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.