The Power of Naan

Mindlessly, I unload my groceries out of my cart onto the checkstand. I'm in a mental zone that blocks out all my immediate surroundings. Though if you were to ask me now, I couldn't tell you what it was I was thinking about so intently there in the checkout line. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the checker--someone I've never seen before here in this grocery store I frequent--pause, holding up one of the items I'm purchasing and studying it. He looks at me eagerly and says in very broken English "You are buying Indian bread. I didn't know it was here." I smile at him and really look at him for the first time. He is probably in his early sixties, and is clearly from India.

"You are from India?" I ask, noticing that his name tag has initials on it instead of a full name.

"Yes, yes. My wife works here too. We just start. We live with my daughter who is a nurse."

"My youngest daughter is from India."

"Oh how wonderful," he says. "What part?"

"Mumbai."

"I am from Mumbai!"

"We were in Mumbai around this time last year to pick her up."

"Where did you go to get her?"

"Shejar Chhaya. Do you know it."

"An orphanage. Oh thanks to you. Many thanks to you. You saved her life."

"I don't know about that. But we are so glad to have her with us."

"A little girl in an orphanage. You save her life. Really. How old is she?"

"She'll be 5 next week."

He looks down at the items he's been scanning. "All this birthday stuff is for her then."

"Yes. We're having a big party."

"It will be her first birthday party, no doubt. See my wife down there on number 6. You must bring your daughter in for us to meet her."

"I will. I will."

I take out my cell phone and scroll through the pictures, showing him every picture of my kids. "Her name is Ovi. I'll bring her in. Do you speak Marathi or Hindi?"

"Oh, I speak Marathi, Hindi, and Gujarat."

"You'll be able to talk to her then, when I bring her in. She speaks Marathi. She still uses it some."

He says something to me in Marathi, which I recognize as a friendly greeting from the several months I spent studying the language a year or so ago.

I repeat the phrase back to him, and we proceed to have a refreshher lesson in Marathi.

Our conversation continues. Sometimes I have to lean in closer and ask him to repeat what he has said. We talk about Mumbai. He tells me about his daughter. He asks about my children. He tells me his days off are Monday and Friday and that he hopes I will bring Ovi in to meet him. I ask him to remind me how to say "I'm happy to meet you" in Marathi. It takes 3 repetitions before I say it correctly. By now, we both have tears in our eyes. I extend my hand; he shakes it firmly. In broken Marathi I say "Hello. How are you. I'm happy to meet you." He replies with Marathi words I don't recognize, but his face, his eyes, and the way he grips my hand speak clearly enough.