Pakshi's Story - Part V (The End)

Passing back through the archway, Pakshi quietly thanked the old, cross-legged lady in faded pink with a small bow, as if that was the signal for the spell to be broken – and Pakshi broke into immediate chatter about our next stop in the temple: the communal eating hall.
Along the one side of the small hall was a row of trestle tables, laden all along its length with steel pots and dishes, each manned by an oldish or ancient Indian man. Pakshi handed me a steel, compartmented tray, a spoon and a little see-through plastic mug. As each man dished up his fare onto my plate, I was met with a heavy, suspicious glare – each one slightly different from the next -- as if they were silently asking: “White, Christian woman, why are you here to eat our food that has been blessed by our priest?” I was asking myself the same question – guiltily, embarrassed. Their eyes were so hard. It felt terrible to be so obviously scorned and unwanted.
Sitting on the floor with our food and hot, sweet tea, Pakshi quickly explained we needed to face a way – that is, in the direction of ‘the great book’ in the hall we’d visited before. The younger women and their little, noisy children smiled openly at me, as though we’d just passed each other in the street – and I wondered what it was that made the older generation seem to hard and hurt. Pakshi tore off a piece of still-warm chapatti and showed me how to grasp it in my fingers to dexterously mop up the spicy, yellow lentils. She ate quickly, habitually, while I laboured slowly over the mopping and soaking up of the different glowingly spicy vegetables and sauces which I gratefully diluted in plain yoghurt. (While I write this, I now suddenly remember that one older man at the food counter did smile at me: a magnificent, happy smile that seemed to apologise for everyone else – making his white, waxed moustache twitch as his face stretched to accommodate his smile!) Next on my plate was a small portion of pale, runny rice pudding worlds apart from the almost chokingly sweet one of my youth – and scented with the barest hint of rosewater. Thank goodness I had a spoon to eat this with!
Pakshi clangingly stacked our plates against the far wall with all the others before we headed out to the reception area to get ready to leave. I can’t say I wasn’t relieved to be leaving this place – but then, it was one of those experiences that change the very make-up of who you are. What I learned, quite harshly, was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of mistrust and contempt – and all because I was not one of them. And yet, as soon as we stepped out of that temple, the roles were suddenly reversed and I was the ‘normal’ one again – and no-one would dare look at me as they had in the temple. Their temple was their sanctuary in more than just a religious way. It was the one place where they were back in India. Where they could BE Indian without the West interfering. And, I know that by being there, I was like a finger of that white interference twisting its way into their sacred India. I understood their hard, hurt eyes now.
Back on the streets of Southall, we headed towards a well-known Indian supermarket that Pakshi says was set up by an Indian man who won the lottery! Along the way, we were accosted by glittering silks and sequinned shoes that overflowed from the interiors of the shops, the sounds of sharp bartering going on inside. There were sweet stalls selling intriguing shapes, colours and flavours of traditional Indian confectionery that we stopped and gawked at – Pakshi explaining how each was made and the ingredients before hurrying me along to the next shop (of which there were so many) which sold all their jewellery for 1 pound each!! Needless to say, each trip to Southall saw my handbag full of bangles, necklaces and earrings – what more could a girl want? The jewellery wasn’t of the best quality, but it was wildly fascinating to me because it wasn’t Accessorize or Topshop: it was all the way from India and very obviously, exotically so!
The supermarket was an adventure in itself with its heavily layered scents and aromas, brightly colourful packaging and menagerie of Indian sounds: questions being asked, instructions shouted, Hindi music dancing through it all like a thousand fluorescent butterflies. Oil was sold in big, yellow plastic containers the size of a very thick briefcase. Sacks of basmati rice leaned against each other like old, fat people. Pakshi dragged me excitedly to the spice section where she started pointing out the various spices I needed to buy: ground cumin, green cardamoms, black cardamoms, garam masala, ground coriander… My mouth watered crazily and my eyes felt like they might pop out of my head! And, amazingly, it was all so very, very cheap! I left with two heavy plastic packets of all the spices I could ever need – my favourite purchase being a smallish white plastic jar with blue Indian script listing its ingredients: it was a ready-made concoction of the five chai spices! Pakshi had seen it and gasped with being pleased to find it on the shelves for me, saying (with that cheeky wink of hers) she could hardly imagine me doing it her way, rolling pin and all – and all I’d need to do was put some of this straight into my tea! (I’ve guarded that little jar jealously while I was in South Africa the last two years, only deigning to share it with my mom. On the way to the airport in May, she said, “Oh darling, you forgot to pack your bottle of chai! Shall we go back and get it?”
“No, no. It’s okay. Let’s just get to the airport now.”
You see, I had two thoughts: one selfish, one not. Firstly, after my expired passport debacle and being separated from Craig for a month, I didn’t want to jeopardise ANY chance of getting to the UK. And secondly, I thought it would be good for me to leave the chai for my mom so she could enjoy it and think about me each time she uses it. (Though knowing my mom, she will have put it aside to post to me, or put it back in the pantry awaiting my return home…)