Punjab - Sarhal Quazian - Visit with the Klairs (Part 1)

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Written on Oct-16th, Paris, France.

This is going to be aother really long entry. More so for myself than for anyone else reading this. Visiting the Klair's on their farm has been an absolute highlight of my trip to India, and I am going to want to come back and re-read this from time to time I am sure. I will split it into a couple of different parts so as to not take up too much space, but in an effort not to forget certain details years from now I will use as much detail as I want to! If you don't like it, don't read it all!

So much has happened over the last few days, its going to be pretty tough to boil it all down to one of these blog entries. As I mentioned in some of my previous posts, my mother introduced me to a friend of hers back home in Canada who invited me to go and visit her family while I was traveling in India. Over the 24th, 25th and the 26th of September I contacted the Klairs at their home via telephone. I was warned in advance that they did not know much english, and I would likely only be able to talk to one of the brothers. Wanting to arrive on Saturday the 27th I gave them a call on the 24th and tried to let them know when I would be arriving, and get directions as to how to get to their farm.

The first conversation actually did not go so well. I was in the coffee place I had found on Lawrence road when I tried calling the Klairs. I tried speaking to the person who answered the phone and the language barrier was so big that I did not even know if I had the right number. I asked for Bahadur, the one brother who could speak some english and we did not get much further than "hello". I tried english on him, and he tried punjabi on me, and after a few minutes I gave up and told him that I would give him a call back. Wondering what the hell I was going to do I sat back and weighed my options. I could wait until this evening and give my mom a call, get her to talk to Shinder back home in Canada. Shinder would then have to call her family, and afterwards she could call back my mom, who in turn could then call me back. Seemed like a lot of work to me. A lot of work that would provide a lot of opportunity for a miscommunication somewhere along the line.

I realized that there was a still a group of guys in the coffee place that had been talking to me earlier. One of them in particular spoke extremely fluent english, so I decided to ask him if he would be willing to call the Klairs on my behalf. I explained the situation to him and gave him my phone asking if he would be willing to make the call. He seemed more than happy to help, and after spending a few minutes on the phone with them he started writing out details on a scrap of paper. After hanging up the phone with them he explained to me that Saturday would be fine as far as coming out to visit, and that I was going to have to get a train ticket to a place called Phagwara where someone would be meeting me at the train station. He explained that after getting my train ticket sorted out I needed to call back a guy named Nirver Singh at a new number he had jotted down for me, and let him know what time I would be arriving at the train station. I thanked him very much for his help, realizing, and letting him know that I never would have been able to get this done without him. Over the next couple of days in amongst the other things that I was doing I managed to get my train ticket sorted out, and I found a few other people to make calls to the Klairs on my behalf in order to get my visit with them properly communicated. Before I left Amritsar I asked around for a good sweet shop where I purchased a large mixed box. I had heard from a few people that bringing sweets to someones house when invited is polite, so I made sure I didn't leave Amritsar without arming myself with some.

The train ride to Phagwara from Amritsar took a little over two hours and I was extremely lucky to have some excellent conversation during the journey. I was sitting beside a middle aged, well dressed Indian man who happily agreed to let me know when we had reached Phagwara (they dont anounce the towns or stops on the trains, so if you dont know exactly where you are going mistakes can be made quite easily). He kept to himself when our journey first started, but soon he was asking me all sorts of questions, most of them about Canada. He had a very, very advanced knowledge of the english language, and soon his questions were requiring considerable thought on my part in order to provide him with answers. When I asked him about his profession he told me he was a psychiatrist working at one of the hospitals in Amritsar. His questions along the lines of social structure, the degree to which mental illness is accepted as actual illness, and what types of medical and social programs we have to help these types of people continued until we reached Phagwara. When we arrived he took my mobile from me, programmed his number in as Dr. Sandhu, and told me that should I need anything not to hesitate to call him, promising to provide whatever service or help he was able. I thanked him for his offer, and his extremely thought provoking and interrogative conversation before saying goodbye. It might not sound like much, but most Indians, although they can communicate to you in english, cant speak with you at this type of technical level. It was actually quite a treat to have my mind worked so hard through a conversation over a couple of hours, and I really appreciated his company over the trip.

Stepping out onto the platform I realized that I was heading a fair ways out into the unknown. Not having been able to find Phagwara on any map in my lonely planet I had no idea where I now was, nevermind where I was going next. Realizing there was nothing to do but get on with it, I dragged my bag off to a free bench on the platform where I sat down. Shortly after sitting down my phone started ringing and before I could finish fumbling through my pockets in an attempt to answer it the young man who had originated the call had picked me out of the crowd and introduced himself. "I am Nirver Singh" he said as he hoisted my bag up onto his back and motioned me to follow him. He already had my bag on his back, so I had no choice but to follow him! We left the train station and he led me to a waiting car where I was greeted by two other young Indian men. They loaded up my gear, stuffed me into the front seat of the car, and before I really knew what was happening we were speeding away from the train station off to our destination. The three of them were talking with each other in Pujabi, sometimes directing questions at me to which I would just smile and make a clueless gesture. It did not seem to matter much as they would just break out in laughter whenever I would indicate that I didn't understand. Finally we went down a sidestreet where we started slowing down a bit. At this time the conversation changed a bit, and through observation I could tell they were trying to decide which english word to use. It was decided that "juice" was the correct english word, and the three of them started looking at me and chanting "juice?" as a question. I nodded my head to them and said yes a few times, "juice would be good". They bought me a couple of glasses of fresh guava juice from a roadside stand. I was actually near the bottom of my second glass before I noticed that the hard chunks floating in it weren't pits or seeds, but ice cubes. Wondering from which source they came from, I also wondered what the probability of my getting sick over the next few days was. I quickly put the idea out of my head though and just enjoyed it, realizing the damage was done. I think it was at that moment that I came to terms with the fact that I was completely at the mercy of strangers. I was far off the beaten track, and I was going to have to let go of a lot if I was going to enjoy this particular trip. I was going to have to just trust strangers completely with my welfare, which for me was not an easy thing to do.

We were soon back on the road and we arrived at the Klair's farm about forty five minutes later. Their family was waiting to greet me just outside their house, and by the time I had introduced myself and shaken hands with everyone my bags had been unloaded from the car by Nirver, and the vehicle and its other two occupants were gone. I regretted not being able to thank whoever the other two were for the ride, and for not having a chance to offer up some money to cover the cost of fuel. I didn't have long to regret it before being quickly whisked into the familes home where I soon forgot about it. Through a bit of english, and some hand gestures I learned that the vehicle used to pick me up at the train station was borrowed from, and driven by one of the families friends, thats why they had hurried off. I gave the box of sweets I had purchased to Mata Jee (hindi for Mom), and soon after I was led into their home and into one of the bedrooms where all of my gear was dropped and I was motioned to have a seat. I was brought a cup of chai and soon family members were bringing down pictures off the walls and doing their best to explain to me who everyone was. It took me a little while, but eventually I got everything figured out as far as what everyones name was, who was related to who, and how.

After I had had a cup of tea, and reviewed all of their pictures I was asked "bathing?", and "fresh?" in the form of a questions, and I quickly agreed. Bahadur led me to the shower and left a towel after pouring a bucket for me. I have to say, the cold water bucket bath I had that day was one of the best showers I have ever had. Punjab is hot, but for some reason out on the farm, even with all of the greenery around me, it seemed that it was way hotter than it had been in the city. After getting cleaned up and dressed I was led around the side of the house by Nirver who hopped onto his motorcycle and motioned for me to get on the back. He told me with a couple words that it was football time, and that we were late!

Riding on the back of a motorcycle for the first time is a disarming feeling. No helmets, tiny little broken pathways, and the narrow dirt streets of rural India combined into a mixed feeling of fear and exhilaration. I have never been on a motorcycle as a passenger before, and in my new evironment, without a proper means of communication, no idea where I really was, and with the wind in my face I can only describe the feeling as I just did, a combination of complete helplessness and excitement. It was fantastic and over much too quickly as we arrived at our destination which was the villiage school. There were young men of all ages around, and I noticed that Bahadur, and the little guy named Pradhjot who I had been introduced to back at the house were already there waiting for us. The guys who were there at the train station were present as well, and I had my opportunity to thank them although the driver refused my offer of money for fuel.

I learned that the young men of the villiage meet here every day, where they play football (soccer to everyone from North America) from around four or five o'clock until it gets dark. I had hurt my foot quite badly in a fall in the shower a few weeks earlier so I declined to play with them, but I ensured them all that I would be thrilled to just watch. They seemed a bit dissapointed that I was not going to be playing with them, but after showing them my black and purple foot they understood, and they seemed satisfied that I was interested to just watch. The injury to my foot, although completely legitimate and truthful was merely a secondary excuse to the fact that I never would have been able to keep up to them anyways. It quickly became apparent how competitive and passionate they all were about the game. It was a real pleasure to watch them play, and one conclusion quickly became apparent to me. There were men, and boys of all ages present, from twelve years old all the way into late twenties. The fact that some were wearing proper soccer shoes, socks, and shirts, while others had just left their rubber sandals at the edge of the field and gone barefoot only confirmed it. The sense of community present in this villiage was like something I have heard my father talk about when he remembers his childhood. This sort of thing doesn't happen anymore where I come from. If it does, it certainly doesn't happen everyday before dinner time, with the end of the game determined by the oldest of all clocks, the sun. I supose in that hour or so I watched them play I understood, just for that short time, what my dad was remembering, and what he must have been feeling when he would bring up old memories to tell me about his hikes into frozen lakes to play hockey with friends as a kid. As a result of our desires for 40+ inch LCD's and Plasma's, and just about every home having an xbox, or playstation, half the time acting as the babysitter for two absent parents, its something we have lost. Its gone, and we wont be able to get it back. As I sat quietly on the sidelines and watched, even without playing I felt a real sense of joy in seeing exactly what they had, and how important it really was.

After the game Nirver fired up his bike and brought it around. I climbed onto the back and we sped off back down the tiny rural roads towards the villiage. He asked me along the way if I was thirsty, repeating the words "thirsty" and "drink" a few times. I could definitely have used a glass of water, but seeing how hard he had been working out on the field I indicated that he likely needed something to drink more than me. To give you an idea of the kind of hospitality I was recieving, basically from strangers, seriously consider what happened next. We went back to the house where we parked the bike, and he then led me off down the road into a small square in the villiage. He asked me again if I wanted something to drink and I replied that I did. Nirver then walked into a small liquor store where he pulled out his wallet, grabbed a big bottle of whiskey, a bottle of rum, and a few bottles of beer. He then started pointing at the various racks shrugging his shoulders wondering if there was anything else that I wanted. I finally understood what he meant, and I was a bit overwhelmed. When he was asking me if I wanted something to "drink", he was really asking me if I wanted some sort of alchohol. I pointed at him and poked his chest a few times while waving a bottle of whiskey. He shook his head in response. Just what I figured. It was obvious by the introductions and the inclusion of "Singh" in all of the names that himself, and his entire family were Sikh's. I had noticed in all of the rooms of the house pictures of Nanak, and other Guru's; although I did not know the extent of their devotion I figured that it would be unlikely that they would drink alchohol, being against their religion. Incidentally, having picked up the habit of smoking again while on this trip, I had been leaving their property, walking around the house to the small square in the villiage to even have a smoke. Smoking also is against their religion, and I was worried that it could possibly be interpreted as offensive to just go outside their house (I should really have just stopped the whole time I was there, or again permanently). His shaking of his head when I waved the bottle and poked his chest confirmed it. It took a while, and the help of the store owner, but I eventually managed to convince him that I really don't drink alchohol myself, and that he should only buy something to "drink" if he wanted it for himself. He eventually communicated that neither himself, or the rest of his family would drink alchohol and we left the shop.

Instead we got onto the topic of chicken. He asked me if I would eat chicken with him in a roundabout way through broken english, and I happily replied that I would. We went just next door where a man in the street had a large cauldron of a bubbling brown liquid and Nirver began talking to the man, pointing at me, and saying "taste", "taste" over and over. The guy scooped a piece of chicken wtih a bit of the sauce onto a little plate and handed it to me along with the spoon. They both waited, silently staring at me while I pulled the meat off the bone and tried the sauce. Without a doubt, it was one of the spiciest dishes I have ever had in my life. Every other authentically spicy Indian dish I had had up until that point completely paled in comparison. I gave the thumbs up as a verdict though as it was incredibly tasty, and with a huge grin from Nirver, and from the vendor, four of five huge scoops of the dish were depositied into a small plastic shopping bag. I pulled out my wallet and tried to pay for the meat, but in perfect english Nirver said "noooooo, guest" a few times and I decided not to push it.

We ended up back at the house where I was immediately given one of the many bottles of water that they had put in the fridge in preparation for my visit. I was led back to the bedroom and motioned to have a seat on the bed. After a short time, the tv was turned on to a British football match, all the guys seated themselves cross legged on the bed, and a tablecloth was spread out in front of us. Mata Jee started bringing us dishes and we dived into the food, which I have to say was pretty much the best I had had during my trip. After eating in resturaunts for months, and months home cooked food tasted fantastic. They seemed to think I was some sort of bottomless pit though, and long after I was full more and more food kept coming out, getting placed in front of me. I was trying to be polite and continue eating, but eventually I had to pat my stomach, motion that I was full, and convince them that I had had enough.

A little while after dinner I was offered milk. I did not know what they wanted to bring me to start with, and it wasn't until Mata Jee did a mime act imitating the milking of a cow that I finally understood. "Milk", "milk" I said a few times and everyone roared with laughter. Not usually a drinker of milk as it bothers my stomach I initially declined; however, It soon became apparent that they wouldn't take no for an answer. The milk was fresh, and to my surprise it was hot and had been sweetened. It was actually really good, and I just enjoyed it, figuring I would deal with the coming stomach problems later. Shortly afterwards most people retired to bed and Bahadur and I continued to watch the football match. We had a small communication problem before bed with him asking me over and over again "you are sleeping?". I was trying to tell him, as I could tell that he was quite into the game, that if I fell asleep, I fell asleep. I didn't want him to turn off the tv on account of me. Finally I told him "you are sleeping?, same same" and I think he understood. He got up, got me a blanket, and we finished watching the game before turning out the lights and going to sleep.

It was apparent that he had studied english, but I think that he had just forgotten a lot of it due to lack of use. The same way that my french, studied in elementary school is now useless to me due to lack of use. Parts of it were coming back to him though, and he was already communicating better than he had been earlier that afternoon. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was decoding a communication from him about my waking him up should I need anything at all during the night. He grabbed my hand, wished me a good nights rest, and we both fell asleep shortly afterwards.

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Photos

The Klair Family
From left to right: Bahadur Singh, Family Friend Jung Singh, Nirver Singh, Mata Jee & Pradhjot Singh, Sarbhjit's wife Jaskaran, and Sarbhjit Singh. (Names may be mispelled as I have just written them as I heard them pronounced.)