A summer Evening

This is my first foray in writing a short story ... I was never a good essay writer in high school - language was not my cup of tea.  It is bit long compared to previous blog posting. Thanks for reading and supporting me in this adventure ...   This is a story about a summer evening in my village in a remote place in India with few imaginations.

=========================================================

The rays of the sun just faded away. The dust from the cows returning home after grazing, linger in the air. Men slowly trickle in from the farms after working a long strenuous day.  Women chatting among themselves return home bringing water from the pond in earthen pots, some on top of their head stacked up more than one and some on their hip and head. Kids play in the dusty road with a made up game of their own -- running around and trying to break a mound of pottery shells with a ball made of strings. Life has its own charm in this small village - away from the bustling noise of any town. The nearest bus line is two miles away while the nearest town is twenty-five miles away. A small strip of road connects the main road to the village for bullock carts to use. In rainy season, the road gets muddy and even bulls fear to go there, but people live around it. 

The village encompasses more than a hundred mud houses and two big concrete mansions owned by the Zamindars (landlords) - two brothers who came here some twenty years ago to establish this village in the midst of mountains and forest. Since then, the village has grown from a dozen families to four hundred people with more than five hundred animals, cows, bulls, sheep, goats, chickens and few dogs.  Most of people in the village work on the fields for the Zamindars but a few have their own small patches of land. Some people make pots, some do iron work for the bullock carts, or other farming related activities.  Men, women, kids, and animals are nestled in this small village between two mountains going through the circle of life. 

The mountains are barren - black granite rocks with patches of trees sprinkled in between. The small mountain is near the entrance of the village; one has to go around the mountain to reach it.  In summer, the heat from the mountains lingers into the evening. There are two slopes in the smaller mountain closer to the village, one small and one big enough to climb and play upon. Kids run on the smaller slope mountain laughing and giggling (the bigger slope has a big black mark and looks scary - it has a fascinating story behind it - let's keep that for next time). The sounds of their laughter echoes here and there. Some roll stones from the top of the slope trying to see which stone is faster. The art of rolling stone is in finding the right stone. Some kids furiously search for the right stone - checking the shape and surface - spitting on it and wiping it with bottom part of their shorts, the only clothing they are wearing. For kids, a cloth is a cloth - an object that can be used when needed for anything, the quality or cost is not important. When we attach a price to an object, we get too objective - the curse of adulthood we all carry forward. There is a group of teenagers sitting on the slope in one place and observing the only road, which crosses the village - the only outlet to anywhere. They are watching the characters passing though the road.  A motorcycle slowly inches forward completely sandwiched by the flock of goats returning back home. The goat herder (their friend) tries to steer the lambs and goats to give way to the motorcycle but finds it quite challenging. The teenager laugh at his situation.  You can hear some moms shouting for their kids to come down from the slope as it gets darker. "Come down quickly, there is an opera tonight, we need to get ready”. The moment the kids hear about the opera, they empty their pockets, hide the invaluable stones they have gathered behind a big rock, and start heading back down shouting with excitement, racing to beat each other home first.

Life in the village had an eclectic charm. Summer is brutal but fun for city kid like me, freedom to roam around and explore. The days start very early. Every morning, after some snacks, I go to the fields with grandfather, check out what people are doing or go to the pond to catch fish. As the heat starts to take the toll, everyone starts to head back home, eat lunch, and rest a bit. This is the time to play cards and take a nap. After our evening snack we normally head to the mountain- the smaller one at the entrance of the village- climb to the top, roll stones, or collect shiny quartz stones in the patches of open lands between rocks. After early dinner with lantern light, it is time to hear stories and head back to bed. An opera, which happens once in a while is a fun joyous event - a detour from the normal life for all the villagers, young and old.

There is an excitement in the air. A group of villagers are sitting under the tree discussing. Some are smoking pipes and puffing out the smoke looking at the evening sky. Some have gathered a bit early and are busy playing cards.  A few young adults are discussing intensely, they are working on a plan for tonight's function. Tonight, there will be an opera called "Ram Lila".  "Ram Lila" is about the various acts of Lord Rama depicted in the "Ramayana" - an epic story of valor deeply rooted into the religious mythology of people from India. It is a story of the virtues that can lift ordinary people to the next level.  They are contemplating where to set up the stage.  The stage is nothing fancy- an open air stage with four wooden posts and a canopy on top - that's it. One person suggest to put the stage near the big banyan tree, the other says, let's do it near the small dilapidated temple. Unable to compromise, they look up to an elder smoking the pipe. He must be very old but in reality he may be sixty years old but the hard work in the fields has taken a toll on him. His face is full of wrinkles, each with a story behind it. He was one of the first people to come with the Zamindar to establish the village. He has seen it all, from the tiger in the mountain to the demons behind the small forest. One can see the flair of pride written on his face, pride of how few of them molded the earth and made it what it is today.  His face is transparent but deep. He takes the last puff and puts out the light from the "bidi" (a crude form of cigarette).  He is the priest of the village also and everyone calls him Pujari (a priest). Pujari takes a pause, looks around and says, “Both of your ideas are good, but why don’t we do it in front of the Zamindar's house. It has a big area and pretty flat - half of them are cemented and we will be able to get some funds like before.” He spoke like a true leader from his vast experience.  He looks around to check the eyes of each of them to see if the answer pleased them. Most of them swing their heads up and down two or three times nodding their approval and some voice an opinion to agree on the idea.  Finally, it is settled, the opera will be in front of the Zamindar's house.  The concept of a specific time does not exist- the opera will start when they are ready which means after everyone has had dinner, enough people are gathered around and the zamindar is present. The team is excited to start. The people who are doing the opera are from the village itself, they are the actors and volunteers. They are especially excited today as they have bought new clothes for the Opera – new glittering clothes fit for the Kings. Sibe, one of the leaders from the team starts to assign tasks to people and everyone agrees in unison.  Planning is completed in ten minutes and then they start to drift away from the tree -- the elders calm as before smoking and chatting about tomorrow, guessing about the weather. It feels like another normal day for them.

The team gets into action. One person takes a broom and starts cleaning, another one starts spraying water to settle down the dust. One person takes a small stick and makes a rectangle, although it looks more like a rhombus than a rectangle.  Bystanders take a look and congratulate the person who did the marking for doing such a fine job. Two people start digging the holes on the four corners and putting the posts in - one holding the post while the other plants it. Four posts are planted and a canopy is tied. The canopy is just for the name, it only covers thirty percent of the open space with long threads tied to the posts. The wobbly posts somehow are able to hold it. After it is done, they step back to take a look at the “pandal” and pride themselves for doing such a fantastic job - a pride even the builder of Taj Mahal may not have felt.  The stage is set.  Now, it is time to go back home, eat dinner, and get prepared.

As I stepped out of the gate, I see bunch of people working in-front of it.  Everyone seems to know me even if I know few of them; being a young kid and the eldest grandchildren of the Zamindar helps. I go to the village in summer to stay with my grandparents.  I see few familiar faces. One of them, Sibe, who is probably ten years older than me, I know very well as we played games together. He is kind to me. I ask him what they are doing and his face lights up. He started speaking as fast as mad bulls run but I get a gist of it. There will be opera tonight. That's exciting! He makes sure I ask everyone to come and I should come too. He tells me that they have new dresses and paraphernalia bought recently and this is the first show. You can see the excitement in his glowing eyes. I get excited too and hurry back home to tell everyone.  I started shouting to my grandmother about it, "Aai there is opera tonight, we need to eat dinner quickly …", perhaps at the same raging bull speed. I am sure my grandmother knew all about it already but nicely echoed my excitement.

Darkness follows like a veil with only flickers of light from the lamps coming from the houses. People start to slowly trickle in and gather around the "pandal" - the open platform consisting of four-tilted post and a small canopy. It is time to get started. Sibe, the leader of the group brings two petromax lights that are much brighter than the struggling lanterns and hangs them near the posts. With light, there is flair in the air now - one can see kids faces with excitement.  Some hawkers from nearby villages have also made the trip; they are selling peanuts, candies, trinkets and even bangles for women.  Kids are circling like vultures to take a look at the new stuff the hawker has. He is describing the glory of each candy and how tasty they are, "If you eat this one, you will feel like you are in heaven." Kids giggle at his sermon.  There are some who are selling trinkets that make noise when you blow air through the pipe. A festive atmosphere is all around.

The drummer starts to make sounds, which means it is time to gather around. People put sacks on the floor and sit on top it; men on one side, women on the other. The kids take the side from which the actors will enter and exit, they want to be close to the action - even maybe touch some of the actors. The last side is for the Zamindar's family. A couple of cots are placed for the family members to sit and enjoy.  The singer starts practicing his songs.  In the opera, the actors have to act and sing. In between each acts, the singer does the prelude and sets the context.  The drummer slowly increases the tempo; you can hear the hawkers frantically hopping around trying to sell before the opera starts.

A note about opera in the village: all the actors are men. Men dress as women too with very shiny dresses. Elegance is not the key here, it has to be glamorous and shiny, the more the better. People always like to see their Gods and kings in a glamorous way - Indians are no different than Greeks.  There is no stage prop - no decoration, it is close and intimate.  The actors have use their imagination and ingenuity to make artifacts such as bow and arrow, or a mace and monkey tail. Some look good and some are simply put together. The power of ingenuity can only be grasped here.  Beside the actors, there are a team of musicians, including a singer who sings and plays the harmonium (a musical instrument) and another who plays drums.  That's complete team - fully self assembled on a voluntary basis. Normally the opera takes anywhere from few hours to three in the morning depending upon the subject. Tonight's opera is "Ram Lila", the virtues of Lord Ram from Ramayana - an epic ingrained in the life of everyone in India. Children grow up listening to stories and old men and women pass away singing the glory of Lord Ram. This is an epic like no other.

Everyone is ready waiting.  Most of the Zamindar's family members are here. The adults are sitting in the cots and children are on the carpet. Some of us try to buy some snacks but we were told not to by our elders,  "here eat this instead." This is a universal struggle ... the kid trying venture to the unknown and Moms making sure it is good for the kid. We manage to get some peanuts though.  The drums pitch starts to get higher -- everyone is talking and waiting to get started. Finally, the Zamindar comes out of the gate and a hush falls over. What was noisy and chaotic is now quite. He sits in the same cot and invites me to sit near him (a privilege).  The organizer starts the function with a small speech and sets the context of the opera. As actors started coming, comments on how beautiful "Lord Rama" looks or what a magnificent person he was. One act follows another.  A male actor came as Sita (wife of Rama) and as he started talking, trying to speak in a women's voice, it sounds funny and we all started laughing. The actor who was doing Laxman was a serious actor and seems valiant. Things look normal until Hanuman  (the monkey god) comes and it became pretty exciting.  His tail looks pretty funny and he jumps up and down. All kids laugh and smile at his acting.

People were engrossed with the act, the music and the drum beats - forgetting everything about what happened in the day or what will happen the next day. The spectators and the actors in some sense are part of the same opera, in a harmony.  Scenes follow with yawns in between. The adults drink tea to keep awake. The next thing I know, I am waking up  in bed with sun shining on my face.  The sun has been up for a long time.  I guess I fell asleep and someone carried me in bed. Yawning I rushed to the gate to see to check it out the remnants of last night but there is no trace. The posts are gone and the holes partially patched. A layer of dust is already settled. People are going on their way to do the daily routines. Farmers have already left to the fields, women are returning from the pond carrying water. The kids were gather around and talk about the opera, each one trying to beat the other with the funny episode of Hanuman's tail or Ravana's mustache... Life starts and ends with simple things.

I hear the familiar voice of my grandmother calling to come home to eat breakfast.  I hopped inside singing some tunes from the previous evening …

=====

09.05.16