Yikes Yaks

With friendly warnings not to eat with my left hand, I tuck it strictly under my leg. I delve into a generous pile of piping hot rice, stewing under a mash of lentil soup and curried vegetables. My right hand would be my sole utensil for this meal, navigating through bits of potato and cauliflower.
Clumsily, I try to mix the rice and lentils in my hand. Thoughts of betrayal fill my head. I was going against all table manners I learned as a kid. Although it was standard in Nepal, shoveling a meal in with my hand made me weary of a distant reprimand, "Stop playing with your food!"
Far from my parent’s dinner table, I’m with a new family now. At this table, I go by their rules. If that means playing with my food, I’m happy to abide. I use my hand to scoop up this Nepali staple, Dal Bhat. Slightly nervous, I peek at the nine Nepali natives at the table. I mirror their every move.
With a heaping spoon of rice, the mother yells out, “Oi, didi, bhat?” That yell was for me. “Sister, do you want more rice?” My eyes were already trying to gauge how the first brick sized serving of rice was going to fit in my stomach. I look up from the “brick” and her spoon is looming on top of my plate.
Now, I am unsure if her comment was a question or a command, because it looks like seconds are non-negotiable. As a thankful guest, I want to be polite. I nod and accept, just as a massive thud of rice clonks onto my metal plate.
With nine mouths to feed, I was surprised she was concerned with serving me seconds. However, I realized I could not refute her offer. Each extra serving of rice was embedded with her overarching hospitality. While the family had few possessions and just enough food to go around, the sincere and humble welcome I felt was palatable.
As the rice expanded in my stomach, I could see the mother dig for another mountainous scoop. My eyes did not widen, they bulged. Indeed, I felt their kindness and willingness to share, but the rice compartment in my stomach was at capacity.
Sensing my fear, one of the children tugs at my shirt. With a wet hand of dal, she whispers in my ear. “Pugio. Pugio, Didi! You full, sister!” The child points to her stomach and smiles. The mother’s offer was halted, as I grin, point at my belly and pronounce, “Pugio. Dhanyabad, pugio.” Full. Thank you, I’m full.
Next time, I’ll save room for dessert; buffalo milk, on a bed of, you guessed it…rice.
Thank you Nepal. Pugio. I’m full… of your hearty hospitality and a whole lot of rice.