10.07.08
An Indian Village
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As we cycled up the dirt path we began to hear the drums. Then we saw the first of the school children. Hundreds of them were flanking the path on either side. They were all dressed in neat simple blue and white cotton uniforms, clutching plastic Indian flags. The girls?’ hair was pulled back tightly from their faces, arranged in plaits or buns with bright red ribbons. As if on cue from an invisible conductor the children began an obviously well rehearsed chant ?‘You are welcome?’, ?‘You are welcome?’ their faces shining with excitement. Ahead of us were more and more children and behind their neat lines, crowds of people, women and men of all ages. All eyes were on us!
We realised at once that we were about to experience something very special. We dismounted from our bikes and were greeted by a group of elderly men in Punjabi suits and colourful turbans. The drums were getting louder and louder and we all struggled to get our digital cameras ready. Someone tugged my elbow and led me towards something huge on the ground ahead of us. As we approached I saw that it was one of three camels, decked in bright cloths and sparkle, bells hanging from its saddle. The person at my side and an eager helper helped two of us onto the beast and before we knew it, it rose, first at the back so that we were both hanging downwards from the sky, and then at the front. I readjusted my behind, looked up and was awestruck by how high up we were. Shielding my eyes from the sun I could see that we were being led into the village by a huge procession, the children still flanking the path, repeating their chant and waving their flags. A boy of about 12 caught my eye, and with an excited smile reached up to pass me a flag and then followed the camel with a proud look on his face. ?‘What have we done to deserve this??’ I thought about the dread of disappointing these people who were welcoming us so overwhelmingly.
We came to a stop in front of a line of young girls dressed in pink, orange, yellow and purple saris, their ears, noses and wrists decorated with gold jewellery, balancing metal jars and vases on their heads with one hand. After trying in vain to descend gracefully from the camel we were led past the beautiful girls to receive the now familiar ?‘Tikka?’ or ?‘Pooja?’. This is the traditional way to welcome a guest in India. Red powder is used to apply the tikka to your forehead, a piece of red thread is tied onto your wrist, a wreath of fresh flowers (often jasmine) is put round your neck and you are fed a piece of sickly sweet crystalised honey. Next the village elders led us to a lake; ?‘this is our lake?’ someone translated as the elders stood tall with pride. We were later told that to have a supply of water such as a lake was the pride and joy of any village. The drummers continued their processional song and we were suddenly surrounded by young girls in sari skirts urging us to join them in the dancing. We tried our best to oblige, still in shock about the party the villagers had to put on to welcome the ?‘foreigners?’.
Once it was decided that enough dancing had been done, we were led sweating and grinning, to a canopied area with material spread across the ground in the shade. We were told to sit on elevated platforms and in front of us, it seemed, were all the men in the village, sitting cross legged or crouching on the floor. Towards the front were the eldest of the men, sitting in order of authority and, with the help of a translator, a man in a bright white turban with a moustache that curled up at the edges, welcomed us to their village. The traditional ?‘Opium Welcoming Ceremony?’ followed. The eldest man mixed the opium and purified it till a black liquid was produced. He then poured some into each of our hands and we were instructed that we had to drink three sips. Luckily we got away with just wetting our foreheads! The opium was then passed around to everyone else present who either drank some or smoked some from long pipes. The smell of it is enough to make you high- this is the stuff heroine is made from! Ironically the bikes we were using to get to the village had signs on that read ?‘Opium ruins life?’. Younger Indians have begun abusing the drug and there are now many opium rehabilitation clinics.
A group of school children were then summoned to lead us to their school, which was after all the reason for our being there. We had agreed to work with a locally-run charity to help improve the village?’s local school. Three weeks of hard labour and restoration work lay ahead of us and the school was well in need of it. The children, though happy, and dignified, in a way only Indians seem to manage, did not have tables or chairs but instead sat on cloth sacks on the floors of their classrooms. They all smiled and waved frantically at our cameras as we were shown around their school. There was no electricity in the building and one of our challenges was to install a light and an electric fan in each classroom. The school provided lunch for all the children out of a small tent like structure with a wood fire, we hoped to provide them with a new kitchen area and stove by the time we left. Luckily the charity had all the materials necessary and was to provide us with guidance, all we had to do was cycle the 2km every morning from where we were staying and get to work!
The next day work began. The list of chores was endless, chopping, sawing and sanding wood, painting metal frames, drilling holes and painting walls; it was all new to me. The children continued with their usual lessons but would often wander over to watch us at work in their playground, having given their teacher the excuse that they needed the toilet. They were extremely affectionate, touching and smiling at us, using their often broken English to ask our names and nationalities. It was these short exchanges with the children which made us momentarily forget the heat and press forward with the work. At mid morning we would break for ?‘Chai?’, spicy tea made with cardamom and lots of buffalo?’s milk, and biscuits. We would take it in turn to heat the mixture on the wood fire in the tiny kitchen tent. We had local tools to work with, which meant the work was often slower (to drill a hole we used a very simple contraption which required two people to use it) but luckily some of the locals had volunteered to help. They were obviously perplexed at why a young foreign girl should come to India, unmarried and partake in physical work such as this and they were not shy to ask. (In fact we learnt that Indian people generally are not shy to ask you anything at all.)
As the days went by we began to learn the names of some of the children and some of us had the opportunity to give them an impromptu English class or two. The children would duly comply by teaching us snippets of Hindi and giggle as we struggled to pronounce their names. At lunch time the children would run into the playground and collect their dahl and chapatti which they would eat crouched on the floor with their hands. Play time would often turn into an organised game or two. I had arranged a letter exchange with the Year 6 class from Bellver International College in Mallorca and the corresponding class in the school; this gave me the fantastic opportunity of spending more time with some of the children. They were bright and enthusiastic and very very excited to be able to exchange letters and drawings with children from Spain. Lots of the girls gave me improvised threaded bracelets with bells and trinkets on and I learnt that although they were only eleven, lots of them were already officially married to one of the local boys. Traditionally girls must leave their family home as soon as they start menstruating and move in with their husband?’s family, however young they are. This of course means that lots of the girls drop out of school early as their household chores take preference.
During our last week we were invited to visit some of the village house. This was a priceless experience and really taught one about how materialistic we have become in the West. The villagers did not have electricity or running water in their modest houses, but they were proud of their homes and families and led a happy existence. The women made sure that the family did not go hungry, farming vegetables and rice and collecting water from the village tank. When I visited one of the families the women decided to dress me up. They rummaged through a trunk full of saris and skirts and dressed me in a yellow and pink dress with gold sequins, with jewellery and bindi to match. They giggled and tugged at the veil covering my head as we took photographs and then made me chai and sugary chapatti to eat. In return for their hospitality we installed cement stoves into each house in the village using a mould provided by the charity. Some families would insist on asking us as many questions as possible about our lives and customs. Members of the charity would translate as they asked us why we left it so late to get married and how we could possibly get divorced. The conversations would provoke laughter and amazement on both sides.
Looking at the photos now, my time in the village near the Thar Desert in Rajasthan does not seem real. Life there is light years away from life in Europe, but it is a happy life led with dignity and pride. The children helped us to move the tables and stools into their freshly painted classrooms and on our last day all the lights and electric fans were turned on for the first time. There should still be a group photograph of us with all the classes on the wall of the headmasters office, I hope that the children still think of us now and then, but I know they have no idea of the impact their village had on our lives.
About the Author
Victoria Amengual has lived in South Goa, India for two years now, and during that time has managed to do a lot of traveling. Victoria is a regular contributor to http://www.Palolem-Beach.com, a guide to South Goa, and http://www.Mallorca-Activities-121.com.
See Also:
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- CISCO CCNA, CCENT, And CCNP Home Lab Study: The DTE/DCE Cable
- How Teeth Whitening Works
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[Via Travel Articles At Isnare.com]