Indiscriminate grace

Everybodies your friend in India.

Passing the hundredth shawl shop of the morning, I'm greeted by the proprietor as if they first set up shop on the off-chance of one day meeting me.
"Friend, hello! Come in. Only look."

In Delhi, I amble up to Jami Masjid Mosque, India's largest.
An old man with betel nut-stained teeth stops me. "This is prayer time," he says. "Wait here on steps."

Birds of prey reel outside the mosque. Haltingly, we make nice, but as we step inside the mosque, he shifts into a well-worn spiel of history and architecture, addressed to me as "sir".

This man is not my friend. He is my guide and I am his meal ticket.
These experiences taught me nothing that is unique to Indian people. As my friend Kris says, "If I was that poor, I'd try and screw people for as much as I could."

But this grubby commerce sets the figures of grace in sharp relief.
Two hours' juddering bus-ride from the city of Baroda, a mountain rises from the plain: the Hill of Pavagadh.

Stalls line the temple road with a narrow set of wares: bright tasselled squares of fabric, racks of coconuts. Women in saris, men in smart shirts and slacks, cattle with a boy casually flicking a switch at their rump.

Sinuous Hindi pop issues from the CD stalls. I pass a sadhu, who dispenses blessed flowers and daubs me with red, then haggles for his price.

I'm thinking of the bustling temples of first century Palestine. I buy a coconut for an impromptu lunch, crack it open on the steps outside the arcade and share the white flesh with a sleepy mongrel.

The women hitch up their saris to climb the steps to the temple, and I follow, barefoot.

I don't remember when I was adopted. Somewhere in my climb, a pilgrim begins to look after me. He is a boy no more than 18 years old: skinny and loose-limbed in white T-shirt and jeans.

He speaks little English; my Hindi is even worse, but he makes himself understood through gestures and staccato phrases. "Ok. Come. No Picture," he says, nearing the temple.

Inside, a procession shuffles past the altar, routed through steel crowd barriers. Each person offers something to the officials, who tap it against the metal shelf in front of the altar with the boredom of customs officials and return them to the giver.

I pass through, unaltered, like an undigested particle.

He brings me down the mountain. Where the path is steep, he half-turns and points for caution. When the path levels out, he motions me over to where the best photos are, and I snap aerial views of the lakeside mountain community.

He knows what tourists like: panoramas and monkeys, crumbling temples. At one stall, he buys me a packet of Fruit Tingles. Hardly his last silver coin, but the money means far more to him than me.

We file down past the sadhus; he points and wrinkles his nose.
My guide springs down the steps, but he motions for us to stop and rest, for my sake far more than his.

I'm worried about money. I'd gladly pay, but how much is enough? And there's a pride in him that I don't want to offend by thrusting a wad of rupees at him.
I test him out - buying two drinks and offering him one, but he shakes his head.

I'm in the awkward position of accepting. We have no words with which I can clothe my dependence in civilities. No history of friendship where I have commended myself to him. No future for me to repay him.

This grace is unsolicited and indiscriminate.

The jeeps fill with returning pilgrims. He motions "cigarette" and "?".

I shake my head. He finds me a car and nods to the driver. Still he won't ask me for money.

I'm perched side-saddle on the rumbling jeep when he returns, smoking, and raises a bony arm.

"Bye."

Matt Fenwick