We got in the rickshaw under the cover of darkness to hide our whiteness in its cramped confines. It was 10:30pm on New Years Eve and we didn't want any more extra attention than we already receive on a daily basis. The driver took us on a short 6 minute ride to the apartment complex. As we exited, we were acutely aware of the alcohol bottles clinking in my friend's backpack.
We were told to look out for the nightwatchman. Sure enough, there he was, sleeping on a makeshift bed right at the entrance to the building; we tiptoed by. As we climbed the steps we looked to our right to see two fat cats resting on the seats of a couple motorcycles. They eyed us suspiciously.
We once more tiptoed up the four flights to the top level and approached the non-descript door in the corner. My friend said she thought this was the place, but wasn't sure. I put my ear to to the door to attempt to make out the sounds coming from inside. We knocked softly and then she answered the door. We made it without incident.
I was told she was a "progressive" Indian. Which meant she drank alcohol, ate meat, and wore jeans. We joined a small group of Americans and Indians for a relaxing kickback. My coworker brought out juicy pieces of chicken she had discreetly acquired earlier that day in the Muslim quarter of the city. The host poured us all glasses of vodka or whiskey, produced from the deep recesses of a kitchen cupboard. We set the glasses down on the floor softly; we were told the neighbors below could hear the clinking. Someone lit up a cigarette. The walls were plastered with artsy landscape and portraits, blown up to large sizes and strung about. Five little turtles swam around in a water basin. Popular Bollywood music played in the background. We enjoyed ourselves. The time passed so easily that no one even noticed when the clock hit 12. We left soon thereafter, but not before our host handed us small wrapped candies. "Mints" she said, "to mask the smell on your breath. Oh, and watch out for police." Tiptoeing past the cats, we hesitated momentarily as the nightwatchman let out a mid-sleep grunt. The streets were eerily deserted for the 15 minute walk home. We listened uneasily to the sounds of ambulance sirens as we pondered this strange place.
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In Bhuj, alcohol sale and consumption is illegal, and most Hindus are also strictly vegetarian (no eggs either). Acquiring meat or eggs is a harrowing process fraught with back alley stores open only at night and black plastic bags to hide recently purchased goods. Letting on to your friends and coworkers that you are "non-veg" is risky itself; invitations to dinner at your place may be turned down, offers of your food for sharing denied. Neighborhoods are segregated by veg/non-veg.
I've taken enough history classes and watched enough films to know what Tehran in the 1970's and East Berlin in the 1980's was like. Our night was a little bit of both. Hiding in the rickshaw, a discreet drive to the party. Entering undetected past the nightwatchman, navigating checkpoints and informants. Procuring the illegal goods. Hiding our Western contraband and music from the neighbors. Erasing all evidence of our activities. Watching out for the gestapo.
The third night in Bhuj, Gabe and I were without fridge or stove and starving. It was midnight and the only place open was the eggwala on the corner. We sat at a small table with no light hidden behind the eggwala's cart and wolfed down 2 omelets as fast as we could, paranoid that someone we may have met in the previous 3 days might spot us. While our attitudes towards meat, eggs, and alcohol have changed completely since that first week, the town and the region have not.
I guess it just makes those rare omelets and cuba libres all the better...
Intense.
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