Richard Wright

author of strange, dark fictions



January 10, 2010 by Richard Wright in Journal, Life

My actual birthday isn’t until next week, but Kirsty whisked me away for an early treat last night, taking me to the Bukhara restaurant in Delhi to eat fine food with my fingers (right hand only, of course).  Tasty food, and our waiter also served the Clintons, although alas, not on the same day as he served us.  The dishes came from the north of India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, which meant lots of marinated meat cooked through in a clay oven.  Delicious, and so messy that they give you adult-sized bibs to wear, rather than napkins.  We eschewed custom, and placed them on our laps anyway, probably ensuring that we stood out even more as clueless westerners.

When I tried to wash my hands after going to the toilet, a white-coated man appeared from nowhere to turn the taps on for me.  Then he stood behind me, brandishing a towel for my use when I was done.  He gets paid to do that.  It’s his job.  It’s a very different world from what I’m used to.

Today is a quieter, lazier sort of day, and then tomorrow my daughter, aged six, is also taking me out to dinner (I believe Kirsty is also invited).  Not sure where yet, though I have made her promise that it won’t be the golden arches for chicken mcnuggets.

After that, Thailand for a week or so, which is exciting.  Delhi in winter is smoggy, foggy, and grim, so some actual sunshine will be fabulous.  There will be city and beach adventures both, and Eva is looking forward to riding on a water buffalo.  I’m assuming there’s a chance that this will actually happen, and Kirsty has told her about it, rather than it being an exceptionally random example of wishful thinking.  We’ll see, I suppose.  I hope it happens.  Having mentioned it aloud, I now also want to see what Eva can do to a water buffalo.

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