On my fourth night in India I went to my first dinner “party.”

The party took place in Sangara, a small town similar to Bagru, but closer to Jaipur ( it was about 20min away). Sangara is also a “printing town,” but now they only do screen and digital prints. Bagru is essentially the only town in Rajasthan that still does traditional hand-block printing, making it that much more unique, special, and a place I can be proud to call home.

For those that don’t know, Vijendra Chhipa is owner of Bagru Textiles and my host father. The party was for Vijendra’s sister (he is one of 12). She and her husband are moving into a new 4-story home; the husband has three brothers – so there is one floor for each family. Considering each family has about ten kids each, this is roughly a 40-person home. In India, when you move into a new home, it is customary to invite your family and the entire community to celebrate. This, along with hanging different symbols around the house, attempt to keep bad omens away from the new residence.

As Vijendra’s guest, I was considered ‘family’ and thus a host of the party.  We arrived around 4pm to set-up and ‘pregame’ – with Chai, of course, there is no drinking here 🙂

From 4-9pm it was basically a ‘normal’ family party – kids running around, the men conversing about politics and business, and the women…well, the women seemed to be forced to sit in the basement until the food was presented. Blog on gender roles is forthcoming.

The family hired a team of cooks to prepare all the food – what a production! They had to feed 1,000 mouths (can you imagine hosting 1,000 for dinner?) The process is an art; they prepare food in massive trash cans and stir with large wooden sticks. Seas of flies swarm all the food – it’s part of the deal.

During this time I felt lost and alone. Nobody spoke English, I didn’t know what to say or how to act, and truly felt like an outsider – like I didn’t belong. And finally, this loving-happy-family vibe made me miss my own kin back home.

At about 8pm the food was all cooked but needed to be carried up four flights of stairs to the roof where the party was taking place. It was a clear, crisp, beautiful night.

An aside – I would post pictures, but I didn’t have my phone with me. My two beautiful younger siblings, Yash (yesh) and Chehika (chai-yi-kah), were playing with my phone so I tried to change my password to lock them out. In the process, I locked myself out, and haven’t had a phone since. Some things just don’t go your way. But, just imagine a bright Indian skyline with me standing and looking out, wind in my hair, motionless, contemplating the purpose of my journey here. That’s when my solemn evening started to change. 

I eagerly volunteered to help carry things up the stairs, and received major brownie points for doing so. In the process I worked up a massive sweat. Finally, guests started to pour in and the rooftop suddenly looked like an illuminated Manhattan summer cocktail party (no alcohol to re-iterate).

The hosts (me included) were in charge of serving food to the community who came (all 1,000). It was actually stressful because the hosts want to make a good impression to all their guests. So, when I asked if I could help serve food, they were reluctant to say yes.

The way it works: hundreds of people at a time sit crossed-legged on the ground (this was a big roofdeck). The servers walk between rows of people asking if they want water, puri bread, caccuri, sauce, yogurt, and other things that are foreign to me. If they say yes, you can place it on their plate with your hands. After I kept asking to help, I finally got my chance to hand out some puri. I did a good job until I accidentally gave an older, traditional woman some unwarranted puri and then tried to take it back off her plate (a big no-no). I was relinquished of my duties.

After all the guests were served, we (the hosts) got to eat. And the food was great! When we left at 10pm, I couldn’t help but grin, zooming in the dark on a motorcycle in who-knows-where, India. In the cool night air, something about the dinner experience made me glad I went.

If I am to make a difference here, even small, every lesson is important. Looking back at the beginning of the night, obsessing over my lonely solitude, I could have been a wallflower. But, on the Minerva Fellowship, there are limited ‘perks of being a wallflower.’ Indeed, one must observe, but at some point, you have to get your hands dirty in the action. I made an effort and the people received it well.

While it may seem negligible that I served some bread, it:

1. Did not go unnoticed, 2. Gave me purpose, and 3. Taught me something new.

Cheers to many more Indian dinner parties.