Dream of the Net Head Ball Bouncer

John and I stare out from the departure rampway at the mushrooming super cloud that dominates the Southern sky. Its location makes it appear that Ahmedabad has been bombed into oblivion – a draconian governmental program to give the newly proclaimed mega-city a fresh start.

Mere sketches of the robustly thin duo that arrived in Mumbai seven months prior, John and I fantasize about the varied vegan cuisine available in the States. John fixates on the chai with soy milk that he prepares with clockwork regularity back in the Bay Area. He is an tea-drinking aficionado and replays the steps in preparing the perfect cup with the exacting detail of a true addict. My mind has set another repast: a steaming Smart Dog topped with Veganrella cheese, relish and thick spaghetti sauce on a toasted bagel. A pint of Chocolate Cookie Crunch Tofutti awaits in the freezer of my fantasy.

For weeks now I have been battling with diarrhea, odd bouts of flu, and a lack of appetite for any of the Gujarati foodstuffs. The mere mention of double-thick roti makes my stomach turn. If I stand just right in the sunlight my bellybutton can be seen from the backside. Acquaintences don't hesitate to tell me how really bad I am looking, man. "You're looking really bad, man. What happened?" What can I say? India happened. John, too, has now fallen victim to the "skinnies" and sports a similarly prominent backbone ridge sans shirt. Withered wisps of once well-padded Westerners are we.

John and I talk about rekindling the dreamlike quality that makes India so enchanting. Returning to Delhi for meetings with prominent people seems about as exciting as going to a large city for meetings with prominent people. The letters to Pakistan project seems sufficiently significant to bear the banality of the pending powwows, but our bodies are hell-bent on an alimentary succour that is not forthcoming. We stand outside the terminal in a sluggish, semi-daze after learning our Delhi flight was for 3:30 AM and not 3:30 PM. We will have to return to Ahmedabad for the night.

A pair of men approach our position and I overhear the bigger of the two say, "Gujarati?" to his friend as he looks at John. The comment is totally improbable, so I take it as a harbinger of the dream returning to potency and motion them over. We stand on opposite sides of the rampway railing. I point to John.

"Ek dam Gujarati," I claim, "From Surat. Family of diamond merchants." The men look at John with amazement.

"Gujarati," John confirms, pointing to himself. The larger of the pair asks John some questions in Gujarati and John nods enthusiastically, but is unable to respond to the man's satisfaction. We steer the conversation to English and the men introduce themselves as Amit and Ashok. We learn Amit has a brother in Chicago in the computer software business. I've been claiming to be "from near Chicago" for the past six months – an exaggeration precipitated only by the familiarity of the city to Gujaratis. Many of them hear it as "New Chicago" and marvel at their lack of knowledge of such a place. Awkwardness follows when the stranger is too familiar with the Windy City and inquires where exactly I live. I am forced to explain, somewhat dubiously, that I am some 250 miles down the road, but America is quite big so it still counts for near. John excuses himself to go to the bathroom and I seize upon his absense to coach the more fluent of the two, Amit, in a dream role.

"Actually, John's from America, but his wife is Punjabi," I explain, "I've got an idea, but I need your help. When John comes back look at him for a long time while slowly stroking your chin." Amit readily agrees almost too readily and mimics my motion. "No, not now. Wait for John to return and then do it. Then point to his eyes and say you can tell from them that there is something interesting about his wife. Yes, something unusual. She is not from the Americas or even Europe. No, you sense she is from somewhere else. Ask to look directly into his eyes and pretend to concentrate." The man is smiling broadly now and seems to get where I am going with the set up. "Then say she herself is from somewhere not too distant. Not Ahmedabad. Somewhere further. Yes, somewhere to the north. Say you are getting an image of turbans and beards and are hearing music. Yes, bhangra. Is she Punjabi?" Amit laughs and rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain in anticipation. "Take your time, but you absolutely have to do it," I tell him, "It will be a treat for John. He'll love it."

"Yes, yes," Amit cackles with giddy mirth.

"Her name is Loveleen, so also say something about her name being filled with great heart."

"Lovely," says Amit.

"No, Loveleen. But, yes it is lovely."

Almost on cue John emerges for the airport terminal and rejoins us. Amit loudly proclaims, "You don't look like your from Punjab!" I am dumbfounded. John looks confused, but doesn't seem to have registered that I have had a hand in this odd observation. "Where is your wife from?" Amit practically shouts. My dream-weaving fun is being destroyed with hard-to-comprehend zeal. I move slightly behind John and frantically motion to Amit to go slow, hoping there may be some chance to salvage the charade. I point to John's eyes and stroke my chin hoping to remind Amit of the fortune telling routine, but he only stares at me dumbly. I decide instead to distract John before he can answer Amit's question and buy some time.

"This guy is absolutely amazing," I lie, "He can just stare into your eyes and intuit your deepest secrets. When you were in the terminal he told me that I was single, but that you must be married and he said that he could even determine where your wife is from just from looking at your eyes. He totally confirms that the dream is still alive and well here."

John looks impressed. "Really?" he says with wonder, before turning back to Amit who is looking completely lost.

"Look into his eyes," I tell Amit, "Can you tell us anything about John's wife?" He briefly glances at John then back to me and shrugs his shoulders. "Re - mem - ber? You know something about John's wife, right?" Amit shakes his head no.

"You are married?" Amit asks John. I grab my hair and pull skyward.

"Yes, he's married! Can you tell us where...his...wife...is...from? Is she also from America?" Amit stares at me as if I am speaking Greek. "Maybe she is from Europe? From Greece?"

"Your wife is from Greece?" he asks John. At this point John looks just as befuddled as Amit. I've lost all hope of pulling the scam off.

"I spent the whole time you were in the terminal coaching him on how to read you mind," I explain to John. Amit looks on, now smiling, and vigorously confirms my confession by nodding his head. I turn to him. "What happened to you?" I say, "I thought we had it all worked out, but you didn't say anything about his wife! You acted like you didn't know anything."

Amit gives me a look like he has landed on Pluto without his headgear. Then slowly a grin forms and he snaps his fingers smartly, "I get it! It's a joke! But my English is not good." I heave a sigh of one utterly defeated, before we all share in a good laugh.

A rusted bucket of a rickshaw rolls by with a completely incongruous neon-green cable running from the meter to the axle. Maybe the dream is coming back. I point the discrepancy out to John and he ends up noticing the IndiCorps vehicle just beyond the rickshaw in the parking lot. It isn't lost on me that the same vehicle picked us up at the beginning of our fantastical odyssey in Ahmedabad. It stands either as the perfect midway bookmark of our trip or a taunting symbol of how little we have really accomplished – it's as if seven months have elapsed and the car is still there waiting to take us into the city. We haul our luggage over to the IndiCorps Sumo and look expectantly back to the terminal for Anand to appear. We figure he must have come to drop off or pick up one of the IndiCorps fellows. Minutes pass, but no Anand.

Two boys selling net-wrapped balloon balls approach to hawk their wares. John takes pity on one and selects a red ball. I encourage him to discard the ball and keep only the flimsy net-bag that it came in. He tosses the ball aside and hands the net to me which I put over my head. The perverse humor is lost on the boys who run to reclaim the ball. Two girls selling the same balloon-ball novelties have seen the transaction take place and run over in the hopes of unloading more of the toys (or the nets that hold them). Instead, I snatch the ball from the boys and set up an impromptu game of volleyball in an effort to distract their minds from work. The ruse is successful and the fun transmutes into a soccer game with the girls on my side and boys on John's. Yet another vendor girl catches sight of our frolic in the parking lot and works her way into the game which has now turned into a hoop-less variation on basketball. The play is vigorous and a child will periodically be sent sprawling onto the concrete, but no matter. Dust yourself off, dab up the blood, and jump back in. My incessantly diarrhea-racked body, which has been bed bound for the past couple weeks, is in no shape to be moving at all, but somehow the sheer enthusiasm of the children keeps it animated. My heart is racing like in the movies just before the slow-motion sequence where the protagonist crumples to the ground clutching his chest.

Families form tea-time circles at various locations of the parking lot and look on approvingly at our break-neck antics. I ask our playmates if they would like to take a meal break (I want to die on a full stomach). The idea is received enthusiastically by all and we make a move for the airport employee's canteen some hundred meters to the side of the terminal. Midway our progress is halted by a security guard who indicates the children cannot pass. I am indignant. "This is my family. She is my little sister, these two are my little brothers and these two are also sisters. We're hungry and we're going to have dinner together." The guard is sufficiently flummoxed that we are able to proceed without further incident. At the door to the canteen the eldest of the girls suddenly gets cold feet about entering, and, in spite of my exhortations, she opts to return to the parking lot with the poles of balloon balls instead. The restaurant is a dirty single room with one corner forming the kitchen and counter. The employees help John and I move a marry tables together and arrange plastic chairs to accommodate our dinner party. Two scruffy boys appear from nowhere and take places at the table. My initial reaction is to exclude them from our dinner party, but ultimately I decide this has to be an open door affair. I insist that everyone wash hands and say a brief prayer before snatching up the samosas and fried triangles of unknown content. The canteen staff is unable to contain their curiosity about our gathering.

(In Hindi)

"Where are you from?"

"The USA. America."

"Why are you with these kids?"

"What kids?"

(Laughing) "These kids."

"They aren't kids. They're just family."

"Yes, sir. Very Good!"

"Not sir, just brother."

I inquire about the girl who has stayed back and one of her friends promises to set aside some snacks for her. The greatest kick is to see my adopted siblings in the unusual role of being able to order their preferences. Tomorrow they will bake anew in the airport parking lot and the security guards will hound them with their batons, but tonight we dine together.