Bapa at Last

Here he is, my Bapa. I'll let the photos tell their story. The one with the other old man is the original I'd hoped to publish with my "This is Bapa" post.

I never tire of his company. I understand 50-75% of what he says with words, and when I speak English I know he understands less than 10%. But somehow there is no lack of communication between us, especially when we're playing together or at a function listening to others play. I love when he looks over at me to see what I think of someone's performance and at the same moment we both scrunch up our nose, both of us underwhelmed.

Bapa stands apart because he asks nothing. Daily people from the village ask him why he doesn't try to get some money from me, why he teaches me for free, how he can spend so much time with an American and not capitalize on the financial aspect of such a connection. He's to the point now where this angers him - just the other day I heard him yell at someone in response to such a query, "Would YOU ask YOUR daughter to give you money? What kind of a father asks such a thing from his children?!"

I would love to give him something; a few new shirts, a new lunghi (the long cotton cloth he wears each day), some toothbrushes, a pair of shoes, even a new cow that gives milk more consistently. But he refuses even the smallest gifts. He is sure the Divine designed our relationship, as there could be no other explanation for something so odd (he laughs when he says this, acknowledging how weird it is to have a tall white daughter from America). Something given by God shouldn't be tainted by the pursuit of financial gain, he says.

I love him because he takes me back to square one, the way family should and often does, for better or worse. I came here with such grand ideas of what I would accomplish and he says things to me like, "Sit down and drink your tea. That is enough."

He also tells me things like, "When you play, play like you're a fire and you won't finish until you've burned all the way through. Don't leave anything behind."

He may be the Buddha.

But he'll never think such a thing. He'll just keep farming. Today he walked by with a bag over his shoulder; a huge bag full of pumpkins he'd just picked. When I called to him, he kept moving and shouted, without turning his head, "I can't talk to you! I'm an old man and carrying a heavy load! If I stop walking and lose my momentum I'll fall over and die!"

There's that morbid humor again.

Loud Grandma and the Two Pistols

I have dubbed this woman and her two little grandsons “Loud Grandma and the Two Pistols.” Last time I was here in Juanga, she passed the hospital daily with the two boys, then ages 2 and 4, one on each hip. These boys, the younger one seen here, are observably handfuls. In the end, after fully noting their behavior, their volcanic personalities, and constant presence on each of Loud Grandma’s hips, I named them the Two Pistols. They three are a package deal, and I enjoy their antics greatly.

She became Loud Grandma because you can hear her coming from some distance, often because she is yelling at the Two Pistols. Each day she walks from the village to a field near the hospital to do farming work, joined by the Pistols. If not bearing them on each hip, she can be found either chasing them or all but dragging them with a firm grip. During these occasions, Loud Grandma is wont to stop for an extended oration, engaging the use of her “badi,” a large bamboo stick, to further emphasize the riotous peaks of her discourse. Throughout the event she waves the badi with the furor of an orchestral conductor on fast forward, the Two Pistols hugging, squinting, bracing themselves until the storm passes. I was concerned with this initially, but now know that the badi serves only as a prop, never as a weapon. Tirade finished, Pistols silenced and gazing at her with anticipation, Loud Grandma scoops them up to their positions and the walk continues.

The background on this trio is as follows: Loud Grandma’s son, the Pistols’ father, left Juanga after high school to garner further education, going as far as law school. In the end, he left the prospect of a career and more money, returning to the village to farm and marry. He is now in his late-forties, a bit old in the village culture to have such small children, so his mother helps as much as she can. Word on the street is that the entire family fits into the “feisty-plus” personality category, and thus I’ve learned that Loud Grandma and her Two Pistols were made for each other.

I stepped out yesterday and saw LG approaching with the younger Pistol. Having wanted to capture some piece of their story for two years, I dashed for my camera and got this photo. Here you see the famous bamboo badi, which she wields with the prowess of Wotan, now serving merely as a walking stick for a loving, aging woman. And I also believe you see, in the absence of all the yelling and commotion, the abundance of love shared between Grandmother and Grandson.

Shivaratri

Upper left: staff and villagers cutting veggies.
Above right: the man I call "Juanga's Smallest Man" who is around at every function and helps constantly, enthusiastically. Real name is Kusani.
Left: Macu, a boy, now10, I cared for my first time here, and me outside the tree on Shivaratri.

Our hospital sponsors a huge function each year on Shivaratri, a national Hindu festival celebrating Lord Shiva. We invite over 25 musical groups from the area, and feed our village of 500 people and those from surrounding enclaves. This year’s was on last Friday, February 16th.

From 8:00am on, many of our staff crouch under the big banyan tree next to the hospital and set to slicing pound upon pound of vegetables – squash, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, figs. Huge pots the size of children’s swimming pools are set over fire and the cooking begins, all overseen by two major figures: Natol, a hospital employee who is not only an excellent chef but also a Brahman priest (something he was born into, as it’s part of the caste system. Brahmins are the highest caste, and perform all of the worship rituals. There are always several at a festival like this, so Natol could focus on cooking), and Babaji, the village “caterer” who provides the giant cook wear and stays all day and night, stirring, mixing, advising on ingredient levels, shouting orders. I am entertained by Babaji, partially because he is ever present at all our village functions and has a constant, cunning smile on his face, and partially because never does one see someone so scantily clad close to so much hot, boiling food in America. He stands there with a five-foot giant spoon, his loincloth tightly wrapped to allow free movement as he mixes, and really, never stops smiling unless someone isn’t cutting the potatoes properly and he has to scold them.

All this takes place while three young men are setting up the “sound system,” four ancient microphones of questionable quality hung from branches of the tree, and three giant speakers set to blast the latest Oriyan pop music until the chanting begins.

Inside the small temple under our tree, several priests fastidiously perform an array of pujas, with sandalwood, marigolds, incense, and ghee, clarified butter. Soon they have their own microphone, the pop music is shut off, and they chant prayer after prayer after prayer, invoking the names of many Hindu deities.

It’s easy to not take their activity seriously; I don’t understand what they’re saying, and all the waving around of incense starts to look comical. But two years ago, these same priests spent all day and all night praying for my college roommate, Betsy, who was deathly ill at the time. I woke up periodically in the night and was astonished to find them in continued prayer.

The priests did have trouble with her name, as it is completely unfamiliar to their tongue. Sometimes it came at as “Bresty,” and other times “Besty,” and my personal favorite was “Busty.” But they prayed over 36 hours for someone they did not know, and I remain grateful for their sincere intention. Betsy made a full and miraculous recovery.

From noon on, the musical groups arrive. We feed them fried bread and a lentil stew, and then the hours and hours of drumming and singing begin, all of them seated in a big circle with the singer pacing back and forth on the inside, underneath those four microphones hanging from the tree. This year we had a rain delay in the middle of the day, so because we had no patients convalescing, we moved into the hospital and played away until it cleared.

In the end, we all eat again. By this time it’s late, sometime after 10pm, and we roll out mats on which to sit. Someone hands out banana leaves. Next comes a bit of water to “wash” the leaves. Then comes a dab of salt. Then a big basket of rice, and piles of it pushed onto each leaf. The diners make a volcano shape of their rice, just in time for the arrival of the piping hot dhalma, another kind of lentil stew with potatoes and squash and the proverbial kitchen sink. Next cotta, a tomato-fig chutney. All dive in, mixing everything up, mashing the potatoes with their fingers, discarding the skins, and shoving mouthful after mouthful in. Many of my drumming compatriots make fun of me because I don’t eat as much as they do, and because I take a couple minutes to let my food cool before I eat it. My Oriya is minimal, so I just laugh with them instead of saying something like, “I’m sorry, but I like my taste buds.”

The best is dessert - a big bucket of rice pudding called kiri, hot, steaming, with cardamom pods, raisins, cinnamon, and cashews. If you’re like my mother and don’t like raisins as an ingredient, it’s no problem to remove them and toss them off of your leave like the previous potato skins. This course in the meal brings about the real symphonic slurping, all stirring the mixture in an “S” motion on their leaves for optimal scoopage and delivery to the mouth.

Once finished, we take our leaves and discard them in the field, the dogs waiting anxiously for their turn. Hands are washed, drums are gathered, and soon all visitors are on their bicycles or on foot and heading toward home.

But the priests remain, praying through the night.

And so does Babaji, continuing to shout orders until the wee hours as the final meals are doled out and clean up begins.

I only assume he kept smiling, because I went to bed.

This is Bapa

Today's photo features the famous Bapa – Brahmar Barrick - the old man on the left. Next to him sits Naunidi, over 80 years old, who also likes me to call him Bapa. Everyone knows that the real Bapa is Brahmar, but here all call each other father, brother, cousin, uncle, auntie. We are family; mere friendship feels insultingly distant.

Will you just look at Brahmar for a moment and drink him in? His smile? His small head? The way he fits together so flexibly as he squats, the position he most favors? He keeps threatening to make me stay here until he dies, so I threaten that because he’s so small, I’ll fold him up and take him back to the States with me in my suitcase.

( I am currently unable to upload photos out here on the tropical prairie. After two hours of failed attempts, I am going to ask you to use your imagination when it comes to "today's photo," and picture two contented, wizened men together on small hill. Behind them the day is coming to a close, the sun in its last hour or so of brightness as it heads toward the horizon. Both have versions of smiles on their faces, Bapa's a bit brighter and more amused in its presentation, Naunidi's more a look of satisfaction. Bapa's head is crooked to one side, here in India signifying a gesture of "yes," as in, "ah, yes, here we go with the crazy picture taking again." My apologizes for my internet limits as presented here. I will figure out the photo thing one day, and all shall rejoice.)

At least once a day, in jest, someone tells me that Bapa is dead, (using the word “morigala,” similar to the previous “line cuttigala”) or that he won’t live much longer, or that they will kill him soon. At first I was mortified by the rhetoric, but now I see it’s common and in the end, quite funny. People here talk about death openly; especially in the case of old buddhas like Bapa. Buddha is the word for “old man” in Oriya, buddhi for “old woman.” But the jokes cut across all adult ages – if I’m looking for anyone in the village and ask, “Where’s so and so?” if nobody knows the answer, someone will almost definitely respond “Morigala.”

In the same vein, one of the most good-natured men in the village, Mohan, never passes up the opportunity to come where Bapa and I are sitting and place his hands gently around Bapa’s neck, feigning strangulation and giggling with delight. Bapa sits there, non-plussed. I usually hit Mohan square on the arm. When we all walk to functions together and Mohan is with us, I know at some point I’ll hear a yelp from dear Bapa as Mohan gingerly hoists him onto his back and gives him a piggyback ride. I remind you that Bapa is 78. More Mohan giggling.

Bapa and Naunidi sit here on this little hill most days in the late afternoon, after the cows have come in and the brunt of the day’s work is done. If I pass by, they ask me to sit with them even though I can’t follow much of their conversation. Naunidi takes a moment most days and reaches out his leathery, loving hand to pat my forehead and bless me, saying,”Amaro jhia, Bhagaban, Bhagaban.” (Our daughter, God bless you, God bless you.) His son, Ravi, also enjoys blessing me but prefers to pick marigolds, rip up their petals, and toss them at point-blank range toward my forehead and face, saying in English, “God. God. God. God.” I try not to blink or sniff too much during the gesture, but accept the grace and intent behind the flying petals.

Indeed.

God. God. God. God.