Bollywood broke the ice between us. It became the common ground, at least for then.
Dev Anand, Rajesh Khanna, and Shahrukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan. They knew them all. Even hummed some songs for me.
I had been cleaning my apartment when the phone rang. On the other side, Mar Met was trying to tell me they had cooked lunch for me, that I should come to Mary Street instead of Rutger Street. I had totally forgotten I was to visit the Burmese girls and have tea with them on Sunday, the second day of Eid.
I finally figured what Met was saying. Trusting my sense of direction, I did not bother to waste time looking at the map and got on the road. I did not want to be late.
It should be one of the streets branching off from Rutger Street, I thought.
But I ended up in the wrong part of the city. It being a Sunday, there was hardly anybody I could ask for directions. Also, I was in America. You don’t have paan-wallahs and rickshaw drivers here you could turn to for help. It had been so easy in India. You could just lower the window and ask.
In any case, I kept on driving. Finally saw this one guy. So I stopped the car. After several “excuse me”, he turned, smiled and got into the car. yes, without invitation. It would be better if we traveled together, he said, as he rolled up the car window.
His mouth stank of beer. I had been warned not to give rides to people. But he seemed alright. He told me he was going to cook dinner for 40 people, that this aunt of his was very popular in Utica and this one brother of his owned a charity.
After several lefts and rights, we were on the right road or so he said. Finally, I dropped him off and then got on to that elusive Mary Street.
Past old homes, boring signals, closed bakery shops, and numerous stop signs, I saw Oh Mar’s silhouette and I waved to her. She had been standing for an hour outside the house in the cold for me. I felt bad for her. She had a coat one but it wasn’t enough protection against the wind.
I had brought shawls for the two friends. A little Eid thing from my side. We both spoke different languages. There were smiles, and nods and stolen looks, and that’s a language we both understood.
She took my hand and led me to the apartment. The apartment was modest to say the least. There were mats spread on the floor. No chairs, no tables. In the kitchen, women sat in a circle, cooking, chatting and laughing. An easy laughter, carefree almost. After all they have been through – fleeing their country, leaving behind people, knowing it will be near impossible to return to all of it ever – they deserved it. The host family has been here only a month and know nothing of the cold, dreary winters here, of work and difficulties to life as they adjust to the new country and the new life here.
A few men stood in the dining area, smoking. They nodded at me while they were at it. It was the second day of Eid-ul-Fitr. More men came in. I sat on a bed, an old one, its beams creaking. The mattress had been covered with a colorful mat from Thailand.
Women came in to welcome me, a few waved at me from the kitchen.
The two friends, who I met last week while on of my assignments, handed me a bag with traditional Burmese dress and said “gift”. It was for me.
While Oh Mar explained to others I was a journalist, that I was an Indian and that I was Hindu, I noticed I was the only outsider in the family celebrations. But yet in that moment, in their celebration, I was an insider.
Finally, an uncle of theirs I had met the pervious evening came in. He had been a teacher in Myanmar, formerly Burma, and lived in Rangoon. Last evening, we had talked about history, democracy and Jawaharlal Nehru. It had been an easy conversation, though language was still a limiting factor, we had understood each other fairly well.
He was with another man, who had been a guerilla fighter. When things became tough, he fled to Thailand.
Later…
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