Time is going quickly. I wasn’t excited about it, but I had promised Ashvini that I would come, and there was no other time, and no reason not to. I got up at 5 and had coffee and set off in the early morning on my scooter for Vilavanur, a small village west of Pondicherry. I left early to avoid the hot sun and traffic. My first big adventure on my scooter.
It was clear and cool in the early morning. No traffic, and I buzzed along pushing 60 kph. I passed Mahabalapuram, the first milestone singing along at the top of my voice. When I came to small towns, I would slow way down. I watched the little dog crossing the street—I beeped and slowed down. It looked like he was going to continue, when for some unknown reason, he turned back—right in front of me. I yelled loudly, heard the thump and yelp, and went down. People rushed to me and somehow lifted me and my bike up and a large crowd materialized out of no where. I stood up, and looked around. No sign of the dog. My pants were torn and people had worried looks on their faces. I went to the side of the road to have a drink of water. My face and knee and hands were bloody, but I didn’t feel any pain. I stood up and shook myself out. The bike had a similar gash on the left side, but other wise just fine, too. One man insisted I follow him. We wove through the little dirt streets to a small catholic church, parked and walked in. The dark cool hall was a relief, and two women in white nighties came out to see me. They cleaned me up, gave me a tetnus shot and swabbed the scrapes with iodine—yeouch! She gave me 1000mg of ampicillin and 800mg ibuprophine and ointment for later. No charge—I left a donation in the pot and headed out again. I was thinking about some story about getting back on the horse, or bike—as I very carefully head back down the road.
I arrived at Vilavanur at about 10:00. It was a dusty little town along the road. I bought fruit and sweets and waited for Ashvini to fetch me. I was surprised that she came by bus, with her “brother.” Her village is about 5 miles down the road---a true small village. We passed through rice paddies being harvested, and canes of brilliant green sugar cane. The air smelled sweet, and there were birds other than crows. People on the bus were all agog, and Ashvini, all smiles explained how I was HER friend, and had come to see her. Her brother following on my scooter.
She had told me the whole village would be waiting for me, and she did not exaggerate. There were at least 50 people around me by the time we reached her auntie’s house. We started the long introductions which we were met with peals of laughter from everyone I greeted—except the little children. Children under 2 looked at me with widened eyes, and then screamed bloody murder. “She thinks you are a ghost!” Ashvini laughed. The louder the children cried the harder the crowd laughed. They would bring other little children to look at me and scream. It wasn’t until I returned that I realized I had a large abrasion and bloody, scabby chin, that I did look pretty scary. Ashvini took me inside her aunt’s house. It had three rooms and was constructed of country bricks covered with a hard mud. One room was the kitchen, about 4 x 8 with 2 window openings, but no glass. The main room was about 5 x 8 with one bed inside, a board on bricks. It also had an opening in the wall, and the puja room with an enormous clay pot, that must have been built in that room for it was too large for the doorway. It was where they kept the rice harvest. There were many other pots, and a metal wardrobe for their belongings. 4 people in the family, and everything fit easily inside, with room for Ashvini, her sister, brother and mother’s things while they stayed the month there. Ashvini kept a tight grip on my hand and a huge smile on her face. I was there. I was her friend, a white girl, and I was there. Everyone was greatly concerned with my face and knee and wanted to touch it. I suggested a walk in the village, and to visit her grandfather, who was at the rice field he is the caretaker of.
The heat had set in, but in the greenery, with a breeze it felt much more pleasant. The colors of the green and blue sky seemed to vibrate as we walked along the road. The first stop was her church. A non descript brick building with a tin roof. We went in to a room about 15 x 15. Ashvini had told me before that she was a Christian. The room was plain, with a blackboard on the back wall, and a raised area in the front. No pictures or symbols. The pastor came in to meet me, a pleasant young man named Simon. Simon had grown up in that village with the name of Krishna. He went off to the university where he got his degree in mathematics and landed a government job—a coveted job, with a pension. One night he had a dream about Jesus, and when he woke up he knew that he represented the one true god. He went to theological school for 3 years, and decided that his calling was to come back to his village to enlighten the people. His family disowned him, and he built his wife and him a small house and hung up a sheet for his church. And some people came. This was two years ago, and somehow this little non-denominational church has a following of about 50 kids and 25 adults—no small amount, for the village only has 50 houses. He is well thought of by everyone, and is reunited with his family. He tutors kids, and reaches out to people in other villages similar to this one. He joined us for our walk, and was my translator. He told me I was the first white person to ever visit that place.
We heard drumming, and saw a funeral and the large wood pile for the pyre. We walked through the patties and sat under the shade of the jackfruit and mango trees—laiden with green fruit. It was a large group of people—Ashvini introduced everyone as her small mamma, or small auntie, or large auntie, or brother/cousin, or uncle—everyone in the town related to her in some way, biological or symbolic. We walked through the village, greeting everyone, and telling them I was Ashvini’s friend. I took pictures and showed the people their image in the tiny camera to their amazement and delight.
We sat on the stoop of their house with the crowd pushing to see me. Amazed at my gold teeth. One old woman held and stroked my hands staring intently at me. She said, “I see her talking, but I can’t understand anything she says.” She had never heard anyone speaking English before—never traveled further than the small town down the road. Her first white woman. I was there for 7 hours, and was beginning to feel my aches and pains. How much more have these people endured? The only work in the village is in the fields—10 rupees an hour—25 cents—when there was work. The big concern and talk was that the farmer had bought the first tractor harvester—reducing the already meager work. The first of what is to come I think. What will happen to these naïve people? Like Ashvini’s family they will migrate to the city in hopes of better wages—the same house in the city less livable with cement all around and no sanitation. Families separated, little hope for a better life.