Manuscript Monday: Culture goggles and beer shock

I arrived in India without a social compass. It took a long time to find a balance between the public briskness of India and the instant familial closeness of the Indians who chose to befriend me. If I smiled at my fellow pedestrians, I'd be met with hard stares. If I managed to bridge the gap to conversation, they'd usually offer to take me home and feed me for weeks. It was an emotional 0 to 60, and it was hard to get used to. Long after I thought I knew the customs, I'd continually offend people by being too distant (i.e. I invited you to my cousin's wedding five minutes after meeting you. Why didn't you come?) or too familiar (i.e. You smiled at me, therefore I will spend the next hour following you through the streets trying to touch your butt.).

Of course, my first week in India, I didn't have a clue how my social graces looked to others. It was all guesswork.

The day before I left Mumbai, I met a young man named Raj while browsing the city's sidewalk bookstalls. He had moved to Mumbai only 22 days earlier. There were few job opportunities in his village in Rajasthan, so he had come to the city to earn money to put his younger siblings through school. We had a pleasant conversation about Indian geography and the American economy, so I thought nothing of accepting his invitation to meet him later that night for chai.


Mumbai seemed so different after dark. The brutal heat subsided and traffic was milder. The honking and engine-revving gave way to the sound of music drifting out of glowing shop windows. People crowded around steaming snack carts on every street corner. Movie-theater marquis lit up the night with electric pinks and silvers, pointing neon fingers towards the full moon. And there was Raj, leaning against the train station wall. As I walked up, he pushed himself upright and fell into step beside me.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, sounding as if he wasn’t sure I would. “Now we get chai, unless…” He paused and looked at me hopefully. “You want beer?”

I rarely drink, but a cold beer sounded more refreshing than tea after such a hot day. “Beer's fine,” I said. "Whatever you want." He smiled.

Raj led me down some side streets to a two-story café and steered me upstairs to pricier air-conditioned tables. We were the only ones on the upper floor, except for the waitstaff, who were crowded around a televised cricket match. They took no notice of our arrival as we settled into a booth. I shivered in the blast of frigid air blowing on us from the wall unit directly above our table.

“Nice?” Raj pointed to the A/C unit and raised his eyebrows. Then he turned and yelled something in Hindi at the waiters, one of whom reluctantly left the TV to bring us a large bottle of Kingfisher beer and two glasses.

We toasted and began talking. He drank two glassfuls very quickly, topped off my glass, and ordered a second bottle. Earlier in the day, he’d mentioned his father’s drinking problem and now I wondered if I should have insisted on chai. His eyes grew heavy-lidded. I could see the intoxication in his expression.

He spoke about his first love, a girl from his hometown in Rajasthan. “Her parents made her get married to this old… this older man.” He had trouble finding words, but I couldn’t tell whether this was because of emotion or alcohol. “She didn’t want to marry him. She wanted to run away with me, but I couldn’t risk going to prison if we got caught. My family needs me. She married and she wanted us to see each other. Can I speak with you frankly?”

I nodded.

“We met a few times and we had sex. Each time, she told me she loved me, but after four times I told her no more. I said, ‘You are married now.’ And she cried.”

He unbuttoned one sleeve of his shirt and pushed it up to his elbow. He thrust his arm towards me so I could see a handful of pocked scars dotting his inner wrist. “I burned myself,” he said solemnly. “I took a cigarette and…” He made jabbing motions at his wrist. “Here. Here. Here.”

“Why would you do that?” I asked sadly.

“For love,” he said. “My friend jumped off a building for love. He did not live.”

I stared into my beer. I felt tipsy and inarticulate in the face of such grief.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Don’t be sad. It’s OK. Now I have you.”

I jerked my head up. “What?”

“You are so beautiful. I’m so lucky to be with you. You are my rock.”

I suddenly realized I was on a date. When did that happen? When I agreed to meet him after dark? When I chose beer instead of chai?

I didn’t want to be on a date. Raj was nearly 10 years younger than me and I technically had a boyfriend back home — even if he’d stopped answering my e-mails. I needed to make it clear that only friendship was on the table. I decided to stick to platonic conversational topics.

“So, how many people have you had sex with?” Raj asked.

“What?” I said again.

“How many…”

“I heard you,” I said. “That’s not something I want to talk about.”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong. I thought Americans were very frank.”

“It’s OK,” I said. “Let’s order some food.” I told him I was vegetarian and suggested he order for us. I was hoping to learn more about local cuisine. He called the increasingly annoyed waiters away from the cricket match and placed our order in Hindi.

When the food arrived, he’d ordered a plate of tandoori chicken for himself and a plate of French fries for me. He looked very proud that he knew what Americans liked to eat, so I smiled and dug in. French fries are the best drinking food anyway.

Along with our meal came another 40 ounce bottle of Kingfisher. I wasn’t sure how much I’d had, since he kept topping off my glass, but I knew I was over my limit. I pushed my glass away and ordered a bottle of water.

Raj continued drinking and talking about his life. He began referring to someone named Sunil, and when I asked for clarification, it turned out that was his name.

“Why did you tell me your name was Raj?” I asked.

“Raj is easier for foreigners,” he said. Sunil turned out to be the first of many men named Raj I would meet on my trip. I’m not sure anyone in India is actually named Raj.

As he drained our third bottle, Sunil/Raj turned the conversation back to sex. “I saw this film from Europe,” he began. “Two women have sex. Does this happen in America?”

Surprised and stupidly buzzed, I let my guard down. “Yes, it does. I’m sure it happens in India, too.”

Sunil looked at me skeptically before continuing. “The women had a dick, a plastic dick. Do they have those in America?”

I burst out laughing. I knew I was giving him a terrible impression of American conversational propriety, but I couldn’t help it. “Do you have one?” he pressed.

I sobered up. “I don’t want to talk about that,” I said. “Let’s go.”

After the frigid restaurant, the night air was a warm blanket. Drowsy and drunk, I followed Sunil back to the main road and down to the sea. We sat on a stone wall with the ocean stretched out before us. Ornate horse-drawn carriages pulled tourists along Marine Drive. Sunil pointed out the pearl-like lampposts dotting the perimeter of the bay. “This is called the Queen’s Necklace,” he told me. “Each light is a jewel.”

Sunil touched my hand, and then pulled his hand away quickly. I looked at him. This is ridiculous, I thought. I am 33 years old and this boy is 25. I’m intoxicated, I don’t know him and he obviously wants things to go further. I need to leave.

I thought of the walk back to my hotel, more than a mile, and felt the sluggishness of alcohol in my limbs. Maybe I could wait a little longer and sober up.

I looked at the moon, shining down on the Gateway to India. A part of me felt giddy about the whole situation: sitting on the edge of the sea in Mumbai, drunk on foreign beer, next to a young Indian man who obviously wanted to make out. Was this really my life now? I didn’t feel attracted to Sunil, but a part of me wanted to kiss him out of some “carpe diem” impulse. Seize the boy.

Then he spoke. “So, remember when I told you about that film I saw with the two women?”

No. This was not going to happen. I was not going to be the slutty Western woman Indians expected me to be. “Why do you keep asking me about sex?” I asked angrily. “It’s not polite.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I can ask you anything. You are my rock. I can ask you about these movies.”

“No, you can’t,” I said. “I have to go now.”

He insisted on negotiating a cab for me, since Indians get better prices than tourists. I agreed and he flagged one down and talked to the driver for a few minutes in Hindi before turning back to me. “He says 100 rupees. It’s more because it is night.” Sunil looked apologetic. This was not a great price.

“Fine,” I said. I just wanted to be back in my hotel room. He held the door open for me and I slid into the backseat. Then he jumped in too.

I hadn’t expected this. As we rode up Marine Drive, Sunil began talking about how we should go to Elephanta Island in the morning.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” This was true, although my train didn’t leave until midnight. Sunil sighed and put his head in his hands with resignation. The taxi turned onto MG road near my hotel.

“I guess I will sleep on the street tonight,” he said. I felt confused. This was clearly a ploy to get an invitation to my room, but it was probably also true.

“No,” I said. “Go back to your friends’ house.”

“I can’t,” he said. “It’s too late. The trains don’t run.”

I hesitated as the taxi stopped. I didn’t want to leave him on the street, but there was no way I was inviting him up to my closet-sized room.

“I’m sorry,” I said, as I handed the driver my money. “It was nice meeting you.”

I leaned over and drunkenly hugged him. His fingers wound into my hair and he squeezed me against his torso. I pulled away and jumped out of the taxi. I ran into my hotel without looking back.