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.