Expect the Unexpected

Enter Jay. That is actually not his real name but I have changed it for his protection etc. He is in his mid-twenties, with glasses and a partial goatee. Jay is a social butterfly; he has a seemingly infinite supply of friends all over the city. Remember that the population of Ahmedabad is roughly 5.5 million so his ability to introduce us to nearly everyone on the street is quite impressive. In addition to having a family that seems to be well known/connected, Jay is involved in politics. His position (which is quite high up for a “youth”) is a great source of pride and is printed on the hood of his car in both English and Gujarati. When two policemen pull us over for not wearing seatbelts, the conversation goes something like this:

Policemen: (In Gujarati they tell him of the offense and ask for a bribe)
Jay: Did you read the hood of my car?
Policemen: Yes
Jay: Then can I go?
Policemen: (Smiles and nods)

Everywhere we go, people know Jay. He is friends with the men who sell us tea on the side of the road, middle-aged police officers and hundreds of his peers, most of who enjoy gambling during the day and hanging out by their motorcycles at night.

We met Jay through a Gujarati acquaintance from Boston. A young man who owns a store near Alexander’s home put us in contact with Jay, who is his brother-in-law’s best friend. I could never imagine how incredible this contact would be. The moment we landed here Jay offered his services indefinitely. He is currently helping us obtain a cell phone, rent an apartment and navigate the many districts of the city. Ahmedabad has opened up to us in ways I never even dreamed about. It is easy to imagine that one could live here for years without experiencing some of the events we have already seen.

On our second day in Ahmedabad, Jay picked us up in a small car that was not unlike a VW rabbit. Jay took us to lunch at a place called Freeze, a college hotspot with a menu divided into different cuisines (i.e. Italian, Chinese, Indian). We washed down our curry and paninis with peach juice and tried to ignore the much-unwanted attention.

After lunch Jay insisted we eat paan. I had no idea what it was but he described it like a dessert- a “homeopathic” after-the-meal remedy to improve digestion and alleviate any pain. Furthermore, paan sounded like pan, which in many romantic languages and Japanese translates as bread. I was not afraid.

But when we pulled up I saw a group of men outside the paan shop munching on some sort of wad and spitting on the street. Jay led us inside smiling. The man behind the counter took three large green leaves and used his fingers to coat it with a layer of opaque, white paste. Then he smeared on a layer of shiny brown sauce. On top of the leaves he began to drizzle a variety of bright-colored pastes. One looked like a gelatinous squirt of raspberry jam, another appeared to be some kind of chocolate sauce or marmite. The finishing touch was some sort of viscous gel with flakes of what looked like flakes of silver metal. The paan-wallah finally wrapped each leaf up into a triangular package and handed them to us. Jay instructed we eat it in one bite.

I consider myself an adventurous eater. Even if I do not like a particular food, I can easily feign enjoyment. This was not the case with the paan. My eyes watered and my throat contracted as if I was about to vomit. Alexander could not fit the entire leaf-thing into his mouth and some of the juice splattered on the shop’s floor. We looked at each other wide-eyed, wondering who would be the first to betray our extreme discomfort. We munched and chewed and sucked down the spicy, sweet, nutty flavor all the while wincing in pain. After five minutes, Alexander finally swallowed his wad and washed it down with some bottled water. I just couldn’t do it. No matter what, my body rejected that lump of abject nastiness. When Jay turned his head, I discretely spat in a pink paper napkin.

Later that night we dined in the Old City, a predominately Muslim area on the other side of the Sabarmati River. In 2002, in the tragic Gujarat riots, the Old City was under strict curfew and it took some time before Jay- who is Hindu- felt comfortable to venture there. We ate at a nice restaurant that served Punjabi food and chicken- Jay’s favorite. Later we drove back towards the New City, Ahmedabad’s lights glittering in the dark. Loud music played on every block. Swarms of people crowded the sidewalks of the better-lit streets, paying no head to Jay’s incessant honking. We stopped by a small lake where children played on jungle gyms until a guard kicked us out at 11pm.

Near midnight Jay took us to the opening of a “friend’s” temple. The structure was painted a crisp white and festooned with metallic streamers and strings of lights. A large crowd sat around a group of musicians playing traditional music. The attendance was so big that many stood on the outskirts and in the dirt street. Jay escorted us through the mob and directed us to take off our shoes at the entrance. We carefully stepped through the seated men and women and entered a small central room, which was open to onlookers. The priest sat cross-legged inside, surrounded by bright flowers and a neon painting of Krishna. He dipped his hand in a pot of reddish ink and carefully marked our foreheads. Then he took a pinch of white rice and stuck it into the wet liquid mark. Alexander and I exchanged a glance of amazement.