Pratima’s house is on the other side of Baroda, in an area I have never explored. Not quite the slums, her neighborhood is small and crowded with teeny brick houses. Each building overflows with people, home to extended families of ten or more. After entering the narrow alleyway teeming with kids and cows, I enter the first room of Pratima’s two-room home. This is the living/bed/play room. Six children under the age of eight line one wall, all with metal plates in front of them. They scoop up rice and homemade samosa dripping with tamarind chutney, and shovel the food unpretentiously into their mouths.Pratima’s mom sits on the floor next to the line of children. Her English is limited to simple words - hello, sit, eat. And I quickly exhaust my Gujarati vocabulary. But her eyes, twinkling and lined with smile wrinkles, help make me feel at home. Pratima’s elder brother, sitting on the bed with his father, is eager to describe the NGO where he works and how he teaches physically handicapped individuals. His best friend (who works with him at the NGO) is also in the room, eager to meet me. Through translation I learn that the crutches the friend uses are for a leg deformity he was born with and the polio he lived through when he was very young. His authentic, multi-watt smile as he talks about all of this blows me away.
Pratima’s sister and sister-in-law are in the second room, the kitchen. They are waiting for me, armed with bowls of food and sweet, shy smiles. My plate is soon overwhelmed by heaps of rice and potato curry, homemade pakora and samosa, pools of sour lemon pickle and sweet tamarind chutney. I eat and smile, talking a little with Pratima, feeling a smidge self-conscious. I feel my white skin glowing and the sweat dripping off my neck. I scoop up the rice to my mouth with as much grace as I can muster. Not much. And yet when I look up, everyone beams back at me, their looks warm and welcoming and genuinely kind.
After dinner, I ask Pratima if it would be okay to go to the empty lot next door and say hi to the cow puppy that I saw on my way in. She says of course and tells her family that I am an animal lover – "a real one," she says to them, and to me. I can’t help but agree. The whole family piles outside and watches as I plop down next to the furry, one-month old animal. The crowd grows quickly. I look up at Pratima with the beginnings of annoyance and concern about everyone watching. "No no," she says to me, "Don’t worry. The way you like the cow, these people like you." I take in the crowd again. People are smiling, with friendly and curious looks on their faces. I smile, understand a little bit better, and go back to cooing over the cow.
