Priesty Boys

I'm heading to Kakamega today for Kiswahili lessons. It'll take one-and-a-half hours in a matatu and we're supposed to arrive by 4pm. There's time for lunch with the Ruprahs, who have invited the priests from the Sikh temple. Lunch is at 1pm, so I arrive at 12.30. The TV is on an Indian station and we watch a soap opera filled with beautiful Indians speaking Hindi. Mrs. Ruprah hits the remote until she finds an English-speaking channel. There sits Donald Trump behind a conference table. I'm hooked immediately, even though I'd never watch The Apprentice in the states. What draws me in isn't the drama and the backstabbing, but the clothes and the accents and the scenes of New York streets-all the things I don't see here in Kenya. I'm reminded what the world looks like with white people in it. Sometimes I long to be surrounded by white faces. They show the front of the Trump Tower and I remember buying Jaime's graduation present, a fantastically expensive writing pen, in a shop on the ground floor. I remember walking down Fifth Avenue with Kelly DeBoer from Lincoln, Nebraska, and buying white chocolate from the Lindt store. Ahh, New York. Ahh, the United States. Ahh, "you're fired," all the way to Kenya. Raju's car pulls into the drive. Mrs. Ruprah turns off Donald and his apprentices and goes to greet the guests. There are three priests and one woman, the wife of the elder priest. The men look striking in their pure white suits and black turbans. The two young priests sport raven black beards. The elder priest's beard has gone gray but there's a bit of glee in his eyes, behind his wire-framed glasses. They're all quite handsome in their loose, flowing clothes. Pristine. They wear satin slippers with silver embroidery, pointed at the toe and cloth throughout. Comfy. Mrs. Ruprah asks me to show them the photos from the wedding, so I retrieve my laptop from my house and set it up in the living room where Raju is serving warm Coke in small glasses. The photos are displayed as an automatic slide show. Mrs. Ruprah asks me to take photos of the guests so I, again, cross the yard to my house and bring back the camera. We take photos then settle down to chat, waiting for Mr. Ruprah to arrive from the foundry. Punjabi is flying from the men and women and I sip my Coke, waiting in case someone says something in English. I glance up at the priest's wife and she is looking at me, talking. I then look at the handsome, young priest next to her and he is also looking at me. So I scan the room to find all eyes on me. "What are you saying?," I ask Mrs. Ruprah. It's rare that I ever ask people what they're conversing about, because they'll include me by interpreting if they want to. But I'm overcome by their stares and she then asks me, "How old are you?" And I burst out saying, "Oh, Good Lord, I can't believe you're telling them my age!" It's funny, of course, so I say "41." The priest's wife pats her stomach and Mrs. Ruprah pats her stomach. They say, "fat," then point at me and say, "slim." I'm embarrassed. When Mr. Ruprah arrives, Mrs. Ruprah goes to the kitchen and calls to me through the opening. In every house in Kenya, there is an opening between the kitchen and eating area. She pours food into serving dishes, passes them to me through the opening and I place them on the table. Raju is mixing one part Sunfill, a Coca-Cola product of various flavors, with four parts cold water in case our guests want something other than water. The table is set for nine. We all settle into the carved wood chairs and the two young priests dig in unreservedly, piling on the food and not bothering to pass the serving dishes. Somehow, we all get access to what we want. The priest's wife gets a kick out of putting a pickled lemon rind on my plate. It's the most flavorful things I've ever eaten. Priests don't eat meat, so everything is vegetarian and delicious. After lunch, Mr. Ruprah heads back to the foundry and collects one of the young priests to drop back by the temple. I ask about their god. The eldest priest is sitting on my right and he says, "God is all," and he spreads his arms wide, "God is everything." I think he's saying God is omnipresent, inside each of us and all things. Sikhs have deified 10 gurus who lived as men long ago. The first guru is depicted in a picture hanging above the dining table, though Sikhs don't really know what the first guru looked like, just as Christians don't know what Jesus looked like. The young priest tells me he is 25-years-old and will marry in December. "Is she from Kisumu?," I ask. No, she's from India. "What's her name?" Well, he doesn't exactly know because his parents, back in India, are busy finding a wife for him. If they choose a girl, he must marry her. "Tell them to make sure she's beautiful," I tell him. When Raju translates, the young priest blushes. Our guests speak very little English and even though Raju is translating, he doesn't always capture the exact nuance of my questions. But we do okay, me, Raju and the priests, in understanding each other. The elder priest tells me he plays and sings prayers while the younger priest plays the drum. I must come to the temple one Saturday, one holy day, and hear them sing. Mrs. Ruprah tells them I'll be on the coast for the next two weekends. Then I must come to the temple when I return from the coast. "You'll do this," Mrs. Ruprah says, and she demonstrates placing her scarf over her head. No one enters the temple with a bare head. If men aren't wearing turbans, they'll use a handkerchief. Mrs. Ruprah leaves the room and returns with a miniature piano. Raju says "It's an old harmonium, from the seventies." The keys are pearly yellow and the back board falls away so it can be pumped toward the instrument to create wind for sound, like an accordion. Mrs. Ruprah puts a multi-colored songbook in my lap and the priest chooses a prayer to play and sing. While his left hand pumps the back board of the harmonium, his right hand plays the keys and he sings to his god (or gurus). Mrs. Ruprah hands a pan lid to the young priest, to use as a drum, but he feels silly playing a pot lid. So Raju plays it instead and we all laugh and enjoy the music. It's lovely, even though they all agree the harmonium is old and out of tune.