Every summer, until I was old enough to legally spend my summer working at a local hardware store, my bags were packed and shipped to my mother’s pre-marital place. I, of course, had no choice but follow the bags, and I would gladly do so every year without a miss. The two hour drives in a rickety white Maruti 800 to a village inhabiting about a thousand people form few of the happiest moments of my life. School was over. Parents were left behind in the city. I was no longer the oldest child; instead, I was the only grandchild in sight. My status saw a big improvement, and so did the subsequent treatment of me by those around me. I was a kid, who everyone spoiled, all over again.
One kilometre outside the village borders, my heart would race faster than Maruti’s speedometer could conjure. I would giggle endlessly, roll the windows down, and stick my head often to yell out at everyone I saw on the road. They would wave back a pleased recognition. It would only stroke my celebrity-ego some more. Smile would get wider on my face. Eyes twinkled too, I am sure. I laughed, I giggled, and I waved with more enthusiasm with every passing meter. As we entered the village limits, I’d insist that I would walk home. Our house (naana’s house) was in the middle of the village since our family was the one who basically started off that village. Naana ji was still the head of the village panchayat. Our chauffer would disallow me from walking home every time. If I wasn’t afraid of scraping my knees and being in bed for the rest of my days there, I would’ve tried to jump out the car but the fear forced me to obey Ramu Kaka. I stayed put. Heart still beat fast, but it had a strange contentment of knowing that destination was near. I would soon be greeted by a dozen of open arms and, most importantly, I would be fed world’s best cooked food.
The white tired-out weakling of a car was greeted by a bunch of overexcited kids every year as we neared our house street. They never seemed to get older. I would later figure that every year, it was a different bunch. The older ones moved on to bigger and better things like chasing buffaloes to a pond and had learnt to leave cars alone. I, of course, lapped up the chance to play to the gallery and flashed my best smile at everyone who was there to welcome the car more than me. Lazily, we would finally pull into the house’s driveway. It always looked the same to me as I entered the main house premises through the garage. The same open brick paved courtyard, the concrete floored veranda further ahead marking the entrance to four rooms adjacent to each other. To the right, there were three more doors and an open kitchen. There was a handpump in sight as well attached to an electric motor to help us lazybones drill out water without moving a muscle. To the left, there were two staircases, leading to two rooftops opposite to each other: one that covered the rooms in the house and the other that covered the garage. This was home. A beautiful home … even more beautiful as it neared dusk, which was when I always arrived there.
When I walked in, everyone would be busy with their chores. I would stand and watch with amusement for as long as Ramu Kaka took to get my bags out of the car. He would then come in and announce my arrival. Just like Royalty. Everyone would let go of what they were doing and rush towards me. Just like Royalty. They would get me a cot to sit on, turn on the nearest cooler always sitting around in the courtyard, and get me a fresh glass of lassi. Just like Royalty. That was definitely worth the two hours of butt-hurting excruciating ride. Naani would hug me ten times in ten seconds; Naana ji would be informed of my arrival and he’d try and hurry his errands to get home to me. Mom’s youngest cousin, my maamu, was already at home most of the time to tickle me five minutes into my arrival. Other cousins/siblings were also informed and they’d rush home as well. Neighbours would hear the news and come over as well. It was party time … solely because “Roop was visiting!”. Just like Royalty.
I would then be rushed into shower with water pulled out with the motored-pump. They had the house plumbing hooked up to the machine. It always fascinated me that they had to get the pump dug in deeper every year, and yet, they weren’t half concerned. That’s how life was, I assumed, and let things be. Shower was always refreshing. I’d wear my best set of city clothes to show off to the neighbourhood kids how things are done in the city. In my mind, I would freshen up all the urban legends I was going to share with them over the span of this summer. It made me even happier. It was almost always dark by the time I stepped out of the shower. Naanu was home, and so were the other missing members. I would greet them and get down to eating my favourite daal that Naani would cook just for me. The courtyard was always bustling with life. Everyone had to grab their plate and go to Naani to get daal and roti in the open kitchen where there were two other women making rotis. Naani’s job was to serve the daal and rotis. She would add an extra spoon of desi ghee to everyone’s daal bowl, which was a rare sight in the city. At that point, I would feel sorry for my city friends, who had no family in a village and they totally missed out on the desi ghee. They also missed out on sitting on open cots (like in dhabas) with family members, friends, neighbours, and eating away to coolers’ breeze. After dinner, we would leave the plates for the two helper ladies to clean and gather around Nana ji to chat up for a while. This time though, the location was either one of the two rooftops. The clear skies with no city lights to obscure the stars and Naana ji’s stories is a memory I cannot ever erase from my mind. I still relive the moments even though Naanu passed away more than a decade ago. He would share his life experiences with us and I’d lie besides him with my head on his arm. I often wondered why he never got tired of me asking useless questions. I also wondered if his arm ever got tired. It never did. It didn’t get tired even when I had chicken pox and he was the only one who kept me company through the days of my sickness. Being with Naana ji, on a rooftop with a beautiful sky to look at, proved to me time and again where life’s beauty really existed.
The morning was brought on by chirping of birds, cawing of peacocks, the hustle and bustle downstairs of folks coming in to get lassi from Naani. Apparently, she gave out a jug of lassi each to nearly 20 families in the village a day. Unaware of hungry kids in Ethiopia, that was her contribution to the world. I would look around at all cots on the roof to see some life but everyone had always left by the time I woke up. After folding up my bed, I’d run downstairs to be a part of the activity. Naani’s face would light up upon seeing me, and she’d make me brush my teeth so I could eat. I’d listen. I’d even go to the extent of taking a shower without being told. She’d then feed me the traditional Punjabi breakfast of paranthe, dahi, makkhan, and lassi. I still am unable to get the flavour out of my mouth. I always wanted more but stomach would give up on me, and I had to stop. Also, by that time, I realized that I shouldn’t be wasting too much time coercing stomach for another round if I really wanted to start my day. So, I’d quickly wash up and say my goodbyes to Naani to start up my series of adventures.
First trip was usually the neighbours. They’d all welcome me with filled plates of food. I’d politely deny, and rush on to the next house. Within hours, I’d finish up my obligatory visits to almost everyone in the visit. It was only a matter of time before every breathing soul in the village knew that I was around. After all, I was the village head’s eldest granddaughter. Rest of the day was spent with my favourite families in the village. There were a few ladies in those families knitting yarn, some working on embroidery, some sewing and I’d try to help them but to no avail. Then, I’d move on to converse with the kids and tell them my fables. The looks on their faces after I was done helped me forget that I was missing out on Naani’s lunch. Eventually, stomach would cave in and I’d rush home for a quick trip for food. Unfortunately, every time, Naani would force me to bed after lunch for a power nap. I would go to bed too, but as soon as I heard her snoring, I’d sneak out again into the hot sun. No one else in the village except our family had power during the afternoons because we had a domestic electricity generator. Therefore, my family was unable to decipher why I ran out to other houses and not stay in the comfort of our own when it was nearly 44 degrees Celsius outside. I still haven’t been able to decipher that one either. I like spending time with people is the best assumption I can fathom. Anyway, I spent my afternoon away with neighbours, and returned home in the evening again when it was time to milk the cows and buffaloes. Being a milk lover, I couldn’t possibly miss the sight. It was usually one of the helper-ladies who milked the cows. I loved feeding the animals while they were being milked to keep them distracted.
I’d come home just in time for the milking process. After getting trouble from Naani for having run away earlier in the afternoon, I’d follow the ladies to the piece of land rite across the house where we kept the livestock. It had a gate on it and was walled on all four sides. It was much bigger in area than the house. Nearly two acres, I assume. Besides livestock, it also housed a storage place for farm equipment, a huge shelter for the animals, hay processing equipment, and a natural gas plant, which fed the kitchen stoves in the house. There was also enough empty unpaved space for me to explore with my bare feet. The warm sand crawling through my toes while I searched for shells in the sand always tickled me happy. I was happy spending time with myself just as much as I did spending it with people. I was in my own world but not for long. I would be called to feed the cows. It was milking time. I would be handed a bowl with white flour that I’d throw on the cow’s hay and it lapped it up with delight; I could sense it. The lady milking the cow would signal me to stop when she was done … but I didn’t want to stop. I enjoyed the look in the cow’s eyes when I fed her. It felt like we were communicating. I really didn’t want to stop. Alas, I had to. It was time to go in and wait for one of my cousins to take me to the fields. I wasn’t allowed to go there by myself since they were a few kilometres outside the village boundary.
Sitting on my cousin’s bicycle was the first time I realized that I was amidst a vast array of endless beauty. Green fields spammed my eyes’ vision for as far as they managed to see. It was beautiful … a sight I always missed out on when driving to the village. I was always too occupied with being excited about the future and ignored the present. I never noticed the fields that I drove by but after a day of letting that excitement down, I could appreciate nature at its best without a care. I was so lost in the beauty that I wouldn’t be bothered with the mosquitoes the cool humid breeze from the wet paddy fields blew in my direction. I would soon get mosquito bites all over my body and I didn’t care. Never did. By the time we made it to our fields, where my Naanu and other family members were, I would be scratching every body part I could lay my hands on … but I was still happy. Smiling, I would go jump into the tube-well meant to irrigate the fields. It was only then I would realize that the water was too cold to stay in it for longer than a minute. Lucky for me, I was immediately pulled out almost every time, yelled at a bit, and wrapped up in a towel so that I won’t get sick. I’d sit there, in my towel, looking at the activity around, with the biggest smile on my face that still stays unmatched to this day. After everyone was done with their chores, we’d walk home or I’d ride with someone on their bike.
At home, Naani would be waiting for us with a spoon of desi ghee in her hands and the same cycle of feeding and eating would begin again. Next day would have the same agenda as the previous one with only the difference of the family that I chose to spend time with.
Days went by … so did two months … and it was time to make it back to the city. I didn’t eat well for days before the departure date. On the due date, I’d feign sickness but never got away with it. Elders knew better. My bags were packed and shipped to my mother’s post-marital place. I, of course, had no choice but follow the bags, and I would sadly do so every year without a miss.
Glossary:Naana/Naani = mom's dad and mom respectively
Daal/Roti = Food ;p
Cooler = umm a type of a fan which uses water to blow across cold air :? how would one define a cooler? helppp!! :p
