Ramesh wears khadi (handspun cotton) kurta-pajama at night. Sometimes he comes down to breakfast in it as well, in which case he drapes a khadi cloth around his shoulders like a Bengali babu. This morning he held up the cloth to show me that it had a huge rip in the middle - testimony to my careless housekeeping. He flourished it solemnly, and quoted a Hindi film song: "My gauzy red scarf is flying in the breeze..."
After that I had to pay a man who did some emergency work on our pump - the pump that pushes water from the underground tank up to a smaller tank on the roof. His name is Palani, he's tiny, with a twinkle in his eye, a grey walrus moustache, and a big orange tikka - ritual mark - on his forehead. He finished the repair and then named an outrageous labour charge. I cried out in affected horror, he spread his hands and said, "What, Madam, I had to do so much work. This is my regular charge." I gave him two-thirds of what he asked for, and he looked at me reproachfully. "That's all, Madam?" I said, "What do you mean, even this is too much!" He shook his head sadly, "All right, Madam, what can I do?" We nodded at each other, the ritual completed. I don't enjoy this - it's so much easier to know exactly what you have to pay. And I always know that I've paid too much.
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