Jugar This!

There is a word in Hindi, one that whistles through the sand-filled rooms of GDL, pausing to admire our ghee pudding and our bedsheet television. That word, first uttered to us in the early morning of our first day in Bagar, is "jugar." Now hold up, those of you with a basic understanding of high school Spanish. This is not pronounced "hoo-gar," nor does it mean that funnest of fun verbs, "to play." No, jugar (refreshingly pronounced just as it is spelled)can't even be correctly translated from Hindi! Although, ask any Indian person for a translation of most Hindi words, and he or she will assure you that there just isn't a comprehensive English equivalent. Essentially, jugar means to come up with a creative solution for a problem through whatever means necessary, an inn-o-va-tion of des-per-a-tion, if you will. Jugar happens a lot around here in the desert, where one has to rely on wits and muscles for daily survival. For example, I really wanted to eat some pudding. There's not a lot to work with culinarily in Bagar, at least on the pudding front, which meant I had to jugar up some caramal, stir in some buffalo milk, sprinkle in some cornstarch that could only have been bought in 1952, and hope. Because a large part of jugar relies on hope, and dreams, and cotton candy- don't think you can hand staple documents together with one nail? Well, you better pray upon a unicorn that you can! Fine, but we'll never be able to watch that Bollywood biopic "Guru," without a television screen.... Just tack up that sheet with fingers crossed, it has to work!

These are all infantalizing jugars, however, compared to the jugar that was born in my head, an evil monster made out of pure adrenaline and fear. But first, allow me to lay out the scene. On Friday, Sahil, Pankaj, Deepak and I made our way to a village called Khetri, a quick two hours away. Three buses and several bruises later, we pulled up in front of Khetri's Information Technology University. We had come here on a mission to obtain the names and numbers of recent college graduates, so that we could call them and have them apply for Mobile Naukri. The college was situated on a beautiful campus: amazing views of the entire city, buildings that used to belong to the former King of Khetri (indeed the King's palace was right next to the university). We gave our whole presentation, and luckily for us, the headmaster was a very kind man who took to the idea of Mobile Naukri, presented us with some chai and a promise for a list of names and numbers. It's always nice to see someone so motivated by Mobile Naukri, particularly because we are still in the pilot phase of the project. The headmaster also informed us of a neighboring pharmaceutical college, about a ten minute bus ride over, that could also be interested in Mobile Naukri. After a lunch that quickly dissolved into a manical roti-eating competition between Pankaj and I (representin' the ladies, I won, sort of) we jumped back in a bus and ten minutes later found ourselves in another village.

We stopped and asked for directions from a food vendor, and began the two kilometer walk to the pharmaceutical college. I was trailing behind the three boys, entirely focused on the food baby festering in my stomach from lunch. When I looked up, Sahil was staring at me, a look of eerily calm panic sketched on his face. His back pocket was empty.
"Hey... I think I lost my wallet. Yeah, I definitely left my wallet on the bus," he deadpanned.
"I refuse to believe that," I said. I turned to Deepak and Pankaj. "Do you guys have it?"
No one had the wallet.
"Sahil," I said, turning back to my boss, supposedly in charge of my well-being, "you have got to be kidding me. You have your wallet don't you?"
"No!" he replied, still not hysterical enough, in my opinion. "This is really bad. I had a lot of money in there. I don't know how we're going to get back."
"EXCUSE ME," I shrilled. "We are stranded in the middle of Rajasthan, two hours from home, and no one has a single rupee on them?!" I myself, was a bit delusional from twelve too many rotis. Stay calm, I cautioned myself, do not panic.
"Don't panic," Sahil said. He turned to Deepak and Pankaj and said something in Hindi. "Listen, Sarah, you won't have to do this... if you don't want to.... but I think we might have to beg for money."
Appreciate the absurdity of this possible situation. A gaggle of well-dressed advertisers, half of us American (one of very obviously so), walking around a not so wealthy neighborhood in rural India, with outstreched palms asking villagers for 100 rupees. No, I couldn't let that happen.
"I mean, we could get someone to come here and pick us up," Sahil offered.
"Oh, right," I dismissed. "So we will just wait here in 115 degree weather, with no money to even sit in a restaurant and have a cold drink? No one is going to want to come pick us up, remember that bus ride?" (It was a rather terrifying bus ride).

The situation was obviously dire. Sahil and Pankaj and Deepak all had calmly scared looks on their faces, but no one seemed to be doing any serious thinking. Perhaps they are in shock, I thought. I would be if I just lost a wallet on an untraceable bus in rural India. No, this was the kind of snaggle in which one must channel all energy into jugaring an escape plan. How could we get that money? I looked down at what I was wearing. No jewelry of any kind, plastic flip-flops that aren't even worth one rupee, and a scarf that, despite just being washed, smelled like foot. Obviously nothing else could be taken off and sold; I couldn't display my dancing skills; and under no possible circumstance was I going to start an escorting career in India. There must be some loophole, something that we could do, something that I could do, to get us out of this village. Suddenly, like a winged pegasus, the jugarest of jugar ideas flew into my head, descendent from the gods of invention.
"I have an idea," I said, turning to Pankaj. "Let's charge people ten rupees to take a picture with the foreigner. Tax free."
Pankaj errupted in choking laughter. Doubled over and pointing at me, he managed to sputter out, "Wah! Wah! Ten rupees!"
To clarify, while desperate, I thought that I had logically come to this conclusion. There was only so much I could legally offer, and people were always staring at me anyway, so why not encourage them to take a picture with a ghost? As Pankaj ran off to tell Deepak and Sahil, I couldn't help but feel a bit stupid. Maybe ten rupees wasn't enough. Should I have suggested twenty? As I worked through my feelings, I heard Pankaj ask Sahil for ten rupees. I looked up to see Sahil grinning like an evil cat, brandishing his wallet.
"Just kidding!"
I was silent. I had more or less propositioned myself for fear of being stranded in this village for the rest of my life.
"Did you... Why... I'm just really.......OK, did you just prank me to see what was the jugarest idea I could come up with?" I said, rather crestfallen.
"No-o-ooo..." they all said, rather unconvincingly. They conversed in Hindi for a bit, and then Sahil said, "but we do think you are the master of jugar. Way to really take one for the team, Sarah!"

I contemplated what had just happened. I chuckled, because this is what good-natured people are supposed to do in these situations. Inside my head, though, a new plot was being created, an elaborate prank that would require more jugar than I had ever used before. It would have to be crafty and sly, but not mean-spirited, funny but not dangerous, and Sahil was still technically my boss, so it couldn't be too crazy in general. I still haven't come up with anything yet, so I turn to you, reader. Have you any suggestions for the Greatest Jugar Joke Ever Played on the Mobile Naukri Marketing Team Minus Me? Any tidbit would be much appreciated. My jugar title is at stake!

Namaste,
Sarah