Kidnapped!

Dear dedicated reader,

Today, as I was walking in the bazaar, I was kidnapped.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and I have become more adventurous of late, itching to explore more and spend less time in the house. I lathered myself in sunscreen, grabbed my ipod (a curiosity here, to be sure) and decided I would go for a walk outside the town limits on some of the roads that lead out towards the sugar cane fields. I just wanted to spend some time alone, clear my head, and enjoy the unseasonably cool and windy weather.

However, my imagined afternoon of quiet contemplation was not to be. No sooner had I cleared the gates of the school and made my way into the bustling Sunday vegetable market than I was immediately waylaid by a group of familiar looking middle aged women whose kindly faces I could not place.
They exclaimed when they saw me and began talking quickly, surrounding me on all sides. From what I could catch, they were asking me where I was going and why I was leaving the school. “Guumana…(To wander),” I replied, using the closest possible word I could think of Hindi to illustrate my intentions.

They began to talk frantically again and I concentrated hard, trying to make sense of their highly animated speech. “Madi…3 o’clock…sugar factory…” was all I could catch, but their meaning was simple enough for me to take. They had been on their way to the guesthouse to pick the four of us to take us to the sugar factory in Madi. It suddenly hit me who these women were: Daybal’s family whose house I had visited during the call to prayer only two weeks or so ago. Her brother-in-law had mentioned their desire to take us to the sugar factory in Madi where he is a worker, but they wanted to wait until the Vice President of the factory could be present to welcome us himself. An important Kadodian, he is also the President of the Kadod High School.

Apparently, according to Daybal’s sister in law, today was the day that the President, as he is reverently referred to, had indicated would be the best to take us and they had come to get us as his emissaries. Like a lost sheep, they shepherded me back through the vegetable market towards the high school. I grimaced as we walked, knowing Priya and Melissa were practically in their pajamas still.

Luckily, when I arrived back, only moments after I had left, they were both sitting on the porch fully dressed. As I rolled in with my entourage of middle aged women in salwar kamiz, they looked at me with expected confusion. I shrugged and waited for the women to explain in their quick and muddled Hindi to Priya where we were going. Vanisha was visiting her family in Navsauri and thus was not party to this particular adventure.

In a moment, we were off, following these women to… well, I wasn’t exactly sure where we were going, but I soon figured as we turned down the road leading into the Muslim quarter that we were returning to Master Rashidbhai’s residence.

Our arrival, however, must not have been expected, as when we arrived at the house, it became clear that Rashidbhai and Daybalben were not actually at home. This was a trivial matter, however, as their relatives invited themselves in and made us and themselves comfortable in their upstairs sitting room, raiding their refrigerator for water and cold drinks. We sat, patiently, content to wait what we assumed would be the short while until they arrived home.

It was, however, exactly one hour before Rashidbhai and Daybalben arrived home. We sat making awkward chit-chat with their in-laws during this time, rehashing many of the topics we had covered in our previous visit. When they finally did arrive, Daybalben informed us that she would call the President to let him know that we were ready to go. From our perch on a swing seat, we could only catch bits of the conversation that ensued with Mr. President, but one sentence we caught clearly uttered was, “What do you mean the sugar factory is closed?

I had to bite back a laugh. Of course.

Daybalben came back to announce with sorrow that the sugar factory was, indeed, closed. Her brother in law explained to us in a Hindi-English mix that it was not the season for sugar production and wouldn’t be until October and thus the factory was not open. I did not point out the myriad of ways that this possibility could have been previously anticipated, choosing instead to hold my tongue to hear what was coming next. Daybalben explained that in place of the sugar factory, we had been invited to come to the farmhouse of the President. He had an impressive, marble floored residence in Kadod that we had previously visited, so this was not his chief residence, but would still be a nice trip, she explained.

Soon, a horn was blowing outside. The President arrived in his Hyundai accent, followed by his son (an intense man with glasses who, we discovered, is a priest for the Kadod Hari Krishna temple) in another car. The three of us carefully jumped at the chance to avoid a car ride of undetermined length with a Hari Krishna and piled into the President’s car, leaving the Muslim Rashid family to pile in with the son. It was a mere 10 mile drive to the farm house, which we reached by driving through a tribal village (as it was called by the President) and down a sugarcane lined lane which ended in a large, well manicured clearing.

In the middle of this clearing was a luxurious, compact looking house with black and gold gilded gates and teak lined doorframes and windows. “Teak is a very expensive wood, costing 1,000,000 rupees,” The President’s son explained to me after we had gotten out of the car and were surveying our surroundings.

A very thorough house tour ensued. We were taken through the house, cooing obligingly as the many kitchen cabinets were opened displaying the dishes stacked neatly inside, the lights flicked on and off to demonstrate the electricity, the guest bedroom bed turned down and the closet opened, all while the prices for the various items were dutifully recited. We were even treated to a proud demonstration of the flushing of the Western style toilet.

To be honest, it felt strange: here I am, 25, having no position or formal qualifications to speak of, working for almost no pay in rural India after having spent two years in Americorps, not to mention unshowered and wearing cargo pants, and this obviously important man is going out of his way to impress me. I found myself ambivalently vacillating between being impressed and being completely put off. I would have found similar behavior in the US unspeakably gauche; but, really, who am I to judge? I wondered: was this man born into this position or did he amass this wealth and property through his own ingenuity? In a typically American fashion, I hoped it was the latter because then I would be able to muster genuine admiration.

However, what struck me most was that Daybalben, who I respect very much, was really cooing in earnest over these things, making a point to say how lovely each thing was, wonder over the price, and tell us things about the President and his important role in the life of the town. “He is the president of 20 societies,” she told us loudly, then turning to the President and chiding, “You have not told them you are the President leader of 20 societies?!” Her manner, her accent, her behavior are generally so culturally neutral that I had almost forgotten how much different we actually are. Her obsequious manner in the presence of this great man reminded me yet again how different our perspectives are and how important an invitation to his house must be for her and her family. It also made me a little sad, in the same way that I would become sad sometimes in Delhi. This difference is the reason that, for all that friendships can be wonderfully close here, they will never have the same completely candid honesty about living here that comes so easily with my American friends.

The house tour having finished, the President asked us if we would like to see some of the tribal homes that lie on the outskirts of his property. I was conflicted about this too, but said yes. I earnestly wanted to see these houses, but I knew before it even happened exactly how it would unfold: we arrived at the houses, parked his Hyundai accent outside and he called for the people living inside to come out and welcome us into their homes. They smiled genuinely, however, as we ducked under the low lying mud doorframes into the dark interiors.

“The floors are made of cow dung. Dung, you know this? Dung?” The President’s son asked us. We assured him that we did. The smooth, dung floor had been imprinted with intricate, beautiful designs made by some kind of blunt tool. We were taken through a different kind of house tour this time: shown the open cooking fire, the attached room where the buffalo were tethered for milking and where the chickens wandered freely, and lastly, the prized and beautiful stereo player.

“They live here, with no luxury, and yet they are happy,” Daybal wondered aloud. I wondered if it was true. I couldn’t dismiss the guilt that I felt at traipsing through these people’s houses with no prior invitation, but had to console myself with the fact that their stares indicated that I, with my western clothes, was as much a curiosity in their eyes as their lives were in mine. An equal exchange, perhaps?

Piling back into the car, the President took us home with a promise to take us to sugar factory in Madi once production had begun in October or November. We thanked him profusely, and as he drove away, finally had the freedom to take a deep breath.

A typical weekend after all, actually.

Best,Cat