Since arriving in Goa, one particular person has cared for me most. He carried my 35 lb backpack on his head down a long driveway and up a scarred red stone staircase. He made me a bed in a dark room - where the roof did not leak - so that I could sleep all day after my long journey. He cooked dal (savory lentil stew) and rice for me that first night and only woke me when it was ready. He brings me the most delicious chai -like steaming chocolate milk with cinnamon - first thing in the morning.
He speaks very little English. I speak less Hindi. He says, “welcome” shyly when I say “thank you.” He expresses pleasure by saying “very fine,” and when he says “so bad,” he actually means “oops.” I learned that the hard way. He is an unbelievable cook and says, “like spicy?” as he chuckles over a three burner hot plate. If I understood him correctly, he’ll be returning to Nepal to be with his family tomorrow. I will be sad to see him go.
Together we watch a rival cricket match between India and West Indies. He is clearly irritated but smiles wryly when I startle at his spouts amid sips of Indian rum and local port wine. We sit on the floor facing one another and eat a brilliantly spicy meal from a communal pot. My fingers are stained with yellow curry. I love eating with my hands. I should be more diligent about washing them. Arun refuses to let me do the dishes.
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