The Sarhad Feast

This being our first dinner together, they were clearly out to get me. They wanted to know what I was made of, I guess and took turns in filling their plates/glasses every few minutes. It was merciless.

I made a grave error, not knowing what was coming. I had been eating frantically, trying to keep up with all the food that was put in front of me, or put on my plate by my assistant when some kind of work was involved. For example, a mound of boiled Palao arrives, peas and carrots filled, so my assistant basically sifts the carrots out - as to my liking - and puts the rest my plate throughout the entire meal.

Anyway, I was getting really full by the time the special milkshake arrived and was downing water after water on top of all that food. At some point I got another plate-fill invitation from the assistant and decided to decline. I just couldn’t do it. I would puke then and there, so gave him an open-palmed “no thanks.” If you’ve been to Sarhad you know: there is no saying no. The entire table began pushing me to drink the special liquid, while Yasar sat smiling with his glass and ready with the look, "If I can, well, surely you can as well?"

I looked at my full glass of thing-way-majig milkshake. I looked around the table. All eyes were fixed on me. I looked at Yasar, who with a little tightening of his lips signaled that there was no way out of this one.

I picked up the glass and started drinking. each gulp I felt my stomach grow tighter and tighter. I could actually feel it expanding to a size it had never known before, stretching more and more until it was completely, no-mistake-about-it full.

There were still two gulps of shake left in my glass when I knew - knew with full certainty - that I would either stop now or barf. I lowered the glass and closed my eyes. My stomach was pounding, fireworks danced inside my head and my head beat like a drum.

Ten or fifteen seconds passed while I fought back the overpowering urge to empty the contents of my stomach. That scene played itself out before my eyes: my head jerks forward as I power puke across the table and onto the shirts and faces of the unfortunate few seated directly across from me. Dinner would end abruptly and there might even be crying. Decades could pass and these people would never-ever, I was sure, look back on such an event and laugh with such fondness of memories.

My mind raced as I thought of how I might somehow make it to the restroom first and then puke. But I knew then that just getting up would invite puking and the cross-legged position would only result in greater damage.

I burped once, then twice. They came slowly....Then another. I looked up and everyone was watching closely. No one spoke. I burped quietly again. The tension was releasing, I could feel it and I got out another one. I was going to make it. I picked up the glass and downed the last of the shake. The table shouted their approval and everyone went back to eating and talking.

Yasar gave me a concerned look. I nodded that I was okay, and that I wouldn’t be puking on him just then. I waited a couple of minutes there while still feeling like a vomit bomb that might go off at any second. I got up slowly and went to the restroom, thinking I would just start over from scratch. I entered the squat toilet. It wasn’t hot but I was sweating anyway. I took deep breaths and decided maybe I wouldn’t puke after all. Instead, a wiped my forehead and neck with some paper towels I found by the sink and went to re-join.

I realised that they probably had no idea how close they had actually come to be wearing my semi-digested dinner just moments before. I couldn’t eat, of course and was only made to drink Lipton tea. I guess I got lucky that time around.

Travels - Part I

Khaliq - Part I

As I walked into the departure lounge trying to spot a suitable place/person - preferably with someone who I could strike a conversation with - I knew I’d seen a Pakistani and I was happy. Endless meetings of Indians had left me somewhat bewildered at no sight of the other rival.

Shortly after beginning formalities of initial conversation in Urdu and also because my jaw started to hurt, we switched to Punjabi like a change of gear. He was full of advice. But one advice that seemed to stick to me instantly was:

“I wouldn’t count on your friend being there for you in Delhi. Have some back-up plan and be careful. You see, we (Pakistani’s) are not like Hindu’s. They are too secretive about things and only value friendship with their own”.

Being a bit of a rationalist I discarded this straight away, or I tried to. I couldn’t help but think of it on my way to Bangkok and later.

My dosage of conversation wasn’t still complete and so I managed to swap seats to talk more. His name was Khaliq. He was a proud man and somewhat stubborn. Typical base attributes for a Pakistani, I thought. But nice, because being nice shows others soul of a human, he said. I liked him straight away.

All for now, continue tomorrow!