eating.

Recently a group of pastors and I (David) shared a meal together in a small town in our state.  I am an utter novice when it comes to eating in South Asia.  It’s more complicated than it sounds.

The four of us enter a small, dim room in another pastor’s home that serves as his bedroom, living room, and dining room.  There are no tables, chairs, lights, or ceiling fan.  It’s close to ninety degrees out, and I am sweating.

The kitchen simmers and crackles with the smells of a generous lunch – rice, chapatti, dhal, and chicken.

The men sit.  I have trouble sitting still in a Lazy-Boy much less cross-legged on a cement floor, but I try.  The women of the house hand out tin plates.  Then, one by one, they bring brimming bowls of each item, heaping our plates high.

Someone brings little tin cups of water.  Something is floating in mine.  I eat the food by faith, but dare not “put the Lord your God to the test” with the water.

There are no utensils.  I watch in amazement as my companions deftly sweep rice and dhal gravy together with the fingers of their right hands, and in one fluid motion, lift a wet, bite-sized morsel into their mouths.  It’s effortless.  There is no mess beyond their knuckles.

My meal is a little more effort-full.  I use my whole palm to get a good snowball of rice going.  Once I get the clump of food a few inches off my plate and am confident I can balance it there for a second or two, I find the best approach is to get my head under it rather than bringing the precarious load the rest of the way up to my mouth.  So I commence a personal limbo line, my handful of rice becomes the pole and my whole body contorts to get under it.

Head cocked sideways, back muscles taut, mouth gaping, I can get a better look at a roomful of people watching me, pretending not to be watching me.  I drop the gravy and rice down toward my mouth; a third of it hits its mark, a third splatters back to my plate, and a third will be discreetly swept up later by my host.

Napkins are as rare as utensils.  This creates problems for a habitual napkin user like me.  Surprisingly, a short stack of napkins is brought in.  They are the cheap, glossy, non-absorbent kind slightly smaller than toilet paper squares.  I take a generous handful and smear my hands and mouth with what feels like wrapping paper.

I love spicy food, but today’s fare is in a deeper level of Dante’s abyss than I’d care to go.  I was sweating when I walked in.  Now my forehead is drooling.  I’ve learned to keep one forearm reserved for wiping dhal from my mouth and the other one for sweat and a runny nose.  It’s not a pretty sight when I get them mixed up.

The meal is finally over.  My friends look so impeccably clean, I’m wondering if they ate anything at all or lost their appetite watching me.  I need a garden hose to get cleaned up.  Instead, the hostess brings thimbles of warm water for each of us to wash in.  I try to choose between my fingers or chin.