I guess I’m big in India. The first time was at Jama Masjid, a group of young Muslim men asked if I could “take picture.” I put my camera up to my eye and they said “No, selfie.” I was confused, then I realized they wanted a selfie with me. I hadn’t seen any other bulky, awkward, middle-aged white guys, so I figured they must think I’m a unique commodity. I hope they never come to the states, they’ll realize they wasted a perfectly good selfie. Anyhow, it happened again and again and now it’s not even something I think about. Pictures, lots and lots of hand shakes and just everyday pleasantries. Someone told me I’m a curiosity, something they don’t see a lot, so they want to engage. Anyhow, everyone has been really gracious and I’ll ride the star train until I get home and no one notices me.
I was in Khuajuraho to see the temples and needed a day to get caught up on some things; post office, ATM, re-up the rupee on my phone, get a shave… Just stuff. When I walked out of the hotel, I saw these guys staring at me and I knew what was coming.
“I like your sunglasses.”
“What do I have to eat to be big like you?”
“I am very small and thin, can we trade bodies”
“Where are you going?”
“Where are you from?”
They were pretty funny and King Kong, the kid in the hat, had game. He spoke perfect English had a line and come back for everything, he was obviously the ring leader and asked if they could come with me. They were such nice kids; nonstop chatter about cricket, Indian girls (“I ask an Indian girl out, I get the slipper…”) school, farm life… They took me through the bazaar and showed me their town. A 12th grader, two 9th graders and I think the little grubby guy was 8. We just walked up and down the streets, talking about their lives, asking me about life in the States. “No, I don’t know Justin Bieber.” They talked about how they wanted to travel, what their dreams were, what they wanted to be when they grew up. King Kong had plans, he wanted to be a teacher. He also worked on the family farm, took care of his siblings and went to school.
We were walking up a street and there was a big sign for ice cream, featuring bars and cones. It was really hot and that sounded so good; so I told my posse, we’re getting ice cream and followed the sign downstairs. When I went through the door, I realized it was a nice, sit-down restaurant. The owner rushed to greet me and I asked about the ice cream sign. He took me in back and proudly showed me the freezer with the various containers of ice cream, running through the list of flavors. They only sold bowls of ice cream for desert, they didn’t have anything to go, so I thanked him and started to walk out. The boys had followed me in, but didn’t venture back with me and the ice cream sommelier. They were clearly out of their element and were trying to figure out what polite is for this situation, when the owner and I walked into the front of the house. The owner saw a pack of boys and told them to get out. They weren’t welcome in his restaurant he said. He turned to me as we were walking, extending his hand for a handshake and mid-motion, brought his hand and attention back to the boys. Waving, he shouted “Get out!” Then he turned to me, extending his hand and apologizing about the kids. I took his hand, gave it a really firm squeeze and held his gaze for a moment, “No problem, no apologies needed. Table for five please. We’d like ice cream.”
They ordered mango.
The little grubby guy was last to finish. I’ve never seen a kid take so long to eat ice cream. He was so meticulous about each perfect spoonful, licking the spoon clean before surgically inserting it into the remaining ice cream and carefully slicing away just the right sized bite. I paid the bill and we left. On the way back, I went to one of the barber stalls for a shave. For about $3 US you get a perfect shave along with a scalp, face and shoulder massage, not to mention all the potions and lotions. (Tell me again why I was sweating TSA and my safety razor?) The boys spilled into the stall without hesitation. Like a pile of puppies, heaped on top of each other at one end of a tiny bench, they were lost in an old Bollywood film, blaring from a beat up TV, precariously perched atop a VHS player so big, it looked as if it might take down that end of the stall. When I was done, we walked the short distance to the hotel and I thanked them for the fun day. I took this picture on the way back.
The next afternoon, I was coming out of the hotel on my way to the temples. King Kong was there. He had been waiting all day to invite me to his sister’s 15th birthday party and bring me to the farm to meet his new baby calf. It was after my train left, so I said I couldn’t make it. He asked if he could have my email address. I gave it to him and told him if he wrote, I’ll send him the picture. His face lit up and we shook hands and said goodbye, him waving and saying goodbye as he ran down the street. I hope I hear from him.