Two days ago, during my fifth day of tree cutting after Hurricane Ike, Mike, Will and I knocked on the door of an Indian family in Bellaire. A woman came to the door and refused to open it, talking to me through the glass. I found this odd. Perhaps it was my desheveled apperance and ratty pony tail, coupled with my odor that might have permeated the cheap window panes, that caused her to be so rude to a complete stranger.

Her husband and father came out to negotiate with me as to the price of the work that needed to be done: two dead trees, with tons of branches knocked off by the storm, stood in tatters in their front yard.

They spoke in an Indian language which was completely foreign to me, except for one thing: "broken limb."

"Shabada boo, shabada bah, shee la noo, broken limb shaba da."

"Shee shah boo boo da broken, shabada be bop boo broken limb."

"Shabada, shabada."

(Me: trying not to laugh).

What, do limbs not break in India?