Although this wasn't "my Swami-ji," this most looks like him though he was clad all in white, with a cap and his top fully covered his torso.

Day 2 in India started off interestingly enough. What I thought was a room under construction adjacent to my room turns out to have been the kitchen hotel. Not only did the men working there wake me at 6am chatting and banging their pots and pans but I discovered that they had a view right into my bathroom!  While the toilet under the window was shielded from sight, the European style non-curtained middle-of-the-room shower was in complete view.  While I hadn’t caught any of them trying to peek in, I felt too uncomfortable with the possibility to chance it. So I headed downstairs bright and early to see about changing rooms, hopefully in time for a peep-free shower that morning.

The hotel clerks laughed knowingly as if we shared an inside joke when I asked them if they had another room where men could not see into my bathroom and where I wouldn’t be awakened by kitchen clamor so early. Their chuckles, which didn’t seem to be at my expense, did still seem to say “Ah, yes.  You discovered that did you? We were hoping you wouldn’t notice.”  Given that my night-time shower had gone unobserved (at least as far as I knew) it was really a case of no harm, no foul other than the interrupted sleep so I felt free to join them in smiling about the situation.

The hotel was booked to capacity and I was asked to wait until people checked out to see which rooms would be available.  Concerned they would forget about me and my request in the all the chaos of checkouts and newcomers checking in, I didn’t want to wander too far from the front desk.  I noticed a room labeled “Restaurant” and wandered in to check out the menu.  The room was filled with many men, lots of them dressed all in white. As I looked around attempting to determine who was in charge, one of the white-clad men walked up to me and pointed to another standing right in front of me and said, “This is Swami-ji.” While I don’t know precisely what a swami is, I did recognize that he was some sort of revered holy man in the grand scheme of things. I put my hands together in front of me and gave him my best “Namaste” greeting. He “Namaste’d” me back. I asked him in Hindi how he was and he chuckled, replying he was fine. He began speaking in rapid-fire Hindi so I told him in Hindi that I didn’t understand what he was saying. Several other men rushed over to tell me again that this was Swami-ji. Swami-ji seemed to get a big laugh out of the whole encounter and invited me to join them for breakfast. It was then I realized that a buffet of Indian food was laid out on the table behind the men. The swami seated me and then prepared a plate of food for me.

Roger, I’m very sorry to report that, although I asked the names of the dishes and they told me, I was unprepared to write them down and they have escaped my memory.  Naturally, I didn’t think to bring my camera with me to merely ask to change rooms so I was unprepared to take photos of either the food or of Swami-ji.  But here’s a description of what I was served: one dish was a sweet, sticky rice that had golden raisins in it and perhaps a little cinnamon. The other had the texture and consistency of grits and was a bit spicy. There was also a very pureed chutney the color of chickpeas and the consistency of a watered down puree to mix into the other two.  It was (you know I’m going to say it) very delicious!

The men were eating in traditional Indian style, with their fingers.  When in Rome and all that jazz.  I dove in and did the same.  I thought I was doing pretty well, at least for someone not used to eating grits with her fingers. Someone had pity on me and brought me several napkins and a spoon.

I chatted with the men while we ate.  The group of about 15-20 were from several different cities. Each in turn asked if I had been to his city or state and I disappointed them all as I repeatedly told them that I had only arrived the day before and had only seen Mumbai thus far.  Yet comically they kept asking “What about my city? Have you been to Kerala?” “What about Bangalore?” They admired my daring for traveling alone and said they appreciated how social I was with them. As they filed out of the room, most of them introduced themselves to me and shook my hand. One of the last invited me to join them for dinner that night at 9:30.  Seems like an interesting prospect. If I can make it back in time, I think I might.

After the encounter with Swami-ji and his entourage, I wandered back to the front desk to check on my room.  The men working are highly entertained every time I say a single word in Hindi. They repeat each word, smiling and laughing to each other, the way adults do when a child adds a surprising new word to their vocabulary.  While my efforts seem to be appreciated, I also get the feeling that I’m not being taken seriously. “No madame, we still have no room available.” “No madame, the internet is still broken.”

On the upside, my cotton blouse was returned from the press-wallah.  In India, “wallah” means someone who does something or is from somewhere.  So people from Delhi are called Delhi-wallahs and people who serve the yummy chai tea are called chai-wallahs.  Following this train of thought, the people who iron clothes are called press-wallahs. The press-wallahs typically only charge a couple of rupees to iron a piece of clothing.  Since the price is so inexpensive, Indians regard anyone who doesn’t have their clothes neatly pressed with great disdain as either being too poor to afford even a few rupees or too uncaring about their appearance.  In my ongoing attempts to ingratiate myself to the locals, I had delivered my blouse to be pressed. As always, the hotel tacked on a double or triplicate charge for having served as the “arranger” so my blouse cost 10Rs to be pressed. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing to continually put things in the context of my home economy.  On the one hand, it seems ridiculous to have a discussion over what is literally a difference of either a dime or 15 cents.  On the other hand, I don’t like continually being taken advantage of.  I figured I’d pick my battles and only exert energy over the larger items. As a foreigner, this was clearly going to happen a lot and it was easier not to sweat the small stuff.