Birthday party Indian style

Last weekend I was told that Monday was Rinky's (my landlady's daughter) birthday. Would Auntie please come to her birthday at 6PM on Monday? Of course I said wondering what I would do in the company of a dozen or so 14 year olds and a couple of younger brothers and sisters and also wondering what on earth to give her as a present.
For the present, I decided on a British Pound coin. It was something she had asked about when I first came here but I did not have one to show her then. So my wallet was raided, a piece of bubble wrap taken from one of my Goodie Bags, and some cream coloured paper from a nice envelope, plus a piece of twine et voila I had a small gift wrapped up.
At about 5:30PM I suddenly have 3 girls standing at my door - Julie, Presanna, and Juanita -  whom I met before when Rinky and  I went splashing paint for Holi. They are the most local of the expected group and had come early, arriving even before Rinky had got back from her tuition class, in order to come and visit me. Quite the three little maids - all in their pretty party dresses, very girly in any culture, all lace, embroidery, frills and beads. A bit fu-fu for my taste but clearly everyone had been dressed up in their best for the occasion. Presanna's dress I am told was a Raki present  - Raki being a celebration a couple of weeks ago honouring brothers and sisters. Unfortunately my camera battery decided to pack up so I did not  managed to take any pictures, shame.
Eventually everyone else arrived and we joined the rest of the kids, mostly but not all girls. Two boys. It was nice to see that it was mixed. I had met a couple of Rinky's friends before on their cycles when I have been in the market with Rinky and her mother.  They too are all dressed up in their party clothes, even they boys in neatly pressed trousers and bright floral shirts. I can see a big effort has been made.
Then there was the usual birthday cake with candles and singing of Happy Birthday to You, albeit to a slightly different tune than I am used to and having two more verses than the one  sung at home.  In Delhi I was told that it is customary to put the cake in the face of the birthday person, but not here. Instead the birthday person has to feed all the guests. A mouthful of sickly sweet sponge and icing, full of colouring and sugar is pressed to my mouth. Next the presents are handed over, but not opened.
Then the mats come out, and everyone sits for food to be served in typical Orissan style on disposable leaf plates with their hands. It was nice to see that each of the children went and washed their hands before commencing eating.  Sushila served up a tasty Kabuli Chana aur aloo (chickpea and potato) curry with puri, followed by kheer, a raisin and cashew milky rice desert. What amazed me was the speed at which everyone ate, ney  devoured the food. They were clearly on a curfew as several kept asking about the time and checking the clock. The next thing I knew the plates were all empty, the dishes disposed of, hands rewashed and goodbyes were being made. Torches were found for someone whose battery had run out and cycles set off down the lane, quite happily in the pitch black dark of the night, up the unlit lane, and some out onto the main road with only small amount of torchlight to make their way home. Some of them way to the other side of town. It was nice to see that it was acceptable for them to be out, and to be out this late, on their own, and to have the responsibility to get home on time. But I have no doubt parents had given strict instruction that they had to be home by 7 or 7:30PM depending on how far way they lived and that many would be standing watching their lanes for their daughter's cycle arriving home.
Julie, Presanna and Jaunita were the only ones walking. Julie had told me they had to be very careful walking home because of snakes. Little Presanna tells me that there are big snakes and small snakes but the small ones are very dangerous and you must not get bitten by one. They come out when it is cooler and one had recently come into their house and she had been very frightened.
After they had gone, I sit for a time with Sushila and Rinky. They open the gifts. I am intrigued to see what they are. Mainly pens, about 6 pens I counted, a pencil case, a photo frame, a purse, some chocolate. Each costing somewhere between 20 and 60 rupees. Rinky is particularly please to be given the pens and the pencil case, and of course the chocolate as like all Indian she has a terrible sweet tooth. I am left wondering what the average 14 year old in the UK or US might have received for her birthday, and what she would make of these gifts and this party. Makeup, clothes, CDs, DVDs, even computers come to mind. I can imagine many turning their noses up at these gifts. Not Rinky. She was happy. She had had all her friends round. There was no music, no games, no jelly and ice cream, so not at all like the children's parties of my childhood and certainly none of the designer gift boxes that I hear are now given to guests at parties in the UK and US. But every single one of them had a smile on their face, they were all happy to be there, all wishing Rinky a Happy Birthday and joining in her celebration. As a group of good and happy friends were making their way home together, I am left pondering about play and fun, about the small things, about the  innocence of childhood, about the act of giving and about what money and a Mastercard cannot buy.
 Postnote:
I was just about to post this today when I read a post of a blog I drop by to from time to time, it author, Sharrell is an Aussie, married to an Indian and living in Mumbai. Her experience recent post on Consumerism and Child Raising i san interesting contrast showing the different Indias. I can't imagine any of the kids yesterday demanding a 1300 Rupee Barbie doll!

A brush with a tea caddy - or, there's no use crying over spilt tea.

I was running very low on tea at the weekend, having almost finished all my nice stuff - down to my last pot  of Jasmine and last couple of Earl Grey tea bags. So I thought I had better stock up with some of the local stuff. Being in India does not mean getting nice tea. I suppose it is all exported  to earn vital foreign exchange. So in practice tea means a choice between Dust Tea ( yes that's what it is called) and Leaf Tea, which in my opinion is still tea dust. And of course it is all loose, no tea bags. So I bought my packet of Taj Mahal Tea and duly opened and emptied it into the canister. That was yesterday.
Now comes lunch time today and I go to make tea. I lift the tea caddy from the shelf and away it flies, I am left holding the lid in my hand with tea all over the kitchen floor. No big deal I hear you say, it is dry, the floor is marble, all is well just get the dust pan and brush and sweep it all up and into the waste bin.  Well yes it is dry, but wrong on all  other counts. Ok you know already there is no such thing as waste bins and waste disposal here. It is over the wall onto the pile for the  cows and goats to rummage through. But how to get it there? Therein lies the difficulty.
When I first moved in I bought a dustpan along with a pile of other household items. Upon unpacking at home I discovered it is missing its brush. No I am told by the shopkeeper, there is no brush. I need a brush I say, he duly obliges and a brush is produced. No I have one of those , I want a small brush. No, no small brush. That was now several months ago and I am still looking for a small brush. Since then I have actually seen a woman sweeping up something into a dustpan with one of these grass or stick brushes that every respecting Indian housewife has. Here's mine, a grass one, about 3 feet in length , complete with Barbie Pink DayGlow Handle - makes you think about dressing up on a long cloak and flying off. And I have just about as much chance of doing that as of using it to usher dust and debris into the dustpan. There is no directional control. Dust redistribution, yes: dust collection, no way! 
So as regards the spilt tea, I manage to get much of the tea dust into the pan and then it is down on hands and knees, wet cloth in hand in an attempt to wipe the rest of it up.  I then start the whole tea making process  over again, half a packet of tea lost to the field mice. Thank goodness it was only dust tea and not my beloved Jasmine. I'll be trampling on tea particles now for days each time thinking what I wouldn't give for a decent brush and a decent cuppa!

Acceptance means telling a joke

When do you know that you have been accepted by the people around you?
Is it when you are invited to a family occasion? Not in my opinion. In India it can be that you are being shown off as the "foreigner" friend. Just how prestigious can having a foreigner friend be?  Answer is it can, big time. Take Gauri, a local 9 year old, who when she saw me at a local festivity and called out to me to let me now she was there. I could see her friends looks and questions as she inadvertently became the envy of them all. But with adults one does sometime get the feeling that you are  intentionally "on show", although at other times there has been a genuine desire to expose me to their culture eg when I was invited to my work colleague's nephew's Sacred Thread Ceremony.
Is it when you are invited round to their house for a meal? Well it just doesn't happen here. No one goes out to eat or invites people over to eat as a social occasion. Eating is for calorific intake alone. Orissa  is a state where people still die of hunger. I've been to eat with project teams when they are in town. Being invited to join them is thoughtful and full of common sense when the meeting finishes at 9PM. But in the dhaba, there's little social chit chat, and it is not because I can't speak enough of the language, it is just not seen as a social occasion, and certainly only takes as long as it takes to eat your meal - no good conversations over dinner lasting well into the night here.
On occasion I called round at a neighbour's house with my landlady. We are given tea, one is often given tea, given the only chair to sit on. You just get used to it and you initial embarrassment disappears. But again I would hardly go as far as to say that I felt truly accepted.
But a couple of days ago just before the Janmashtami holiday I really felt I was. We were talking about the holiday and my colleague told me a joke. Before I reproduce this joke I will tell you that she is Hindu.
Three mountaineers were in a death fall of a mountain. The Christian prayed to God to save him and he was saved. The Muslim mountaineer prayed to Allah to be saved from falling to his death and he was saved. The Hindu mountaineer could not decide which God to pray to and was killed.
Now we all know how precarious humour is at crossing  linguistic and cultural boundaries, so when someone feels confident enough in your company that they are willing to tell you a joke, and moreover a joke about religion, surely this is the landmark of acceptance.