July 18 2008

This morning I woke up before my alarm for 6am to the sounds of every bird in India chirping, accompanied by the passing of voices and laughter from the singing joking staff of the ashram. The villagers who work here, tending to the plants and cooking the food, seem to me some of the best people that I have met in India. Yesterday after my afternoon trip to the city proper of Udaipur I bought a box of beautiful fancy sweets for them all, in a simple attempt to show them my fondness and gratitude for their goodness.
When I arrived on the property, after paying the city rickshaw driver who made the long trip up the mountain to the ashram, I reached into my bag, opened the box of sweets and gave him his pick. I could tell from his face that the gesture paled in comparison to an offering of extra cash, but none-the-less I was (perhaps selfishly) proud of myself for the generosity I had offered him and was about to offer to all my village friends. Upon seeing Dadiji and Dadaji I began to feel differently. At first I thought I had offended them somehow by bringing them sweets. Dadiji took the closed box from my hand and appeared to be scolding me. From what I understood of her Hindi, which always becomes less intelligible as it becomes more passionate, she was asking why I would spend money like this.
I became worried that my ingenious gesture would be received by everyone as the foolish decadence of a young privileged American girl who does not understand the value of the rupee or the work it takes to earn it. As I explained that these sweets were for them and the workers my new Indian grandparents shook their heads and pushed me inside their cottage. On the table was a plate of fresh papita and a glass of lemonghass chai (the papaya and lemongrass all from their organic garden). Perhaps they saw the worry on my face as I reluctantly ate so Dadaji relieved me in English: “Larkii! You are our guest we should be giving this to you!”
Now I understood that this show of displeasure was all a part if the delicate act that is performed when offering and accepting generosity in India. Since living with my host family I have become very good at this game so, in a very Indian fashion, I opened the box of colorful sweets and insisted that they take some. After the appropriately placed pause from them I fervently insisted one more time, suggesting that if they didn’t take a burfy or luddoo my feelings would be devastated. They tilted their heads and dove right in.
Hira Lal then entered the cottage with our dinner plates in his always timely manner. I offered him the open box and with little persuasion needed from me he took a bright yellow pineapple burfy, gave a little head tilt, and went on his busy way. His acceptance was so matter-of-fact and included none of the proper antics. I am very fond of Hira Lal. He has the comfort and confidence of a man twice his age but the spunk and humor of a 22 year old boy. He carries himself like he has a right to be on this earth and can be appealed to if anyone has any curiosities or special requests.
At dinner, as I refused more helpings and snuck my 3rd chapati back in the bread basket, I endured the expected comments from Dada and Dadiji that I “eat very less.” I am always surprised how at every meal they tell me how little I eat all the while my belly is full of all the extra food I ate in order to bring our disagreement to a compromise.
Well-fed and happy I left the cottage with my box of sweets and eagerly made my way to the kitchen where I walked straight through the back door labeled “NO ENTRY.” I knew by the cook’s smiling faces that the bar did not apply to their new Hindi speaking guest at that moment. I held out the box to each of the five men in the hot steam filled kitchen and told them in Hindi that I bought these sweets for them in the city. They happily obliged my offer and my questions about which ones were their favorites. I told them the dense crumbly milk cake was my favorite and that I had no idea what the brown flaky balls were with the cashew plopped on top. I told them all sorts of things they already knew as a child does when she is eager for connection and praise. When Ramesh, who was sitting on the floor rolling chapati dough, took a soft white disk with green flecks I pointed and said “Pista! Bahut Acchaa!” He knew the candy was pistachio flavor and that, yes, it is very good. But the distraction from their work brought them all a smile and I was satisfied.

Thismorning when I left my room at 6:30 to do yoga and write in my journal on the cliff overlooking the mountainous village all the staff humbly greeted me as I passed—our silent connection appearing to have grown a little deeper after yesterday’s sweets. As I sit here writing, watching the tiny dots in the hills that are brightly colored saris and a line of herded cows and goats, one of the staff has brought me chai. The young boy stayed to talk to me for a moment longer. After I made comments on the strong breeze and asked him if he thought it might rain today he became aware that I did not understand his lengthy response and left with a smile.
Perhaps what makes me love these people so much is my experience in their village yesterday morning. Dadaji and Dadiji took me with them on their weekly trip into the neighboring village. With their kind hearts, generous Jain principles, and full wallets they go to the village where their employees live to give food and sometimes medicine. Yesterday we gave bags and bags of grain and potatoes, loaves of white bread (an Indian favorite) and some of their organic vegetables.
As they handed off bags of grain to the women, who then perched them on their heads to carry away from the schoolhouse, I sat with the young girls. At first they were very distant and shy. They giggled at my questions, covered their mouths with their saris and looked to each other for communal approval of this new stranger. I relinquished my perhaps too eager and forward questioning and just sat with them in silence. It appeared that, to them, the space between the words was more powerful because after a short time, one-by-one they all came to sit near me. Having seen the old foot pump sewing machines that sat inside the schoolhouse (which had been gifted to them by Dadaji a few months ago) I told them that I sew clothes too. This caused more giggles from the shy girls and invited the brave ones to start asking me questions. We exchanged praises of each other’s piercings and clothes. While I admired the little girls big garnet-gold nose studs, the gold hoops that lined their ears, and the shiny bangles that stood out against their dark skin, they surveyed my strange lip peircing and henna-ed hands. They remarked with confidence that they could do Mhendi much mor beautifully than the design Dadiji had given me. I am certain that it is true but I love my crudely done henna that was applied with a thick twig by a sweet old lady with bad eyes. It is a mark of love and approval that came from homegrown organic mhendi shrubs on the ashram. (Plus, it brings me laughter every time I look down at my arm and see my name spelled in English with a backwards P).
I sat with the colorfully dressed girls outside their one-room, all-ages schoolhouse as Dadiji demonstrated embroidery and candle making. Before I could control myself I heard my voice yell out “Gulab!” in response to her questions about which color the pink thread was. My excitement made the girls laugh. Sometimes I even saw the more serious ones crack a smile. A few of the youngest girls had the hardest to crack grave expressions. But at one time or another they all laughed and smiled in their colorful dresses. It was beautiful to share in a light hearted moment with them because their day-to-day lives are so busy and hard. When they are not in school they are sewing, traveling long distances for food and fuel, cooking dinner, and taking care of younger siblings. There is little opportunity for them outside of finding happiness with their families in the village.
Their lives are a stark contrast from my life at this ashram. I rise just after sunrise to do yoga and roam around the plants. I eat breakfast from a beautiful supply of homegrown fruit (papaya, mangoes, custard apples, bananas) with hot porridge made from home grown wheat. Then I sit outside and read my book in between moments of sky-gazing and journal writing. I practice my Hindi with the staff as they tend to the garden and stand around. Not just here, but everywhere in India there are at least five people for every one-man job. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to sort out the voices of 10 people giving me directions at once or had my single bag carried by three bellhops in a hotel. It is amusing and charming and totally inefficient. There are four men behind the small counter of the little icecream shop where I sometimes study after school in Jaipur. Maybe one family comes in to order something every hour. Mostly they just sit in silence, comment to each other about the TV, and adjust the volume of the music up and down indiscriminately.
And here is no exception. So when I told them I wanted to weave a basket for Dada and Dadiji one of the men began cutting down bamboo while the security guard helped me strip the stalks of their leaves. Seeing that some of the branches were too thick for my task two other farm workers began to split them in half with their pick axes. Three other workers simply sat near me and watched. I think they were mostly amused by such an absurd thing for an American to do and were waiting for me to endearingly fail miserably.
After some hours of sitting in the afternoon sun while I wove and they planted, to their amazement, I finished a beautiful tokrii made of bamboo and the vine of some Ayurvedic medicinal plant. By the time I finished we had discussed, in full, my saddhu hair and my marital status: two conversations I have repeatedly in India. Their curiosity about my dread locks was much less intimidating than the sneers and accusations I experienced at the engagement party of my host family’s son in Jaipur. That time I found myself sitting in a chair surrounded by a full, closed circle of standing, Sari-clad old women. They spoke in rapid Hindi that I didn’t understand as they stared down at me. One woman was asking me repeatedly if I wanted to marry and insisting that I could never marry with my hair like this while she grabbed and pulled my hair at its roots. An Uncleji I had befriended earlier in the party came to save me from the hair pulling and accusations by explaining that “no this is the international hair style.” At which point the yelling turned into jest and laughter. The same mean old woman grabbed her son and began insisting that I marry him, “Don’t you want to marry him? He is a very good boy.” I pretended not to understand to save myself from having to say yes or no—neither of which are the right answer.
This time in the field the conversation about my hair was only to pass time and provoked little response from the quiet, kind villagers who were engaged in their own tasks. It did however lead to another marriage proposal in jest to a boy named Bunsii. After Bunsii picked me a rose this morning I started to catch on that he may have a crush on me. It became clear when he woke me up from my afternoon nap by making conversation with me outside my open bedroom window. He boasted that tonight he would be cooking dinner while he shyly displayed a rose in each hand but did not offer them to me. Instead he smelled each one and meandered off. I guess I have to be more chaste when I offer sweets to strangers, so as not to win the hearts of young Indian boys.
That is why I love these people so much. Because, with the exception of Bunsii’s unthreatening silent flirtations, they regard me as a passing stranger, an endearing amusement, as a daughter, or not at all. They don’t steal looks at me when my attention is diverted, sneakily take pictures of me on their cell phones, or try to push the boundaries which they think Westerners don’t have. I respect them in a way that I don’t respect any leering stranger I have met in the city and I love them in a way that I don’t even adore my own middle class host family.
I wish I was here long enough to make tokriis for all of them.