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.