Smita bahoo showed us a very old black and white photo of the house in which she grew up. I was astonished. It was a huge mansion surrounded by a lot of land. This also explains her high education level. I could not understand why she had been married into such a relatively poor family as JP's. The story was all too familiar. Her father died when she was just two years old, leaving an older brother as king. By the time she was to be married, he had squandered all the family fortune, which was substantial, leaving no money for her dowry. Luckily she married into this loving family and has been happy. Stories like this are hard for me, an independent woman, to hear. Why can't the mothers control their profligate sons ? JP said that none of the young woman in his family would ever let this sort of thing happen now. They are educated and have rights. Once again I think, the only way to save this world is to educate woman and give them equal power with their men.
We decided, at my suggestion, to cross the river and wander through the small agricultural villages there. I notice a man carrying a grown, twisted man on his back. You could tell that this was a very normal for both of them. Just life. We drove through a large Moslem neighborhood. Here were the many black clad women I knew had to be somewhere here in Varanasi. All the men and boys with their white topis atop their heads, and babies, babies everywhere. Carried by women, or men, or other only slightly older siblings. No baby carriages here, or anywhere else in India. Our auto rickshaw driver asked other drivers how to get to the bridge. I mistakenly assumed we would be going over the huge, modern bridge. However, as the road kept getting smaller and bumpier, ending up an unpaved mess, I began to wonder. Then I saw the bridge. We were not going over the big bridge, we were headed for the very narrow planked pontoon bridge. So over the river we go, kerplunk, kerplunking, with about 6 inches and a rope barrier separating us from the river. I sure and heck did not see any other westerners on this bridge. I have learned to trust Indians, so was not really fearful until we had to pass another auto rickshaw. But very carefully, inch by inch, it was done and we reached the other side. This is another world here: peaceful, rural. We wanted to walk through the villages along the river so the driver again asked directions to get to the river's villages. And again, sure enough, we end up going through narrow alleyways with 1 inch on each side. Finally, still bumping along, we see fields with the river behind them. It was wonderful to walk through fields of growing vegetables, hopping over irrigation ditches, and walking on India's sacred dirt. I spoke with 3 little girls that just thought I was the funniest thing they had ever seen, especially when I needed the help of the driver and Arpit to jump over the ditches. After I had successfully jumped, I raised my arm in triumph yelling, "I am strong, women are strong, you are strong".
Naturally, on the way home we had to stop at the Vaatika restaurant in Assi. We had eaten lunch at home before we left for the day's adventure, so just had apple pie and Coke. I am not a soda drinker, but Coke is safe. JP, an apple pie connoisseur, raves about this one. There are no ovens like ours, so this restaurant bakes it in their wood heated pizza oven. Our favorite waiter here is Amarsingh. I remember him from the last trip because he appeared extremely dignified to be a waiter, even in this upscale restaurant. He is a very gentle man and shakes ever so slightly. Is this the beginning of palsy? JP asked him about his family, and his story emerges. He was trained as a lawyer, but when a daughter died from lack of money for medical care, he knew he had to do something else, so he became a waiter in this restaurant. JP again says how easily this could have been his story. No guarantees here, for anything. As we left the restaurant, I stood transfixed as I watched the bright, full moon shining on the Ganga. I am so blessed to be here. As we head back to the house I see a tiny Macrobiotic restaurant featuring tofu and gomashio. These have got to be some old hippies from the 70's.
This morning, as usual, I am awakened by bells, drums and chanting, and contentedly drift. Then I hear shouts and men talking excitedly. It seems very close, so after about a half hour, I get up to check. Directly under my perch on the balcony is a gigantic truck trying to turn into the small lane across the street. The rest of the family is also watching this ridiculous spectacle.
But sure enough, after about another half hour, inch by inch, the truck makes the turn and creeps down the curving ally. This epitomizes the Indian spirit. There is always a way to do what needs to be done.
Peace,
Nadine
No comments:
Post a Comment