"Indian days" One of the wonders of travel in India is the openness of complete strangers.  India has a cultural tradition of treating the guest as god.  Because of this fortunate tenet, you experience much more than the museums, monuments and cafes you do in other countries.  The following is based on one evening’s entry in my travel journal.  I chose it, not because it was an extraordinary day, but because it typifies so many Indian days. After I visited the Ajanta caves, I returned to Aurangabad by bus.  It was three p.m. and after a day of exploring ruins,  I was hungry and decided to splurge at Bhoj Restaurant, which was reputed to be the best in town.  The doors were locked and I peered through the large smoked glass doors.  Someone inside said the restaurant was closed and would reopen for dinner at six p.m..  I sat on a plastic chair outside and thumbed through my Lonely Planet guide and mulled over my options.  There was a tapping on the window and I looked back through the glass.  I was beckoned inside.  All the waiters arranging chairs stopped working and invited me to sit with them.  There were about eight of them and they all gathered around.  They all sat or stood  smiling. Their English was halting and basic, and my Hindi is terrible.  “From what country?  What is your good name?  How many days in India?  Married? Children? Girlfriend?  What is your qualification (job)? Did you see Ajanta? Ellora?  When did you arrive in India? You like India? You like Aurangabad?   Each answer was translated for those who spoke no English and smiling heads nodded with each answer. I asked where they were from. Each was from some near or far state and was introduced proudly as a member of an ancient cultural affiliation; Rajput, Marwari, Bengali, Punjabi etc. When they gave their names I took out a pad of paper and tried to write them in Hindi. They were excited and seemed impressed and helped correct my spelling errors. When I put the pad back in my daypack, they noticed my camera and insisted I take some photographs.  I gestured that it was too dark inside and they understood.  A burly smiling chef with a curled Rajput mustache appeared and invited me to see the kitchen.  Women on the floor chatted while chopping vegetables.  The cook gestured for me to take some pictures. The kitchen was brightly lit from the windows so I took out my camera.  The women immediately began covering their faces with their saris until the cook said something that put them at ease and they uncovered their faces and smiled. The cook led me to the steaming pots of cooking food. The smell of spices was making my stomach growl. He gestured for me to help stir, and one of the waiters borrowed my camera to take a few snapshots.  We all went to the back patio and  haltingly talked some more. They asked whether I liked Hindi movies.  I said yes, and rattled off the names of Anil Kapoor, Sharouk Khan, Manisha Koirala, and Ravina Tandon.  I named a few movies and sang the first few words to Dil to Pagal Hai.  The smiles got wider and the conversation between them became more animated. The truth is that these are mostly only names I memorized and I’ve seen very few Hindi movies. The cook pointed to himself and then to me and said, “Food...you pay me.”  I assumed he wanted me to pay him under the table in order to bypass the relatively rich restaurant owner, now that we were all “friends”.  I politely yet hesitantly agreed.  There was a bit of silence, as though I hadn’t really understood.  One of the waiters who spoke better English interrupted,  “You have food no charge.  He will pay for your meal.”  When I finally understood I was a bit embarrassed at my initial lukewarm assent.  I thanked him profusely and shook his hand.  What humbled me the the most was that the six dollar meal, offered free of charge, is expensive by Indian standards and the cook was being very generous, in spite of the fact he probably couldn't afford to do so.  More than an hour had passed and I figured they had work to finish, so I left with a promise to be back at six.  Everyone took turns shaking my hand.  Some shook my hand more than once. I could tell by the way they shook hands that they rarely did it. It seemed to be more of a fun foreign novelty to them.  I went back outside in a happy mood. It was getting dark. In the distance I could hear explosions and music.  It was a Hindu wedding procession.  I hurried across the street to a stall to buy fresh batteries for my flash.  I knew I would be burning several rolls of film.  I followed the sound as it turned the corner.  A brass band blared a discordant tune from a popular Bollywood blockbuster.  (The first time I heard that song was after being shaken out of bed at eleven p.m. as a wedding passed just outside my window. I was furious back then, but learned it was better to wake up and join in than to sit angry in my room.)  The music is a little difficult to describe.  It’s played on badly tuned instruments by musicians of limited skills, but with such speed, energy and enthusiasm that it all comes together noisily and beautifully. The band led a turbaned, tinseled groom on horseback while men danced frenetically in front and women in gold trimmed saris followed in a long procession behind.  Every several paces, cherry bombs powerful enough to blow off your hand were ignited, and much too close to everyone’s feet. The air was thick with the smell of marigolds, and sulfur from exploding cherry bombs. I approached in cautious steps with my camera lowered, not wanting to intrude uninvited.  I asked a man standing next to me whether he thought anyone would mind whether I took a photograph.  He smiled, “No problem, my friend! No problem! Come!”  He yelled, “Photo!” and shouted for everyone to clear the way.  He grabbed my arm and rushed me forward through the crowd to allow me a closer view.  The only other person with a camera was the hired official wedding photographer.  He was just as excited as the first man and happily shared his spot with me.  He enthusiastically gave me tips on when the next street light would be getting better and from what angles the shots would be good.  I was urged to join in the frantic dancing while he took a few snaps of me in the fray. We arrived at the destination which was a large red and gold cloth-covered plywood stage set next to a Hindu temple.  The groom dismounted and then sat on a low wooden stool in front of  the pujari (priest) who also sat on his own stool.  Between them was a platter with various ritual offerings. The pujari chanted Vedic hymns and placed a tilak on the grooms forehead. Family members came by in turn and offered gold necklaces, bracelets and other symbolic gifts.  I was given a place to crouch down with the pujari and groom in order to get the best vantage point for my shots. But I had to wait, as well-wishers making offerings blocked my view. I was embarrassed the way that people were yelled at and told to get out of my way. In reality, I was the intrusion. These people were part of the ceremony. I was just a foreigner who crashed their wedding. I had to keep gesturing that I didn’t mind waiting for them to finish. Then the music started again and the numerous members of  the extended families, in a large mob, began  hugging, crying and joyfully laughing.  The photographer and several others who appointed themselves as my guide gestured at all the hugging and beamed, “You see? You see? Indian culture! You like it!?”  They were very proud of it all.  They knew they had something amazing.  In the open-air wedding area, hundreds of women in their best saris sat facing the platform. They were like a sea of chattering and shifting flowers.  The groom now sat stone-faced next to his stoic bride on mock thrones while more offerings were made.  I was urged onstage and again people were pushed aside to allow me to take close up photographs of the bride and groom.  The bride, groom and maids of honor all had sad looks on their faces.  It’s an Indian custom,  for the bride especially, to show sadness at the prospect of leaving her family. I realized while onstage, with hundreds of people watching me, how disheveled I looked. I was still in the T-shirt and cutoff shorts I wore for my day of exploring ruins. Each time I got off the stage to get out of the limelight someone would urge me back on with something else interesting to see.  I was fought over in a friendly manner by different clusters of people. “You come sit with us here!”  No, don’t listen to them, come this way to see!”  “No, come to the temple here and see the beautiful gods!”  I was having great fun. The feast was soon to be served but since I wasn’t sure of the food source I declined with the excuse that my doctor put me on a fast for my upset stomach. No one would take “no” for an answer.  I insisted I must follow the doctor’s orders.  Then I was inundated with all sorts of folk remedies; yogurt and bananas, yogurt and rice and on and on. “I will take you to an ayurvedic doctor. Much better than western medicine!” I was getting hungry from the smell of the feast and decided to head back to Bhoj Restaurant. After another round of shaking of hands, pats on the back, exchanges of addresses and promises to write, I headed off. The restaurant was now filled with the political and business elite of Ahmedabad. The tables were covered with fresh tablecloths and the waiters were all now in crisp white uniforms. I could barely recognize them from the grungy clothes they were in earlier.  When they spotted me, each came by my table to shake my hand again. I had a Gujarati tali served on a large stainless steel platter. Talis are always served on an all-you-can-eat basis and the waiters always made sure everything was quickly refilled. I was jokingly reminded that I “cooked” one of the dishes earlier.  When they saw I was leaving, each one came by again to see me off and shake my hand again.  I  quickly went to the cashier to pay for the meal myself before any of them could intercede. I didn’t want the cook to get himself into trouble and I especially didn’t want it to come out of his pocket. To this day I still receive holiday cards from the waiters at Bhoj and from the wedding photographer.  People back home wonder how I can travel in India alone. India never gave me a chance to feel alone.