Village Life

On our second day at T.B. we were ready to look around. Martin walked us to the school he’s been building for the village adjacent to T.B. He’s set up a non-profit foundation to collect donations over the years, and the school’s set to open in a few weeks. It was incredibly simple—and will make a world of difference to the children who will be able to go there. The idea that some kids can’t go to school because it’s just too far, or they have to carry water for their family, or that school is a waste of time for girls, is as real here in India as, as, well, right now I’m living in this hyper-reality that is India, so I'm lost for a simile. The school thing is really real.

From the school we walked down a dirt lane for a quarter-mile, and found ourselves in an actual village. Some houses were made of brick, others of mud. The various “streets” were host to trash, waste water, animal dung, sleeping dogs, the occasional cow or buffalo, and this or that kid. We saw men and women doing various tasks, or doing nothing. No one seemed to be in much of a hurry. Walking on toward the village center, we saw an enormous tree shading several dozen buffalo of all sizes, relaxing. Apparently,  people leave them here during the day, while the people either hang out or transact some simple business like bartering or gossiping.

...we saw an enormous tree shading several dozen buffalo of all sizes

Suddenly we heard car horns and people shouting. A procession of 2 dozen people, dressed in their finery, was headed directed at us. It was a bridegroom-to-be being sent off to his wedding feast. He wore a white suit with a garland of crisp vermilion 10-rupee notes. There was lots of excited chatter. We didn’t know if it was polite to stare, or exactly the  wrong thing to do, but the villagers seemed either bemused or oblivious to us, so we hung around and took a few photos. The colors of the saris were exquisite. How come orange and green don’t quite match in America?

Continuing our walk, we saw, outside or beside every house, piles of dung cakes: patties the size of dinner plates, about 3 inches thick. Dried in the sun, these serve as both fuel and building material. Along the way we watched villagers making them and stacking them. Everywhere.

After looking round the village a bit more, we headed back to T.B. After another fantastic lunch, we sat around the veranda (now I know what that actually feels like) reading. I finished Stephen Alter’s Amritsar to Lahore: A Journey Across the India-Pakistan Border ( http://www.amazon.com/Amritsar-Lahore-Journey-Across-India-Pakistan/dp/0812235657 ), which I highly recommend. Alter, a journalist/sociologist born in India and raised in the U.S., decided in 1999 to cross the India-Pakistan border in both directions, the hard way: west by train, east by bus. He weaves stories of the trip with family memories with socio-political commentary in an enjoyable, insightful way. Among other things, he explains why Partition was a tragedy for India and a triumph for Pakistan. History & politics delivered along with wonderful stories—a great combination.

Soon enough it was time to load up Kemal’s car (OK, he did the loading, I did the dignified-though-friendly tourist/employer thing) and head for Delhi. We took the same rutted road we’d arrived on, eventually turned onto a highway, and very, very quickly exchanged the pure air and lowing of cattle for diesel fumes and honking horns. We were about to enter a different India.