Chapter 4
Chapter 4: The Foreigner
Abhay’s P.O.V:-
I took another shot of the women sewing together a brilliant bed sheet with needles and threads and
then checked the photos for rity. This was going to be the most amazing project I’d ever done for
Lifestyle Magazine.
The brightness of the colors contrasted well with the whitewashed buildings and brought the women
into sharp focus. My new Nikon FM2 had cost me a fortune but it was the perfect camera for me.
And it was lightweight and easy to carry. I still had a few longer, high resolution lenses in the duffle
bag that I’d left back at the hotel, but since I was just walking through the vibrant marketce and
taking close-up shots, it was easier to carry a lightweight camera.
It was about three o’ clock on a winter afternoon but the sun was beating down on all of us
mercilessly, although I was the only one who seemed to be affected by it. I wiped away some sweat
from my brows with a handkerchief and cursed myself for wearing a leather jacket in the middle of
the day.
I looked around at the stores and street-side vendors and decided that going into a dhaba (an
eatery) was a lot better choice than standing in this heat and watching myself melt. And besides, I
haven’t had lunch yet so it would give me a much needed break.
But first things first, I walked over to the group of women sewing together to get a closer shot of
their work. There were about nine women, everyone sitting in a circr formation around the sheet
they were sewing, and they seemed to be having a pleasant time doing their job. They sat with their
back to a small one storied house, all wearing colorful ghagra-choli’s along with red coral bangles to
signify their marital. All of them had their dupatta’s covering their head and half of their face so you
couldn’t tell if they wore vermillion on their forehead or not, which in India was a sure shot way of
telling if a woman was married. Gingerly, I asked them if it was alright for me to take their pictures or
not, because most women in this part of the country were conservative as Hell and it would be rude
to get their photos in a magazine without asking for permission first.
The women seemed willing to let me take pictures so I helped myself by hunkering down next to
them and taking several close-up shots of their crafts. The workmanship was even beautiful from up
close and I made a mental shopping list of things that I’ll need to take home to my parents and to
my brother and his new wife. The threads they used were a bit on the thicker side and required
mean-looking, big needles and the colors they had chosen for the red sheet were all in varying
shades of green and white. It provided a nice contrast and really brought out the designs. As a
photographer, it was my duty to bring out the best camera angles and the group of women were not
only co-operative, they enjoyed the mini-photoshoot just as much as I enjoyed filming it.
I was also able to find out that they ran a local boutique store just around the corner and sold
several other things that they hand-crafted themselves. So I noted down their address and
promised to return soon to buy some of their products before I returned to Bombay. Happy that I’d
aplished part of the job, I made my way down the street on to my next mission.
Finding the nearest dhaba only a couple minutes away, I ducked down under the shade of the
asbestos sheet covered ceiling and plopped down on one of the nearest tables I could find. I ced
my camera on the table and poured some water into a steel ss from a pitcher and drowned it in
one go. Feeling instantly refreshed, I picked up the stic bound menu card and began scanning
through it, looking for something non-spicy to have for lunch.
Còntens bel0ngs to N?(v)elDr/a/ma.Org
“Ready to order, Saabh?” A waiter came to ask me a couple minutester, wearing a white kurta
and a multicolored turban, as most men did in Gujarat.
“Haan.” I nodded and pointed out a few delicacies that looked the least bit spicy. After all, you can
never go wrong with rice and daal, right? “And get me a big ss of chaach (buttermilk) to go with
it.” I told the man in Hindi and broken Gujarati, but he understood and wrote down my order before
telling me he’ll be right back with them.
The chaach arrived first, garnished with spices and presented in a ss so tall, I could’ve easily just
drank the whole thing and skipped lunch; and then came the daal chawal. What I hadn’t expected
though, was the amount of green chilies floating in the pulses.
Carefully I swirled my finger in the middle of the lump of rice dumped in my te and then poured
the daal into the well that I’d created. I made sure not to pour all the daal and reserved some for
later, depending on the spice level. I picked up a small portion with my fingers and ced it into my
mouth.
The burst of fiery heat was instant and within a few seconds, I had drowned half the ss of chaach
and was still panting from the heat. “Fuck! That’s going to be a painful time at the loo.” I told myself
under my breath. Sometimes I hated the fact that I had such a low tolerance for heat, which is why
when I saw a foreigner enter the dhaba along with a Guajarati girl, I felt a sense of pride that at least
I had a better heat tolerance than the white haired woman.
Wait, white haired?
My head whipped up to stare at the woman in awe. At first I’d thought that she might be an old
woman given the color of her hair, but now that I was looking at her closely, she hardly looked
younger than twenty five. And now that she was inside the shade of the restaurant, I could see a
slight difference in her hair color that I couldn’t tell at first nce. It wasn’t white…it was a metallic
white, almost silver.
As if feeling my gaze on her, her head whipped in my direction, her eyes piercing right through me
to the depths of my soul. For a few seconds, the world stood still. All I saw were her icy blue eyes,
the same color as the ocean on a bright sunny day. But even though the color was bright, I felt a
chill run down my spine. I shuddered, but I couldn’t break eye contact.
She was beautiful…absolutely gorgeous. But there was an iciness around her that could freeze
someone to death. It was like she was closed off, too reserved and unaffected to care about anyone
else, and yet the way she took a step in front of the Gujarati girl, while taking a seat a couple tables
in front of me, was almost protective.
She was also very tall, almost six feet, which meant she would be almost the same height as me.
And I could almost feel how good it would be to have her tucked under my chin, to feel her soft skin
under my fingers, to kiss those delicious pink lips…
And just like she’d read my mind before, she must have done so this time as well, because her icy
blue eyes sparked fire at me and the world began to move again.