things not talked about

These are the images that I am working on; they don’t go away. This is the beginning of my education and there is much to learn and think about—and there will be responsibilities and opportunities to use that.

Seven women walk in a circle on the construction site behind the hotel. A man with a shovel fills a huge metal bowl with broken gray rocks. One at a time the women lift a bowl onto their heads (they have a ring of fibers that supports the bowl that they just keep on their heads) and walk 8 yards, lift the bowl off, dump the rocks into a bin, and continue circling. They chatter as they work.

We are walking down a major street in Bombay, hustle and bustle everywhere. Two very small children are in my path, both are covered in dust and dirt. The infant is crawling over the leg of the toddler. There are flies and there is garbage.

We are enjoying coconut waters, sipping from the coconut shells. This vendor only has the ones with water, not with coconut meat to eat. There is a small boy there and Riddhi wants to buy him a coconut. The vendor tells her not to do this. The boy wants it to eat, to make a meal, and his coconuts don’t have the meat; so the boy will go to his mother and she will argue that the vendor is cheating him and there will be a huge ruckus.

Two small children, wearing just shirts, are sitting by the side of the road, stirring the embers of a fire with big sticks.

I am sitting in the rickshaw, stalled in traffic. A young girl startles me by grabbing my arm. She smiles and holds out her hand for money. As she leaves she touches my arm again and smiles.

I am looking at fabric for Adam and Riddhi’s quilt, beautiful dupioni silks in many many colors. We talk with one clerk. Another clerk moves our choices from cabinet to counter and cuts the fabric, the first clerk writes up the bill, another clerk takes the fabric to the pick-up counter and hands us our copy of the bill to go to the cashier and pay. One person takes my credit card. Another person takes the credit card receipt and writes up a ticket and staples the paperwork together. Then I go to the pick-up counter and hand over my ticket. The fabric is now bundled. The clerk stamps the ticket and staples one copy to the package and hands it to me.

There is a water barrel in an entry nook in the jewelry repair shop. A customer waiting with us, takes the metal cup and rinses it out, then fills it. When he drinks the cup doesn’t touch his mouth. He replaces it on the shelf.

Women dressed all in white walk with a bowl in their hands. They are a religious order or sect. People give them food, but they must leave the door open as these women don’t knock—they wait. If they are touched by another person, they must fast for a day. They do not speak, they do not touch. They walk.

My last day in Bombay I began to think crazy thoughts:
Is this my last rickshaw ride?
When will I see my last cow?
And my overstimulated brain strained to take in every last impression, every possible sensation.

And then we piled the suitcases out of the rickshaw by the side of the road and looked across to the house. A crowd in white had gathered to mourn a neighbor who had died the night before—everyone in this house is like family, so the grief was heavy. Out of respect, we waited. Then they lifted the wrapped body and processed to the cremation site a short distance away.

Because we were engaged in something auspicious, we could not associate with the family in their loss. Before we entered Pallu’s home, Veena washed our feet because we had looked at the body.

I didn’t know it at the time but my presence as a guest created difficulties for the mourning family who were not to listen to music as part of their ritual, because Pallu and her sitar teacher prepared and played for me that afternoon. Just for me. It’s just interesting music, you have to let yourself be “in” the music, so there you are—and then they start “jamming.”

Goodbyes. Many gifts in many forms.

Final final errands, through the crowed sidewalk markets with Veena, picking up wedding items and food treats to take home. Literally pushing ahead. Crossing the street through perilous traffic with help from a stranger—we lived!

When I expressed regret that we weren’t able to say goodbye to the cook, Kaku, I was told, “She waited for all of you until 7:15, but then we had to rush home for the water. She only gets 15 minutes of water a day, so she couldn’t miss it.”

Mumbai to Singapore to Seoul to San Franciso to Seattle with 15 minutes of water to think about.

Unexpectedly, it was a four bindi night. I’ve known that there might be a ceremony around the first wedding invitation that involved both of Riddhi’s grandmothers, since neither is in health to travel, but what took place I couldn’t really have imagined.

While others spent the day preparing a feast (with water only from 7-10 AM and 6-10 PM), Riddhi and I ran some errands. The streets of the city, hot, crowded with people going every which way, school children (there are so many that young children go to school in the morning and the older ones in the afternoon) swarming the candy vendor, the tailor on his treadle sewing machine putting the finishing touches on Adam’s dopi (Nehru hat) for the wedding. Coriander from one stall, betel nuts from another. The Gandhi produce market, milk from a cart on the road. Textile shops seems to make me forget about heat and queasy stomach—chicken work.

Imagine. We walked into Palu’s livingroom, filled with people I’d met and several I had not, chatting away in their beautiful saris—and Riddhi, wow. Red and gold and make-up and hair and jewelry—she looked amazing. She moved to a low chair in the middle of the room and I was told to kneel next to Veena, who also looked amazing, elegant in torquoise and pink. The maharaaj was to my right, with a low table, green cloth, newspaper. Veena showed me the document he was going to fill out with all the auspicious dates and information for the wedding. He made sure that I had a place to sit and that I was given something to drink. (What follows is a jumble, but it happened something like this.)

The maharaaj gave Veena and me each a bindi, by dipping his finger into the red ink and marking our foreheads. Then he pressed rice into the wet ink. He tied a string around each our wrists as well as Riddhi’s, it had been blessed and I was told it was holy string. Veena gave me a bindi (this is where I’m confused in remembering). And I think she fed me jaggery and coriander seeds.

Then Palu called me away. It didn’t seem appropriate to leave, but no one said anything else, so I went. She had arranged for Muni to dress me in one of her saris, so that’s what happened. First was the choli blouse, which didn’t fit by at least 6 inches. This isn’t going to work, can’t I just wear my shirt. “I’ll make it work. I’m a beautician.” So she pulled and squeezed for several minutes—she was determined. “This isn’t going to work.” And then she got out the pins. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover everything up.” I was quite doubtful but powerless, so she used a multitude of pins to clip the top together, then the slip and then the sari. It was beautiful grey and burgundy with gold weaving for the design work on the borders and paloo. So all these lovely pleats were draped, and yes, pinned and tucked. Then the jewelry, which was perfect for the colors. A necklace and then earrings, “That’s not the hole,” I protested. “It will work!” And painfully, it did. Then the bracelets. They managed to push the one onto my left hand, but even with two people squeezing my hand, they had to give up on the right, so I had to wear both on my left hand. I was decked. And then a bindi sticker . . .

So I swished back to my place in the livingroom where things were moving forward. Astrology book was consulted. The official invitation was filled out, as well as another calligraphied one. One was folded and Veena put auspicious items into it which included, tumeric, betel nut, coriander seeds and ??? It was folded again and tied with the string. He drew the swastika looking design on the paper, and Veena added some marks, and then rice. This was repeated with the other document and then I put the auspicious items in and the steps were similar. The two documents were placed in a bowl of flowers.

Then the blessings.

This may be when Veena gave me the bindi rather than above—I’m not sure.

Veena made a bindi on Riddhi’s forehead and fed her the jaggery and coriander and tossed rice over her and gave her blessings, then I did the same. At one point I remember that everyone in the room was giving me instructions and I asked that just one person tell me what to do! Oh, and part of the blessing was to place folded fingers on Riddhi’s temples and then crack them on your own temples.

Or maybe this is when the Veena bindi happened.

In turn beginning with the grandmothers, everyone fed and blessed Riddhi

We rehearsed what will happen on March 28 when Veena will deliver the package of invitations to Roger and me, wherever we are. So she did the bindi and handed me the package and all that. Then Roger and I will deliver this to the wedding where it will be used in the ceremony. (I think Veena hopes we will be in DC with the new baby!)

We enjoyed a feast of so many foods prepared with so much attention and without water, sitting on the mat on the floor, eating with our fingers (which has become quite comfortable for me—in fact utensils seem a bit awkward), and talking (mostly listening in my case). Everyone was very happy and friendly and kind and welcoming. People ask how I like India. Hard question to answer since I really don’t know India—I’ve just had a taste of a few places, many wonderful people, many different foods and experiences. I’m not sure what answer would most please them.

Finally it was just women and the evening ended with us sitting around in our saris chatting away.

We rode for about two hours from town to smaller towns and finally to a very tiny and very old village, Thorala, where the Kamdar family deity is. Kamdar was Riddhi’s family name until Gandhi told one of the uncles who was part of the movement to change to name to Mehta, because Kamdar was too British. This village feels so tiny and like it’s been the same forever.

We took off our shoes, and walked into a small temple where the deity is kept and were welcomed by a priest. He marked a bindi on each of our foreheads and we sat down on the floor. Riddhi went to him to be blessed for the wedding and given some things that will be used in the ceremony in May. The priest said a blessing as he wrapped a knotted red cord around her wrist. He gave her pieces of coconut on a tray and then she gave us each a piece as well as some jaggery.

On to Virpur to visit the temple of Jalaram Bapa, who was an honest and holy man (Jyoti) who lived abouat 150 years ago, and is now worshipped. If people lose things, they say this name and within 5 minutes you find the item—that’s what I was told. We walked through a bazaar of gifts for offerings and other religious items and toys to the temple. As we took off our shoes we were engulfed in a crowd pressing forward. It was the tightest crowd I’ve ever been in, but I was kind of near an edge which felt like a good thing. In less than two minutes we smashed briefly past a huge framed photograph of Jalaram Bapa, behind glass and then an altar with statues. Men were moving the crowd at quite a clip by clapping their hands—so I really can’t tell you that I saw much more than this. People were frantic to get close to the glass and to have a moment in front to receive blessing. The crowd pressed tighter and tighter forward and down and we pushed left to retrieve our shoes, which were now in several different places having been underneath the crowd scene. It was quite a relief to have survived.

We waited in the market where the fragrance of roses was strong—and became the show at the market. So for 8 days now I’ve been the only white person I could see, with a few rare exceptions, and I’ve been stared at—a lot, and it hasn’t been that bad, except for being a target for people begging and hawking wares. But this was really something. Three young men walked by and then turned around and walked by again and then did another turn. I stopped looking and/or smiling so I’m not sure when they got bored. Little children came by and just stood there with their mouths open. It was weird enough so that Riddhi would position herself to protect me and send people away when they got too weird. “What’s happening?” she would ask and that usually worked. There was one older woman begging who really wouldn’t let go, so a man kind of waiting nearby, repositioned us and came to my protection—how nice is that?

We walked, and people begging came and went and came and came and then we (not I) discovered that we were walking the wrong way, so we had to turn around and walk again through the market and the crowd behind us got bigger (think Pied Piper) and it was crazy. We walked faster, so did they. When we were nearing the car, they were pressing and begging and the numbers were large and we almost dove into the car with people still talking in our faces. Air conditioning, relief, but also self-reproach. It doesn’t feel righteous to walk away from other human beings, especially people in great need.

And our final stop was the town of Gunadagh where we visited Nirangan’s ancestral home. His parents lived there too, but only through the birth of their oldest son. I think it’s his father, but maybe his grandfather, who was advisor to the prince of the state—so the home is quite large with ornate carvings. It’s deserted now but it must have been a splendid place. The neighbors came to see who we were and invited us into their yard to see things from another angle—and to have their photos taken with us. We also stopped at a pastry shop, a family favorite for 4 generations, and watched the making of sweets.

The Calico Museum is the gift and houses the collection of the Sarabhai family, early supporters of Gandhi’s movement in India. It’s an estate with peaceful gardens, water, mosaics, peacocks and parrots and rooms which house a collection of textiles that is unbelievable. From all the states of India there is very distinctive and beautiful handwork—weaving, appliqué, trapunto, Batik, block printing, tie dye. So much to take in, to enjoy, to study, but there are rules!

The tour is given once a day to 15 people who make reservations and 15 people who line up early to get in (that would be Veena and me). At 10:30 the guard opens the little door (duck your head) within the big door (think fortress) and tells you where to stand and where to move to. No one smiles. No cameras, no phones, no water, no bags. Sign here, get your admission ticket. Sign here, we’re taking your possessions, here’s your claim check. Now sit there. No not there. Here. Now get up and move. Follow the path and there are guides to make sure you do not wander.

Once inside, sit down here. One by one we are led to a desk to sign again—for the record of who’s visited, but it feels like we’re signing a legal document. Now go back and sit down again. Next. Get up time to go. This little woman who really makes you think of military personalities lines us up and we are given our first instructions. The tour will end at exactly 12:30. We are to stay together. We only have moments to see each group of textiles, as for their protection the lights will be turned off after our limited viewing time.

It’s not quite running, but it’s certainly moving quickly. Imagine say 30 of the largest and most intricate tapestries you can imagine and you have 2 minutes to take it in—while you’re walking! The group exchanged many looks and smiles about the sternness and precision of our tour—so there was bonding. She entertained very few questions—I think we all knew that we’d use up all our time if we started on that and she would certainly have a way of snuffing that idea anyway.

Our guide, who never introduced herself—I’m sure she would have said that this wasn’t about her, was fabulous at helping us understand the artist and really emphasized that this is where the attention needed to be given. I’ll try to recreate to give you the flavor:

“This illiterate person is presented with an idea and given a length of cloth. He (now that I’m writing I can’t think if she said this was something that men did or women) holds the fabric up to the sunlight and counts the threads. He thinks of many ideas and looks for inspiration around him. In his mind he begins to fill the cloth with designs and images. He decides what stitches will best tell the story in his head. He chooses his thread and delicately picks up 3 stitches across and 3 stitches down and he begins. His life is poured into what he creates. And one stitch follows the other for months or years.”

We traveled once more through the traffic of Ahmedabad to the bus station. 3.5 hours and agricultural scenes and a bad bollywood movie and we arrived in Rajkot.