Last week we left the Eco-Resort palace/sanctuary/indulgence of Sona-Pani for our homestays in the village of Reetha. Our new whitewashed, blue trimmed home is nestled on the lower ridge of the mountain, and as we made our descent down the hills, we swayed back and forth like faulty metronomes by the weight of our packs. Tired, nervous and sweaty, we were met with huge smiles, bustling commotion, eager “ap kaise ho?” (how are you?) and brimming plates of cucumbers from our host grandmother, Bina-ji.
That night we met the rest of the family: our little brother, an eleven year old gunda (hooligan) named Gaurav, who semi-playfully/quite-painfully pummeled us with a blow up globe and nana-ji, our host grandpa who eagerly claps and laughs at our broken attempts at Hindi. And always doting on our every need is Bina-ji, her petite, wiry frame enveloped in brilliant orange sari adorned with intricate flower motifs, forehead dotted with a red bindu. Bina-ji is the one who wakes us up with steaming cups of chai, hops into our beds when we are half asleep to watch Hindi soap-operas, and nurtures us with special bowls of moong-dal when we are feeling sick. She is the leader and glue of the family, always working, always responding “nahi, nahi!” when we offer help.
One of her various jobs besides cutting grass (which she gracefully balances upon her head), milking the cows, cleaning the house, sorting the wheat, and the countless other needs she silently tends to behind the scenes, is cooking. Every night at seven pm we are welcomed into the kitchen, a clay lined hut with a burning hearth at the back that she dutifully stokes. We greeted with “hungry, hungry? kali chapatti tonight! yum, yum!” and a smoky warmth from the embers. She then demonstrates the proper way to roll the chapatti dough; in quick deliberate strokes making a perfect circle that she tosses onto a hot iron skillet. We try our best, but our chapattis are always nahi acchaa, (not very good), but still good enough for scooping up the delicious morsels of spiced eggplant and peppers. Every night, despite our noble intentions of limiting our consumption, we are stuffed full of chapatti, aloo (potatoes) and daal (lentils), thanking Shiv that Indian pants are made with adjustable waists.
However, living in a small village in India, there are the unavoidable obstacles, like stumbling past piles of manure at 3 AM on your way to the squat toilet, or trying to fall asleep on a bed that resemble concrete plank. There are the eyes that constantly follow you as you walk home, or the relentless reminder to keep your head down, that an unconscious glance can be interpreted as a sexual invitation. But the small, tedious struggles are easy to forget when you are welcomed so wholehearted into somebody’s world, when you see the snowy peaks of the Himalayas through the mist, and when everyone around you is so dedicated to making you feel at home.
An American In Benares 