Khurafat, Indian Style

India

[1]
‘Rohit, what is this?’ I asked. At one car park in Connaught Place, central Delhi, we were waiting for the other three – Kam, Hadi and Tobi – who were browsing in one Adidas store. ‘Why many cars have this thing?’ I pointed to a strange-looking piece of black clothen rope tied to the front of a car.

The mysterious black rope. 20 cents if you know what this is for.

The mysterious black rope. 20 cents if you know what this is for.

‘Oh that sir… the wife… the hair sir… Erm…’ We have to be patient talking to Rohit, his spoken English is not that good.

‘You mean, the wife’s hair is inside that thing?’ Ugh.

‘Yes sir!’ said Rohit at once.

‘But what for?’

‘Er… wife’s hair… family, er… the man sir..’ I pitied Rohit as he was struggling for words, but I guess I had to know. ‘… the man don’t see…’ with the hand he gestured as if to mean ‘everywhere‘.

‘So that the man doesn’t see other women? So peaceful family?’ was what I could guess.

‘Yes sir! You’re very correct sir!’ Rohit beamed, as he always does when one helps him finish his sentence.

Ah, I see. Now that’s another khurafat for you, Indian style.

ukashah

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