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Paul had been to Varanasi before, several times in fact, and fancied he knew his way around. He spent the day catching up with past local acquaintances and feeling good about being able to roll up to people like Rama Guru on the ghats and shake his hand and imagine he got some recognition back.

It was time to eat. He knew exactly where to go: the little dharba with a great Malai Kofta at a very reasonable price. He and Leila had eaten there many times during a fabulous week in Varanasi spent walking around, playing cards, flying kites, smoking joints, and generally having a really nice time despite her limited English and his inadequate French.

So, single minded, he approached the dharba and was waved in to go straight upstairs. But something seemed different. Where were the usual middle class Indians and some travelers who he was used to as clientele? And how come when he sat down no-one came to take his order. OK, just go with it he thought. This is India and who knows, maybe new management and new ways?

Others, certainly not middle class Indians by the looks of their soiled clothes and pan-eroded teeth, crowded in and soon he was sitting with three men who spoke no English at all. Pauls Hindi was limited but enough to greet them and raise their interest in him, the only ferrangi in the place. The waiter then started doling out tali plates and serving the food from stainless steel buckets: rice, dahl, sabji, and chapatti. Then he makes a strange comment to Paul: dont waste any food. What the fuck was that comment about? A smile came across Pauls face as he thought this is India!. He assured the waiter that he knew the tali system. You eat what you get and you only ask for more if you know you can finish it.

The meal was not bad but nothing special. Paul made a mental note: the standard has dropped and the place has turned into an eating hall only serving the set tali meal.

He got up, washed his hands and went to pay at the front desk. No money said the guy there. What? said Paul looking completely perplexed. It was Dhurga festival. Free meals for the poor said the guy.

Oh shit thought Paul, feeling a tad sheepish to say the least. Then he noticed the long line of disheveled babas waiting for their turn, and realized he had been given special top of the queue privilege to add to his non-appropriate presence there.

Oh well, this is India, I better go next door and give a donation to the temple thought Paul, which he did (but it was still a bloody cheap meal!)

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