Written by Matthew L. Pasulka – It was a beautiful summer morning in Diu, a small port city on the southern shores of Gujarat, India that once served as the base of operations for the Portuguese military in South Asia. The sun was slowly making its way towards its afternoon zenith in the blue sky above us, the birds were chirping happily, greeting the new morning, and drivers were already beginning the cacophonous concert of car horns that dominated the daily fog of sound that hung over all of India.
Pappa and I had awoken early and had left my wife to sleep in the hotel room. We were headed to the fruit and vegetable market, an open air bazaar within walking distance of the Indian Ocean, a place so near to the water that one could hear the foamy waves lapping up on the sandy beaches underneath the overlapping buzz of vendors hawking their goods.
“Muttyu,” Pappa announced, rubbing his hands together in excited anticipation of a… ahem… fruitful outing, “today you are going to experience de beauty of an Indian fruit market. Never before in your life have you known de joy dat you will feel today.”
I pursed my lips in thought. “Is this a produce market or an open-air brothel?”
Pappa frowned and waved dismissively at me. “You Americans and your filty mouts. We will wash it out wit some draaksh. You know what is draaksh?”
I nodded excitedly. “Grapes.”
Pappa rolled his eyes. “Even monkeys can learn to speak a few words, Muttyu. You will have to do better dan dat to impress me.”
“What monkeys can learn to speak a few words?” I asked, genuinely curious.
Pappa tilted his head and shot me a look that let me know that I, in fact, was the monkey in question.
“Understood,” I answered, dropping my head to my chest.
Prerna and I had been married three years earlier, but since her father had already moved back to India after living in America for thirty years, we hadn’t been able to spend much time with him. This extended vacation was supposed to be a time where her father and I would be able to hang out together and get to know each other, a period where, as she said, I could become a real part of her family.
“Allow your eyes to be feasting on dis,” he said, spreading his arms out to his sides to present to me the bustling marketplace.
In front of me was an entire universe of sensory delight imprisoned in a 20,000 square foot park: a carnival of color, scent, and sound like I had never experienced before. Customers milled about, comparing the wares from the various vendors as the salty air filled with shouts and calls that touted the prices of the produce available for purchase. Most of the vendors reclined casually on brightly-colored blankets laid out neatly on the ground, their legs crossed tightly as they sat surrounded by their fruits and vegetables like kings and queens looming like giants over their helpless subjects.
I stayed close to Pappa as he expertly weaved his way through the crowd, eventually coming to a stop in front of an older man who sat next to a pyramid of watermelons.
“How much for a large watermelon?” Pappa asked in Gujarati.
The man looked at Pappa, then looked at me, the tall white guy bouncing excitedly from left to right with a Christmas morning smile plastered on his face, then looked back at Pappa.
“Nine hundred,” the man answered sternly.
Pappa hunched his eyebrows in shock at the quoted price. “Nine hundred? Nine hundred? Are these watermelons royalty or sumting? Nine hundred? Did you wake up drunk or did you start drinking when the sun came up? Do your watermelons provide good conversation as well as nutrition?”
The vendor stared stoically at Pappa as he unleashed a torrent of abuse at the fruit seller. “Nine hundred,” he repeated.
“Come, Muttyu,” Pappa said as he motioned me on with a frustrated swing of his arm. “Let’s go find fruit that wasn’t born from aristocratic seeds.”
“One kilo of apples,” Pappa ordered, stopping at another stall. In between two piles of apples, each one stacked nearly five feet into the air, sat a plump, smiling lady, who bobbed her head excitedly from side to side as she considered the fruit order.
“Six hundred,” she said, removing a plastic bag from a stack hidden under her generous underside.
“Six hundred?” Pappa repeated incredulously. He took a step back and looked around, trying to determine why the prices for fruit were several orders of magnitude more expensive than fruit in any other part of the state. “I asked for some apples, not your children. Tell me: what is so special about your apples dat you charge so much money for dem?”
The woman’s eyes darted to me for a moment before returning back to Pappa. “Okay,” she replied teasingly. “I make you a deal: five-eighty.”
“A deal? A deal? Dat is not a deal, man, dat is robbery. Man, I cannot believe dis. How can you charge so mu-”
Pappa stopped mid-sentence and turned his head slowly so that he faced me. “It’s you, man,” he said accusingly, pointing his bony index finger at me. “Dis is all your fault, man.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, stepping backwards. “How is this my fault? What is my fault?”
“You’re de reason dey’re charging me so much money.”
“Me? Why?”
“Cuz you’re a gora, man. You’re white. Dey tink you have all de money in de world, man. Dey tink you’re Bill Gates or someting.”
“They think Bill Gates walked into an open-air produce market in Gujarat?”
“Maybe, man.” Pappa stopped to consider things for a moment. “Okay. New rule: you are not allowed to come witin fifty feet of me.”
“What? Why?”
“Cuz you cost me money, man. Fifty feet. Now go!” he said, shooing me away with a casual wave of his hand.
Defeated, I slumped my shoulders and shuffled away.
“Farder, man!” Pappa shouted. “Farder. I can still see you, man.” I kept walking, shuffling to the back of the row of stalls, a beaten dog forced to distance himself from his cruel owner. “Okay, man. Dere is okay.”
It felt like an extrajudicial restraining order: defendant must maintain a distance of no less than fifty feet from complainant at all times, regardless of circumstances, under penalty of being overcharged for fruit, ordered, signed, and enforced by Pappa.
As we walked back to the hotel, Pappa happily gorged himself on a bag full of grapes that he had purchased. “Want one, man?” he asked, clear juice dripping down his chin.
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”
Pappa shrugged his shoulders and shoved another grape in his mouth. “Suit yourself, man. Muttyu, I tink I have found de secret of happiness: cheap fruit and fifty feet of glorious buffer space from you.”
I nodded. “I was thinking, Pappa: because of my willingness to go along with your demands that I stay far away from you, we saved a lot of money, right?”
Pappa nodded. “Dat’s true, dough I like to tink dat we saved de money not because you did anyting, but because I told you to do someting. Do you see de difference?”
“I do,” I confirmed. “You want the credit. That’s fair. So, to recap, since we’ve awoken you’ve compared me to a talking monkey, forced me to keep a distance of no less than fifty feet from you when in public, and took credit away from me for saving money.”
Pappa considered this and then nodded. “Dat’s true, man.”
“I gotta be honest, Pappa: right now I feel like an authentic member of the Patel family.”
Pappa nodded and put his arm on my shoulder. “Provisionally. I still haven’t decided wheder or not to keep you.”
“That’s good enough for me,” I said contentedly.
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Matthew is a certified elementary school teacher, a stay-at-home father, and a frequent visitor to the Indian state of Gujarat, where his parents-in-law live. He enjoys spending as much time in India as possible, speaking horrendous (but improving) Hindi, choking on paan, and being the only person around who wears a seat belt.
He is also the author of the essay At the Intersection of Lord Ganesh and Nookie, which has been published on this very website!
