A Plate Needs Cake on It

Yesterday Krishnayya asked us what they could do to make the food more to our taste. I love the food, but not everyone shares my good opinion of it, and several of the people on the program frequently go out to eat instead of eating what our cooks have prepared. The thing was, the question was asked at dinner, when those who were present were mostly those who enjoyed what we are given. There were probably about five of us there. After Libby had given a few serious suggestions, I volunteered that I thought it was pretty necessary for me to eat a chocolate cake for dinner. "Every night?" Krishnayya said. Yup. "Just chocolate cake?" Yup. "A whole cake?" Yup. "Just for you?" A-huh.

If it had been some of the people here asking me these questions, I would have wondered if we were somehow misunderstanding each other and they really thought I wanted that, but Krishnayya's English is extremely good, and he's also a tease. The other day he was telling me that I could move down into the fishing village if I wanted to; he would take care of my funeral preparations, no problem. So I knew that he knew I was joking.

A little later that night he asked when I was leaving the program house to go home. I said I didn't know. "Are you going to be here a few more minutes? Because if I tell you why I'm asking, you will want to be here in a few minutes." I said I would be there in a few minutes. He replied with something I didn't quite catch, but I didn't worry about it. I didn't have to know what it was for; I trusted if he said I wanted to be here that I did want to be there. So I just smiled at him, a bit blankly. And he left.

"I can't believe he's really going to get a chocolate cake!" Jain said. That's what I hadn't caught.

So basically, Krishnayya is Santa Claus. He brought a chocolate cake and placed it on my lap.

I didn't actually eat the whole chocolate cake; I cut it and gave pieces to everyone. But it was a nice thing to eat, and it was even nicer of Krishnayya to have gotten it for me. I was very happy, and I got an impulsive idea into my head, as I sometimes do. I don't usually follow through with them outside of my family circle, but for some reason I did this time.

As he got up to leave, I called out his name and dramatically bent to touch his feet. This is a sign of respect and obeisance in India. I knew it was over the top, but I think it might have been even a little more over the top than I had been thinking, based on his reaction. I think part of it was that his name came out much louder than I'd intended, so it almost sounded like a shout.

He squealed and jumped about a foot. That, along with how loud "Krishnayya!!" had come out, startled me considerably, too. I came up a little red and confused looking. He waved his hands and said, "Oh, no! Don't do that! I'll bless you for your marriage," and made a quick exit. (After you touch someone's feet, they touch your head in token of blessing. At least that's what usually happens.)

Becky describes her reaction to this whole thing as, "I just stood there flabbergasted and laughing!" I think that was practically everyone's reaction, too, including the Telugu cooks, so I figured I couldn't have deeply offended too many cultural norms. That comforted me considerably as I thought over the incident several times later that night, wondering again and again why I get it into my head to do these sorts of things.

If there was any cultural awkwardness about it, it had worn off by morning. The cooks greeted me like always, and Krishnayya was making funny faces at me in the mirror while I was washing my hands after lunch. I may have made a fool of myself, but no damage was done. Whew.