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benchilada Everybody in The Spot went quiet when Hamir Mendra walked in the front door. The customers of the greasy spoon—located in a town which, at 4400 people, was the largest in its county—rarely saw an Indian on television, let alone in person. Everybody stopped and stared at the Hindu holy man, with his long white hair, flowing white robes, and black pottu spot on his forehead.
In the eerie silence of this Midwestern restaurant, Sir Reginald’s booming voice was all the more distinct.
“BABA MENDRA!” he shouted through a mouthful of beans and sausage and egg on toast. “Good heavens, it’s been years! Come, sit, eat with me!”
The patrons of The Spot were of two minds about whether they should keep staring at the Indian or at the shouty English man who was eating a plateful of what appeared to be vomit.
“Namaskar, Sir Reginald! Kaise ho aap?" exclaimed the man in the doorway. “I’ve been looking for you for months!” he said, with such a stereotypical accent that it practically dared somebody to make fun of it
“Yes, well, I’ve been in this miniature version of a real town for months, so I can see how it would be hard to find me. Waitress! A menu for the Guru here!”
Hamir all but floated across the floor, his robes scarcely moving, and took a seat opposite Sir Reginald. A young waitress with distressingly lacquered hair wiped a menu on her apron and handed it to him.
“Drink?”
“Just water, I should think.”
Reginald’s eyes went wide and he quickly shook his head.
“Well,” said Hamir, “perhaps you have bottled water, yes?”
Reginald nodded.
“We kinda got bottled water. You wanna order now?” she inexplicably asked before Hamir could even open the menu.
“Perhaps you have some vegetarian items, yes?”
“All we got that fits is toast, beans, pie, and IBC Root Beer.”
“I think I shall have what Reginald is having, please, minus the sausage.”
Sir Reginald lifted a single eyebrow and looked across the table at his friend.
“Sure thing.”
As she walked away, Sir Reginald leaned out of the booth and watched the waitresses rear-end sashay its way back into the kitchen. He put his hand to his forehead and made a mock fainting motion. Hamir only smiled.
“So what brings a tall glass of
“I’m concerned for one of my students. He seems to be possessed, but none of my traditional methods have worked on him. In addition, nobody who was available on short notice was able to assist. I know that you have a not-insignificant amount of experience in such matters, so I thought that I would seek you out.”
“Is it bad?”
“If he so much as spits on you, you begin to pass blood from places you do not want to ever be passing blood.”
“Inexcusable. But how the hell did you find me here?”
“I used a prayogasāra mantra on reuniting separated friends.”
“Clever. So, is your student in the country?”
They paused for a moment as the waitress brought Hamir’s meal, an empty glass, and a gallon jug of distilled water. Sir Reginald snuck a glance down her blouse.
Hamir grabbed his spoon and began hungrily shoveling the food into his mouth.
“Apologies, good Reginald, but the amount of fasting I have been doing lately has certainly increased my appetite.” He took a moment to wipe a few beans from his prodigious beard.
“My student is waiting in
“Of course,” said Sir Reginald, “I’ll come back to wrap up my affairs after we’re done.”
When Hamir again lowered his face to his plate, Reginald made a quick, strange gesture at the cook, who nodded and went into a back room.
“This food is tasty, Reginald. It reminds me of…well, I’m not certain, but it reminds me of something delicious.”
“Yes, I find that only in the smallest of American towns can I find food distressing enough to remind me of home.”
“So after this meal, we shall begin our trip?”
“Oh, you missed a bit of egg yolk there,” said Reginald as the cook walked up to the table and passed over a hammer and a few nails.
“Where?” asked Hamir, carefully rummaging through his beans.
“Raaaaaaaaaah!” shouted Sir Reginald as he smashed the Guru’s face into his plate of food. He swung quickly, pinning a thick lock of the Indian’s hair to the table.
“KYA KARTA HAI, MURK GORA?!” shouted the now red-faced Hamir through his food as Sir Reginald pounded another nail through another handful of hair. “YOU SHALL ROT IN A THOUSAND HELLS! I CURSE YOUR SOUL AND DOOM YOU TO AN ENDLESS SERIES OF REINCARNATIONS, EACH MORE DEGRADING THAN THE LAST! THERE WILL BE NO SAFETY FOR YOU, ENGLISHMAN! MY BROTHERS AND I SHALL HUNT YOU TO THE—*glub*sputter*”
Sir Reginald had begun to pour the distilled water over Hamir’s head. Suddenly the Guru jerked his head upwards, tearing out clumps of his snow-white tresses, leaving them attached to the wooden surface of the table.
“AND WHEN…you…oh. Oh, my goodness,” sputtered Hamir, looked about with a horribly embarrassed look on his face. By this time, everybody but the most jaded of farmers had fled The Spot.
“Shukriya, Sir Reginald! Bahut shukriya!" Hamir grinned. “How did you know, my friend?”
“Well, first of all, you know how you always mix up the words vegetarian and vegan?”
“Yes, Reginald.”
“Well, you mixed up again this time, but you went ahead and ate the eggs when they arrived.”
“That’s it?”
“You also didn’t embarrass me by chanting blessings at me when I eyed the waitress’s ass and stared at her breasts.”
“When you what?” shouted Hamir and the waitress simultaneously.
“I can’t so much as think about a woman around you without you condemning me and my…what is it you say…ah, my ‘shameless, wonton, and inexcusable libido.’ Don’t worry,” Reginald said to the waitress, “You’ll be getting a very nice tip today. So how did it happen, Baba Mendra?”
“I was in Mumbai, having a particularly difficult time exorcising a demon from a local politician when another took advantage of the fact that all of my concentration was on the man in front of me and not on protecting myself. It seems that demon was quite angry with you, and when he found your name in my head, he saw a perfect way to get at you.”
“Well, he played you quite well, Hamir. I almost passed it off as exhaustion, then I remembered that you never get tired and that after many days of fasting, one all but loses their appetite entirely.”
“Well,” smiled Hamir, wetting a napkin and began cleaning his face. “I must admit that I am somewhat surprised that you discovered it at all, let alone that you would use traditional methods of Indian witchcraft to dispel the evil spirit.”
“Wait, you’re surprised?”
“Of course I am.”
“It’s because I’m not a Brahmin, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Sir Reginald,” Hamir laughed, “everything is because you aren’t a Brahmin. Now, allow me to pick up your tab here to repay you for your kindness and swift actions.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sir Reginald with a barely-hidden grin. “Certainly. Joe, could you bring Hamir here my tab?”
The cook snapped up a piece of paper from near the cash register.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” said Reginald as he lit a cigarette and headed for the exit.
“Of course. Now, good proprieter, how much does his bill…Ganpathi ki haathi ki mastak!” Hamir shouted when he saw the ticket.
“Yeeah,” said Joe, “Reggie’s been eating here three times a day for two and a half months. All on credit.”
“Reginald, don’t make me call back that demon!” Hamir cried out, but the front door was already swinging shut.
“Cash or plastic,” asked Joe, his hand held out.
“Do you accept Karma?”
b
