You Can Lead a Guest to Rice

by Gretchen Kent (United States of America)

Making a local connection Nepal

Eating customs in Nepal were already a fickle fiend to me. As a family guest, I had to eat first or with the boys instead of with the other women (or everyone together), and I couldn't even think about washing the dishes afterward. The women in the kitchen never permitted me to help in the preparation (their efficiency at whipping up Dal Baht and fixings was truly impressive); no doubt I would have brought the well-oiled machine to a crawl. I learned early on to use the word "bugyo" (I'm full) liberally when someone headed my direction with the rice pot or spoonfuls of additional curry or beans. I often sent the cook away by frantically shielding my plate, but it was not my fault I was never hungry after the day's previous mealtime feast! My host mother would always frown and retreat to someone else's plate with her serving spoon and the most disappointing expression when I did this. Needless to say, I was feeling at ease at the dinner table these days, even enjoying eating the traditional way, with my right hand. My host brothers had taken me to their aunt's home in Kathmandu for the weekend, and this particular lunch was successful for me in that I had fended off her advances of more food at least twice. I had also recited the entirety of my limited Nepali vocabulary to her, much to her delight and laughter: "My name is," "good morning," "hot water," and many "thank yous" throughout the meal. Her son Prasan assured me she was so amused because she had never met a westerner, nevermind one capable of stumbling through basic words in her language. "Are you sure I can't help at all?" I asked Prasan hopefully as his cousins brought their plates to the sink and made their exit. "No, of course not. I will wash these, have a seat," was his placid response. With a noise of good-natured frustration, I placed my plate, with a bit of extra rice on it, on the counter behind me, a ways from the full sink. Prasan's mother immediately broke out in peals of uncontrollable laughter across the way, clutching her stomach and squinting at my plate. Prasan grabbed it up with a smile and deposited it on top of the stack of other dishes. "What!" I demanded, realizing I'd made some sort of faux pas. The other boys had wandered onto the scene, attracted by their aunt's incoherent explanation of the hilarity; she could hardly catch her breath now. "You can't put used things over here where food is made," Prasan finally tells me. "It's unnatural." Ah yes, the unnaturalness concept. I had experienced this when attempting to circle a stupa counterclockwise the day before. Prasan began making fun of his mother, holding his face as she was in an effort to subdue the laughter. "How was I supposed to know!" I asked the room indignantly. It took quite a few minutes before everything calmed down; his mother couldn't keep the giggles or smiles from her face every time she looked at me. Shaking my head in mock defeat, I commenced fiddling with my water glass until I ceased to be a spectacle any longer. I carefully filed this cultural novelty away as well, determined not to cause such upheaval again in the kitchen, but pleasantly pleased to have caused such a happy ruckus.