

"So you give me your cell phone number and address and then we will meet as soon as I get back," he says.

"Yes, that's what will do. We will be able to spend so much time together then," I say. He slows the vehicle reluctantly and makes a languid U-turn back toward the park. He peppers me with questions to confirm our next get together and to insure Estrella will come along. His demon smells a rat, but I throw myself completely into the role of his best-friend-to-be and he appears to have resigned himself to dropping us at our requested destination. He hands me his business card and a second one for me to write my cell phone number and address on. I don't have a cell phone, so I just write down a variation on his own number hoping he won't try it before we are clear of the car. I delay in handing the card back to him. When we roll to a stop across from the park we spring from the car as one and he leans across the passenger seat to make one last improbable appeal.

"Let's just leave these people here and then we can go somewhere else," he shouts above the noise of the traffic.

"Next time we will do that," I lie, and then lead the others in the opposite direction from the vehicle. He shouts something more, but I don't acknowledge him and continue to corral the others across the street and instruct them not to look back. Meena turns to me.

"Voh karaab aadmi, hai na?"

"I guess he's bad and good like I'm bad and good. Anandi's bad and good. There's bad and good everywhere I think."

"Aap nahin karaab aadmi," she offers.

"No, I'm bad too. Trust me," I say. I only have to think as far back as the shoe buying episode for evidence. Am I fueling a cycle of dependency by buying the family gifts? Why did I only take Anandi's family? Am I attached to my role as material provider? How would I feel about her family if the roles were reversed--whould I privately despise their advantage?

"No! Aap nahin karaab aadmi!" Meena insists defiantly and shakes her head to exagerrated effect. We enter the park which is a haven of green in an generally dusty and polluted city. Estrella and Anandi find a bench in the shade to sit on while Meena and Jinesh make a beeline for the swing set. I find various twigs, leaves and flowers to place in Anandi's hand and ask, "Yeh kyaa hai?"

"Ooooooh, Mark!" Anandi will say invariably and then go on to identify the item in Hindi. Estrella takes over my role as game show host, so I join Meena and Jinesh who have been calling me incessantly to push them on the swings. It is amazing to see Meena at play. In the months I have known her it is the first time I have seen her so utterly carefree. It never ceases to amaze me how uncomplainingly she looks after her sister. She and Jinesh laugh with each push and compete for my attention. When some local boys want me to push them, Meena clucks her disapproval and tells me that they aren't good kids and shouldn't play with them. For a second I am under the impression that she actually knows them, but then quickly realize that just like Mr. Diamond, she is making the assessment based simply on a cursory once over.

The park isn't far from Swarg so I suggest we all visit head over to the flat next. Estrella interlocks her arm with Anandi's and leads her, while Meena, Jinesh and I ascend the five foot wall that borders the street and walk atop it. I ask what each tree's name is in Hindi and again pull leaves off branches for Anandi to identify. I grab a couple of long, grooved drumsticks from one tree and beat a rhythm on the side of the wall while Meena and Jinesh dance behind me. Our parade is cut short when Meena squeals excitedly about the towering tree whose branches I am navigating through to stay on top of the wall. She starts plucking the papery seed pods from its branches and then extracts the seeds by rolling her hands together and letting the papery shell blow away. She offers me an open palm of the minute brown seeds and indicates I should eat them. They taste slightly nutty and very familiar, but I can't place what it is they remind me of. She employs my reach to collect a handful of the fattest pods and insists I have a second helping. The bad taste left by the day's earlier interactions is all but erased by our Huck Finn-inspired, carefree ambling.

I never enter Swarg unnoticed. Too many open doors look out onto the stairs, and too many children with too many requests are only too happy to announce my arrival. "Mark! Oh, Mark!" But today they are strangely quiet when I appear with my adoptive family, and one by one, they fall into a solemn procession behind us as we ascend the stairs. The silence is unnerving, so I turn to the usually impish Prachee and introduce my friends with wild-eyed panache. She manages a meager smile, but remains mute. Anandi and crew are clearly picking up on the sobering milieu and have also fallen quiet.

Once inside the flat I recruit Nisharg to organize a game in the livingroom. He cooperates by ordering his playmates to sit in a circular formation on the floor. I integrate Meena and Jignesh into the circle and then return to Anandi to walk her through the adjoining bedrooms and kitchen so she can get a feel for the place. Word has quickly reached the aunties in Swarg that Anandi is in the building and they begin filtering in to see her for themselves. Two, then three at a time enter to look on at her with gape-mouthed pity or repulsion. Most are familiar with her story from the several articles about our friendship that have appeared in the local media. I encourage the new comers to take a seat and converse with Anandi, but they remain huddled in the far corner of the room refuse to budge. Anandi doesn't need eyes to see what is going on and sighs loudly with resignation. I read her reaction to be more from weariness, or even anger at the crude comments of strangers, rather than any sense of self pity.

The children pull me impatiently into their game in which a ball is passed around the circle and one child with eyes closed suddenly commands the activity to stop. Whoever is left holding the ball must enter the circle and sing a song, dance or act out a scene from a film. Estrella is a little flabbergasted to find herself holding the ball, but gamely stands to perform a little impromptu disco dance. After their initial uneasiness with our guests the Swarg children seem to have accepted Meena and Jignesh as playmates. I can't help but note the disparity in dress between the nattily adorned Swargites and the dingily-clad Tekrites. Meena and her brother, as well, still seem a little uncomfortable and shift self-consciously in the growing din of laughter.

Anandi indicates they should be heading home soon to check in on Alpesh who was left under the neighbor's care. "Chalo," she says. As is my habit, I respond with the non-sensical rhyme, "Chalo chalengay, hello halengay." As is her habit, Anandi chuckles and echoes, "Hello halengay." I lead Anandi onto the mountain of footwear piled at the threshold of the door and am able to locate her new shoes somewhere near the bottom. I line them up, side-by-side and she wiggles her feet in. Meena, Jignesh and Estrella follow suit, then the now exuberant Swargite hoards and finally the still mummering aunties.

We catch a rickshaw back to the Tekra where we are greeted by a throng of children eager to see the day's booty. I am crestfallen when Lakshmi appears on the scene and Meena and Jignesh taunt her with their flashy acquisitions. She politely bears their teasing and even manages a half-hearted smile, but her hurt is transparent. Alpesh also is clearly hurting for having missed out of the shopping spree and is in a foul, vindictive mood.

Even on good days Alpesh suffers from dramatic mood swings that the amateur psychologist in me attributes to the fallout with his father. He desperately wants an adult male to bond with and will soak up hugs like a dry sponge whenever I first arrive on visits. But at the first hint of my having to go his eyes will literally glass over and the hugs will turn to choke holds and snuggles come with a bite attached. I often reflect that he will wear the reminder of his father's acid attack like a glossy cap of shame for the rest of his life. Anyone he becomes intimate with will eventually inquire about the marbled, hairless portion of his skull and he will be left with an unpalatable choice. Make up a lie as to its origins, or give up what little pride he might have painstakingly crafted for his father in the retelling of his unspeakable sin. Either way the event will be revisited in his mind. How to forgive under these circumstances?

Today Alpesh clamers onto my lap and interspersed with his playful hugs he applies resentful fingernails like claws along my arms and neck. He alternates this with blowing his nose on my shirt, spitting on me and biting my belly. Meena upbraids him for his behavior, but he is in no mood to heed her admonishments. The day's events have worn my patience thin and I forcibly keep Alpesh at arm's length by applying a hand to his forehead which only infuriates him further. I indicate to Estrella that we should beat a hasty retreat.

Back at Swarg, Estrella confides that the day's events were something of a personal breakthrough for her. Her desire to reach out to those in need is sincere, but inhibited by extreme anxiety in unfamiliar social environments. The two trips to the Tekra have given her a little confidence and she vows to get out more often. She ascends to eat with the upper-flat neighbors and I decide to head to Ashram Road to unwind from the day's events. Outside the door to our flat I run into the neighbor's teenage servant who is just getting off work. She is also headed to Ashram Road to catch her bus, so we walk together. Originally mystified by my salutations and banter she has come to enjoy our accidental meetings and good-naturedly reprimands me in Gujarati for unknown transgressions. Like so many of the domestic servants in Ahmedabad she makes her home in the Tekra. Tonight, after working in people's flats since early morning, she will return home to wash clothes, sweep and help prepare dinner for her family. At the road she spots her bus and runs to meet it pausing midway to turn back and wave goodbye. No sooner than I find a bench to unwind on and two college boys come hurriedly up to me. They inquire if I am alright or if the girl was misbehaving with me. I assure them that there is no problem. Nothing stolen? No, she is just a friend. Maybe you don't understand, they offer. This girl is not a good kind of girl. She is from the slums. I am too tired to contest their assertions and simply repeat that she is a good friend even if she is lacking money. They stick around to ask where I am from and what I'm doing in Ahmedabad. Business? In explaining the one-year experiment with service I find myself getting revved up and invite them to participate in one of the activities someday.

"It's really quite remarkable," I say, "No matter what you may think of the slums there are real riches there. Some of my best friends here in Ahmedabad live in the Tekra. If I had never ventured there I would have missed out on so much. It just takes that first step of overcoming our preconceptions. The rest is easy. You should come with me one of these days." One of the pair seems at least a bit curious, while the other winces visibly – neither are receptive to my offer. I learn both are studying business and are in line to take over their families' factories when they graduate. I ask them what they made of the communal riots and the more sociable of the two becomes reflective.

"The riots were bad," he says.

"What do you think was behind them," I ask.

"It was just politicians wanting to spread fear in order to secure votes. The people really don't have any enmity toward each other. We work alongside each other every day. But the politicians controlled gangs of thugs and it was really bad."

"Did you see anything? Or did everything happen on the other side of the river in the old city?"

"I saw some things," he says plaintively. He pauses, lost in thought. "There was a van full of muslims by the airport. It was stopped and surrounded by a crowd of maybe fifty people. They had hockey sticks and cricket bats and the windows were broken. The driver was pulled out and they discovered he was Hindu so he was pushed out of the circle. Then the mob poured kerosene all over the van and on the passengers and set everything on fire."

"Did you try to do anything?" I ask.

"No, what could we have done? I was only with three friends and there were so many in the mob. They would have killed us too. There was a family of twelve or fourteen muslims in the van that were burned to ashes. The screaming was horrible."

A nerdy looking young man with thick black-rimmed glasses and a Baltimore Orioles cap approaches and interrupts our conversation.

"Hi! Do you know where I'm from?" he asks, staring intently at me.

"No. I don't. I guess somewhere in India?"

"No, India sucks. I'm from America. Where are you from?"

"I'm from America too, but I like India a lot."

"No, India sucks. What is your name?"

"I'm Mark. What is your name?"

"You can call me Greg."

The college boys eye Greg inimically and they turn as far away from him as they can without actually sitting backwards on the bench. Greg's demeanor brings to mind Dustin Hoffman's character in Rain Man. His disposition makes it impossible for me to remember him without placing a lollypop in his hand and propeller on his cap.

"Do you think Indians suck, Mark?"

"I don't think anyone sucks really." I lie.

"I hate Indians," Greg says matter-of-factly, "I've never met an Indian that isn't stupid."

Inside I laugh the maniacal laugh of one beginning to lose his mind at the end of a long perverse day. I worry about the reaction of the business students to Greg's vitriol, but thankfully they are indiscriminately blocking out everything he says. I come to learn that Greg is visiting his uncle in Ahmedabad and lives in Lawrence, Kansas, where he went to college.

"Mark, don't you think all Indians are stupid?" Greg asks.

"I don't think so. Indians are stupid, smart, beautiful and ugly, just like Americans and Puerto Ricans are."

"I hate India though," Greg says unfazed, "Indians are dirty and stupid. Let's leave here Mark. Where are you going?"

"I wasn't going anywhere right now. I was just going to sit for a while and was talking with these guys," I explain. Ridiculously, I still harbor hopes of connecting dots and somehow weaving everyone into the conversation. Greg turns to the student who related the riot story.

"Are you a Hindu?" he asks. Internally I sigh the sigh of one fighting a fight that is not to be won on this day. The student pretends not to hear Greg's question. Greg moves slightly over and repeats his question. The student glares at Greg with naked contempt.

"I'm not Hindu, Muslim or Christian," he says spitefully. "These things get people killed."

"Hey, are you stupid?" the second student says to Greg before leaving the bench to sit on his motorcycle some twenty yards away. Any coolness of hanging out with me has long since waned with my talk of service work and my willingness to interact with the mentally-challenged Greg. For his part, Greg seems unshaken by the crassness of the student's comment.

"I hate Muslims," says Greg. "What are your hobbies, Mark?" I'm too flabbergasted to process his question with any genuine interest and simply state that I don't think I have any. "My hobbies are the army and hot tea," Greg announces proudly, "Do you like the army, Mark?"

"The Indian Army?"

"No, way! The American Army! Mark, let's get out of here." At this point I have given up on integrating everyone into the conversation and decide to exit with Greg before he causes a whole new riot. As we walk up the road I reflect how every moment truly is an opportunity to serve. No matter where we find ourselves, no matter what mood we are in, if we keep the mantra of service ever present in our minds the possibility for service will be revealed. I vow to try in whatever way I can to release Greg from some of his hardened perceptions on our walk together.

Mr. Shah raps the desk with his fingernails bringing me back to the present. He snaps his fingers to have an office peon fetch the requisite papers to sign my life away to the Sports Club of Gujarat. I smile meekly at him, hoping to break his stern veneer, but succeed only in solidifying his scowl.

Later, I sit for dinner at the Club's upscale restaurant and reflect with some amusement on the rampant judgments we pass on our fellows. It starts sometime in the second grade, when Dean Meyers is excluded from the after-school handball gang because he has a lisp, and then goes on ad infinitum. The shoe salesman takes me for a well-heeled, easy-to-dupe American. I see him as a weasel of a shoe pusher. Mr. Diamond deemed Anandi and family to be bad folk. He sizes me up as a hopelessly naive do-gooder, while I condemn him as a calculating do-badder. Meena, declares me to be good man and then warns me about interacting with the bad children at the park. The Swarg children get over their apprehension to include Meena and Jignesh in their play, but the aunties are disturbed by their and Anandi's presence. The business students warn me about the bad servant girl before they are labeled as stupid by Greg and they, in turn, grade him in a similar fashion. Mr. Shah finds me contemptible and I find him preposterous. It seems to be an almost foregone conclusion that the more people we can assign to unmeritable positions the greater our own stature becomes. But I am becoming acutely aware that it really doesn't work this way at all.

With every judgment we pass we add a brick to the wall that keeps us from genuine communion with others. In the process we become the clown princes of miserable kingdoms of isolation. We wish to admit only those that are roughly equivalent, or higher, in stature and these select guests inevitably reinforce our insecurities and fuel another round of judgments and resentment. More than just building castles of sand, we become ridiculous in our pronouncements about others by inviting others to judge us by the same standards. Case in point: the Gujarat Sports Club prides itself for its exclusivity and yet the menu of their restaurant reads like it was penned by a drunk street urchin. (Parenthetical matter is appended by moi for maximum mockery. Readers are invited to do the same with this entire essay.)

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The Blue Bay Special

Rules and Regulations
1) Orders once places will not be cancelled.
(Make sure your order was at one time a place: see Pasta Ala Indiana below.)

2) Members are requested to wait for at least 25 minutes after placing their order.
(Then totally freak out.)

3) Members are requested to record their complaints or suggestions at the counter.
(Counter charges may be leveled and level counters may be charged for.)

4) Please avoid smoking to avoid suffocation.
(Self-immolation is also highly discouraged.)

5) Special dishes are served on advance order from the respected members.
(You just better hope what they ordered suits your taste.)

6) Sales tax shall be charged extra.
(On top of any taxes.)

7) Your cordial co-operation is requested.

Veg Starters
Crispy Baby Corn Human Sauce
(I'm vegetarian, but I eat human sauce.)

Fusion
Pasta Ala Indiana
(Oh, that industrial-strength Gary gravy is to die for.)

Combination Rice With Fusion Sauce
(It's atomically correct.)

Maxican
(Turning it all the way up, down south.)

Continental
Spaghetti Primavera With G. Bread
(It's a G-thang, homeboy.)

Chicken In House Special Sauce
(Be sure to inquire about our Chicken Outhouse Special Sauce too.)

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Two days after gaining temporary membership to the Sports Club I bump into Mr. Shah outside the Club's library and he smiles warmly. What could possibly have brought this sudden change in attitude I wonder. "I saw the article about that stuff you are doing for that poor lady," he says, "This is good work you are doing."

"Oh, really? It's in Gujarati so I haven't had anyone tell me what exactly it says yet."

"I didn't actually have time to read it. But the article looks impressive." Impressive indeed!