Invitations

Maybe I am just trying to stir up trouble, but our driver clearly does not want to invite us over to his house.

See, Usha has been to her driver's house at least three times, not including two visits to the Babaji with his mom and one playdate with his sister's kids. On this last visit, while at his house, my driver's mom came over and invited her to her house.

Part of the reason might be because I asked if he knew where we could get cow milk in Sonipat for Zazie. His response was coy to say the least: "Actually ma'am, my mother and brother bought one cow yesterday and..." And then, he stopped short. He didn't want to give the milk up. I could tell. But I pressed. I mean, at least for the kid. So now, on most days he brings us one liter of cow's milk. Except sometimes he doesn't. "We drank it all ma'am. So good."

Taunting me with the relative tastiness and preciousness of your cow's milk is one thing. But this is India, where we are party to unrelenting and occasionally hostile hospitality. I may take some of your cow's milk, but I still should get a freaking invitation.

A note:

Somvir,

What gives? I saw you buy five kilos of giant red carrots to make halwa, so I know your family knows how to party. Just invite us over. I won't let Zazie eat your two year old niece and I will even wear a bindi for your mom.

Signed,

Lacey Madam.

The truth is I am cozying up to his family because I feel like they are our best shot at getting an invitation to a village wedding. Every other night we hear the dhol (drums) playing and imagine the dancing and the yummy food. One time, the bharat (the groom's procession to the bride's house; basically three hours of nonstop dancing in the streets) went right by our house. Forlorn, we just mimed a few dance moves from behind the curtains while trying not to make eye contact with anyone on the street.

I sort of thought that ingratiating ourselves into the villager's lives would be easier.

At my driver's suggestion, I took up classic Indian "morning walks" around Sushant City, our colony. This means you greet the dawn on the pavement, usually in sandals with socks and matching track suit. For three weeks, I have been getting up before the sun and heading out (though sadly, not in the requisite uniform).

I have written before about how magical the Indian dawn is. The area is bustling with activity. I jog passed multi-passenger motorcycles, Southpoint or Bright Scholars or Apollo International lemon yellow school buses, and Haryanan ladies carrying gigantic bowls of buffalo dung (chula) on their head (they use it for fires and for fertilizer). The pre-dawn cricket games are wrapping up and children are dragging buckets of water home.

I think I am making some headway.Two five year olds running in flip flops passed me twice this morning. Then the milkman circled around me on his bicycle saying, two rounds madam? Or one round? Finished when? How much milk? Then I saw Ashleigh and Jonathan's driver on his way to their house and the nighttime guard heading home. And one of the chula ladies smiled at me.Things are feeling cozy and increasingly friendly.

Though last week when I returned from my walk, the supervisor guard--a creepy guy that waves to me every single time I look up from the kitchen window--came up to me to say that I should be careful because some of the "villagers have dirty minds." His suggestion was that I take his phone number, or better yet, let him accompany me on my walks. At that moment the only thing that seemed worrisome was him. I mentioned this to Vik, who first said "who watches the watchmen, who guards the guards...' and further creeped me out. But then he told Usha, Usha told her driver, her driver told my driver and together they offered to "bash him." Usha said plainly, "no bashing." Instead they just told him not be so "pally" with me.

He stopped waving.

Now he salutes.