In about two hours we’ll be knocking on an unknown door saying, “Hello, here we are! What’s for dinner?”
An East Indian fellow will open the door and smile at us before inviting us in.
We’ll meet his wife who will probably be tired from cooking East Indian food, wondering who the heck her husband invited for dinner this time.
An elementary aged boy will peer up at us, or maybe he won’t care about us at all, preferring to play computer games, or whatever elementary boys do these days.
Barry will interview the fine fellow for our local newspaper, a transplant from the heart of India, someone who spends his vacations working with his family’s charitable organization, perhaps saving orphans. We shall know more after we eat dal or rice or curry.
I will eye the wife with interest, wondering who is she? Who is she behind the social masks we all wear? Does she like living in the United States? What doesn’t she like about it? Does she wish she lived in India?
We shall sip our tea–or whatever they serve us–and Barry shall take his notes–either before or after or during the meal–and we shall ponder orphans and try to find what connects us, what makes our spirits sing together, and perhaps we’ll feel the world is a bit smaller after our ghee or momos or Thukpa (I googled, dear friends, because who has a clue what one shall eat for dinner in two hours?) and I will probably not bring my camera because it’s too intimidating and I am only the wife, not the interviewer, and gosh darn, dear reader, when’s the last time you’ve eaten international foods at a stranger’s home only to discover there are no strangers, only friends you have not yet met?
P.S. Sonali, my dear reader-friend from India, I wish you could be with us tonight. I am thinking of you…