I awoke the following morning to a soft voice calling from outside my door. I popped my head out to find a smiling young woman delivering me tea. It wasn’t coffee, but it was the first caffeine my throbbing brain had consumed in days. I expressed as much gratitude as possible, trying to keep the supply coming.

I sat down, treasuring each precious sip, then rose and tried to make myself look presentable.

As antisocial by nature as I might be, I owed it to my friend Martin—as a member of his wedding party—to make an effort to bond with his family. Though communication was impossible, as no one in this branch seemed to speak English and I didn’t speak any Hindi, I vowed to conquer my reluctance, hold my chin up, and go mingle with Martin’s many relatives.

I took a few deep breaths and stepped outside.

The smell of cooking fires blended with the scent of spices. The air was cool—not yet warmed by the sun rising in the cloudless sky.

A brown and white goat stood placidly nearby, observing the scene.

“Good morning, little goat,” I greeted the animal amiably.

It responded by launching a savage attack upon my person, forcefully butting my posterior and sending me face-first into the dirt in front of many witnesses.

I wondered why the universe hated me.

The goat bleated, and I could swear it was mocking me. I’m not sure how intelligent goats are, but I assure you they are vindictive.

A small child chased the goat away and helped me to my feet as a crowd of villagers headed my way, their faces filled with concern.

Trying to recover the final shreds of my dignity, I dusted myself off, assured the onlookers I was fine, and resumed my stroll, keeping a wary eye out for the mean-spirited goat.

My strategy was to smile politely to anyone who happened to be working outside or perhaps to return a namaste if one was offered. I had no other tricks to perform. Otherwise, I attempted to radiate silent appreciation for their kindness. Martin’s family was very welcoming.

I had done three laps through the family compound when it occurred to me that someone in the family might have a phone.

On my next pass, I asked anyone I encountered if they owned a cell phone. Not knowing how else to express myself, I showed them my phone and held it to my ear, pantomiming a call.

While doing so, I would search their eyes earnestly for any sign they knew of a phone. But nobody seemed to have one.

———

Out in the fields, Nathu was inspecting the rabi crop when his son came running up and told him, “Mama says come quickly.”

He made his way back to his home. He found Radha standing outside, eying the visitor with concern.

“This would be a good time to take our guest on a tour of the fields, Nathu,” she suggested. “He keeps trying to sell his phone to people. It is making everyone uncomfortable.”

“It is most likely a simple misunderstanding,” Nathu tried to reassure his wife. “But your idea is good. I think I will take our guest to see the crops. The day is nice, and he will enjoy it.”

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“Thank you, ji,” Radha expressed her relief.

Before Nathu strode over to corral their guest, he instructed his son to inform the various members of the village council that they needed to set up the plowing demonstration. His son, who never tired of running all over the place, happily obliged.

Nathu smiled. The plowing demonstration had been his idea. Other villages might offer tourists a chance to visit, but what would set Paranjapur apart was the opportunity to participate in farming activities.

The activity might not be suitable for older visitors, but a young man, like their guest, would no doubt be delighted to plow a field. Nathu was sure the adventurous American would relish a few hours of farm labor, deeply immersing himself in village life.

———

It was here. The other shoe had dropped.

For every ‘good thing’ that happens to a person, such as receiving a kingly welcome from your hosts, an equal and opposite ‘bad thing’ will happen, such as your hosts demanding you grow a crop of food for them.

I threw my weight against the plow as it jerked to the left upon contact with a subterranean rock. The oxen ahead of me just kept plodding forward.

Let me explain how I ended up plowing a field.

Following my third stroll through the family compound—when I had given up all hope of finding a phone—I considered taking a nice nap. Before I could head inside, Martin’s uncle approached me…the friendly guy who had greeted me with the lamp ceremony when I arrived.

He beckoned me to follow, so abandoning my ambition to do nothing, we headed away from the village, down wide trails between a patchwork of crops.

He spoke at length about the various plants the farmers were growing. Wheat was the only one I recognized. As I couldn’t understand the guy's words, I had to glue on an appreciative smile and endure the boredom.

Then he led me to the village retention pond. It looked like it had been dug to trap monsoon water, later releasing it into irrigation canals.

Now, that sort of thing I understand. I studied engineering at Yale, so I appreciated the clever simplicity of the design. I also noticed the pond’s sluice gate was damaged. What a pain the damaged gate must be for the farmers here.

I was slightly upset with Martin and his parents for not helping these relatives. I know that people who emigrate can be hounded for remittances by people back home, but this wasn’t a luxury purchase. We were talking about a broken sluice gate. An inexpensive repair could immensely improve people's lives.

But maybe I was wronging everyone. Perhaps this family branch was too proud to ask the others for help.

I tried to discuss Martin with my host. Given our communication issues, this simply resulted in me repeating the name Martin over and over.

The uncle I was with seemed to have no recognition on his face, and I found that very discomforting. According to my calculations, we should all be preparing to head to Mumbai for tomorrow's wedding, and everybody seemed utterly unaware. Perhaps Martin had anglicized his name and was known to these people by an Indian first name?

One thing was sure. When Reggie arrived, I would have him arrange to repair the village pond’s sluice gate, though I would do so quietly to avoid offending Martin’s family. Maybe I could accomplish it anonymously.

We next strolled into a fallow field, where dried stubs of the previously harvested crop protruded from the mostly bare earth. Awaiting us were several farmers plowing the field. Or, at least, they were getting ready to.

The farmers had a wooden plow yoked to two beefy oxen and were discussing something.

One farmer began to plow a furrow while the others gathered around me, talking and physically pointing to different aspects of what I was seeing. I had no clue what they were trying to tell me.

After watching the team plow a second furrow, the thrill was gone, and I thought it was long past time for that nap I had proposed to take.

After the team of oxen was turned around, ready to plow a third furrow, I was led forward to stand behind the plow. It gradually sunk in that I was expected to take over operations.

I shook my head no. They shook their heads yes, and a farmer standing in front of the team made the oxen step forward with a vocal command.

I clung to the plow, quickly finding out that plowing wasn’t tricky, but plowing straight required attention. Each underground obstacle made the plow bounce in my hands.

When the blade struck a particularly large rock, the plow lurched from my grasp, dragging along the ground as I gave chase until the farmer leading us stopped the team. One of the oxen turned its head to cast a disapproving gaze at me, recognizing the work of a rank amateur.

I spent the next hour and a half plowing the entire field as the other farmers sat and observed.

I stewed in my thoughts. The idea that I might ever be so foolish as to leave my home again made me laugh. Look where it got you: plowing a field.

It was so not worth it.

Travel is a bad idea.