Mrs. Ruprah catches me one morning as I leave our compound. She excitedly tells me five priests from India will be visiting the next day, to pray for the Ruprah's family and business, and she wants me to put on my Punjabi suit and join them. They'll start at 5am so she wants me at their house by 4:30am. Okay. "You know the CD? Sonya's CD?" she asks. "Yes," I say.
"You can bring, nay?" She's talking about a CD full of photos from the neighbor's wedding. I think she's asking me to take pictures of the five priests to be added to her copy of the CD. She's very pleased and, taking my hands, tells me she will remember me for the rest of her life. And not only will she remember me for the rest of her life, but she thinks of me as her daughter. I blush and smile.
At lunch, I walk to town, to pick up the Punjabi suit. Mrs. Ruprah had been with me when I tried it on. The shop owner set it aside for me. But I was concerned it might be a bit tight through the chest and want to try it on without a t-shirt underneath. There is no fitting room, however, so the woman steps next door to Dr. Sokwala's office and asks if I might use their back room. When I walk in, I see Dr. Sokwala sitting behind her desk, on the phone. A piece of cloth hangs, moving, in the doctor's doorway, which is up three steep steps. Once I've pulled the top on, Dr. Sokwala pushes the curtain/door aside and stops upon seeing me. "Hi, Dr. Sokwala," I say, feeling a bit foolish at using her office as a dressing room. She acts as though it happens all the time. "I'm trying this suit on," I tell her. "What do you think?"
"What's going on down there," she says nonchalantly, pointing to my khakis. "Well, I wanted to see if the top is too tight."
"Put the pants on then we'll see," she says, not moving. So I put the suit pants on and she says I'm beautiful, like her daughter. "How old is your daughter?" I ask. "30," she says.
"Does it look too tight through here?" I ask, indicating the bustline. "No. It's beautiful. You're beautiful." Gee whiz, I'm blushing and smiling again. "It looks like it was custom made for you." And she's staring at the suit the whole time, just as I always stare at the gorgeous, attractive suits in so many fantastical hues worn by the Sikh women. "I can't take my eyes off of you," she says. I know exactly what she's talking about!
Early the next morning, very early the next morning, like around 2am, the Ruprahs are moving their heavy wooden furniture across stone and marble floors. For two hours I float in and out of sleep as the scraping noises flare and recede, flare and recede and dishes clank, as though they're stacking a million plates and saucers and cups. At 3:30, I hear Samwell's nightsteps. He walks to the window above my bed, above my head, and gently says, "Cynthia." Of course, I'm already awake and I thank him for the "call." So I'm up, making coffee, putting on makeup and slipping into my new suit (complete with scarf). By 4:15, cars are entering the gate and voices carry through the dark. I peek from my front window, curious, because I thought only the Ruprahs would be here for the blessing. Peeking, I see the yard is transformed. Like waking on a wintry morning to discover snow has fallen throughout the night. Instead of snow, however, the Ruprah's yard is covered in white plastic chairs. There must be 200 chairs lined up in circles and squares. And the heavy, wooden furniture with burgundy velvet upholstery is under the pavilion. A table draped in white holds plates and pitchers and huge serving bowls and drink dispensers. It looks like a wedding is about to take place.
I walk across the backyard and enter through the patio door. All furniture has been removed. In its place are soft cushions lining the floor, covered with white sheets. Mrs. Ruprah tells me to cover my head. It's very hard, keeping the scarf in place. First, they're long and silky and easily shift if not balanced, looped or hung just right. I've watched the ladies who treat their scarves as appendages. They naturally know how to wrap it this way and that for effect and solid anchoring. I fumble. I freeze, praying it won't move. I'm very awkward with the scarf and hope the others don't notice. But of course they're noticing! A few ladies sit on stools and we greet. They stare at my clothes and talk to each other in Punjbai, so that I become uncomfortable.
And from this moment on, I'm uncomfortable. I want to experience new cultures and know very well new experiences must be met with an open mind and a willingness to look foolish. Because we can't get things right all the time, like learning a new language or a new dance. Sometimes we just say and do silly things in our early attempts. But I'm not prepared this morning to look silly (well, sillier than the Indian community has come to expect). It's too early. And they're all just staring at my clothes.
One brave soul, who I've never met before, says, "How much did you pay for your suit?" I'm taken aback. What to say? So I fall back on the old adage "honesty is the best policy" and tell them (because they're all leaning in with anticipation, though they all don't speak English), "4,000 shillings." They nod knowingly and assure me its a good price. My discomfort grows.
The living room has been turned into a mini-temple. The eldest priest sits behind a small alter, incense puffs circling his gray/black beard. The five visiting Indian priests sit to the right side of the room, microphones at the ready and speakers pointing toward the center of the room. Mrs. Ruprah says, "come," and she leads me to the center of the room, where a small line has formed in front of the altar. It seems they stand for a minute or two with their hands to their chins, in prayer, then they kneel down, still praying, drop a coin into the silver plate, and then put their forehead (or nose) to the floor. It's hard to tell from where we're standing exactly what part of their head is touching the floor and this makes me uncomfortable. What if I do it wrong in front of all these people? And who knew there would be so people here, and that the yard would be covered, nearly every inch, with cars? And cars would line both sides of the road, up and down?
The five priests seem to be bored out of their skulls and do an almost-imperceptible double take when they see me. They all wear white turbans and beautiful tunics reaching just below their knees. Though their legs are bare, they, too, have wraps encircling them as they sit cross-legged, covering their legs and feet. So with Mrs. Ruprah coaching me in front of the crowd, I kneel, place five 20 shilling pieces into the plate, put my hands on the floor and touch some part of my head to the floor. This position presents the butt to the crowd and it's hard not to look at some of the spreads as they're being presented. Most people, being kind, look away when I present my spread.
The men are on the left side of the room and the women on the right. The priests begin singing their prayers at 5am. The loudspeaker is behind my right shoulder and I can feel the beat of their drums and the shaking of their stick tambourine. It seems anyone can become a singing priest, that try-outs aren't given. Good voices and bad mingle. The guests look at the priests sometimes, or at the floor. People keep coming and keep coming, lining up to put their faces to the mat and their shillings in the plate. It's 5:30 and I'm so thrilled to be seated, out of the line of anyone's sight, close to the wall. Then Mrs. Ruprah taps me on the shoulder and says, "come," and I think, "not again." She says, "Where's your money," and I say, "I put it in the plate." Seems I was only supposed to put 20 shillings in the plate and the rest goes into the plate sitting in front of the singing priests. Oops. Mrs. Ruprah leaves and returns promptly, tapping me again, pushing a 100 shillings note into my hand. "Come," she says.
Awkwardly, because my feet are bare, the woman are sitting close and the scarf is wily, I rise and follow Mrs. Ruprah to the line in front of the priests. I'm relieved to see we do not have to kneel and present our faces to the floor. So I imitate the hands-to-bowed-chin motion, putting some sincerity onto my face, but not sure as to what I'm sincere about, then melt back into my place amongst the extended knees of the ladies. I sit very, very still, to keep the scarf from sliding down the back of my head. More singing, more tambourines lifted and lowered to the beat, more people entering, kneeling, dropping coinage. It's 6:20am. I'm noticing the intricate cut of the priests tunic. The style is quite masculine, though it resembles a dress. The neck has a short collar and the top of the shoulders are covered with a yoke piece cut in delicious angles on the arm seam, then dropping to a soft V. The fit is lovely, stretching across broad shoulders and flowing close to the waist.
More people arrive and are sitting in the dining room, the hallway, the bedrooms. It's 7:00 and the priests are going strong. My scarf has only slipped twice and the lady behind was kind enough to let me know. When I make a surprised face, an anxious face, for having exposed the crowd to my bare head, she laughs out loud. An old woman sitting in front of me, her bottom on my scarf, looks at her watch. My crossed legs seem to be frozen. The singing becomes frenzied and the congregation begins to answer as part of the prayer. Then everyone stands and I feel true relief, thinking it's over and we're leaving this room. I just want to be outside so I can take this wretched (though exceedingly gorgeous) scarf off my head. But no one moves. And in a minute, they all start to sit again and I imitate. But they're not sitting! They're putting their faces to the floor, so I squat and lower my head as much as possible, making sure the scarf is on, and the woman behind hits my butt with the back of her hand and whispers, "stand up." We all stand together. So I'm glad we're standing and the awkwardness will soon be over. But then everyone sits again and the woman whispers, "you can sit down." More singing prayers.
A man from the floor rises and mushes some dough-like stuff in a bowl, creating balls of it, one for each priest. Then another man takes the bowl and walks through the crowd, mushing the dough-like stuff into balls and dropping it into our open, upturned double palms. Everyone puts the dough-like stuff to their chin, then they eat. "You can eat," the lady whispers. It's really good. It tastes like cobbler crust that's not cooked all the way. Cooked only slightly. Very buttery, which is what makes it so good. A woman sitting next to me, who seems by her stern looks to disapprove of my existence, hands me a napkin to wipe the grease from my palms. Then it's over and the woman behind says, "you can get up." I thank them for their guidance, checking to make sure the scarf is in place. It's now 7:30 and I'm to be at work at 8:00.
Everyone moves to the yard for chappati and dahl and other goodies. Raju, the Ruprah's son, is wearing a turban, the first time I've ever seen him in one. He won't let me make a photograph, though. He and another young man are in charge of serving the priests. It seems the priests eat on the floor, but because most people find it uncomfortable to eat on the floor, they do not join the priests. Raju and the other guy make many trips to the kitchen, carrying trays of food and drink to the priests. I go to my house, change into jeans and leave for work. The priests are out in the front yard, leaning on mercedes and bmws, talking in a cluster. I wonder why they're not in back talking with the faithful. They look at me as I walk across the compound in my jeans, with my backpack. They seem to be bored out of their skulls and do an almost-imperceptible double take when they see me.
When they leave the Rurpah's house, the priests head to the Ruprah's foundry, where sugar can processors are made. They'll pray and sing in the workshop for one hour, to bless the space and bring on prosperity. Bring it on.
