Open Countryside

The countryside around Orchha is fairly flat and dotted with villages, lending itself well to exploration by bicycle.  Alyse and I rent standard-issue single-speed rock-solid Indian bicycles, which stand up remarkably well to rugged terrain and heavy loads, and set out to explore our surroundings.

Creaking along over the low, narrow bridge across the broad Betwa River, then further along the road, we stop at a quiet village.  A small child watches us.  A rope swing hangs from a tree, resting in the still air, and a man sleeps on a cot under the tree.  We bid "Namaste" to the child, palms together in front of the chest in a position of prayer.  The child responds in kind.

We pedal past another village where a boy with a bag of books on his back, perhaps recently home from school, waves at us to come to his village, a welcoming wave of friendship.  But we have a taste for open countryside now, so we wave and continue along the road, then turn off onto a dirt path and rattle along, stopping in a grove of trees.  The only sound is the birds and the distant swoosh of a river or perhaps the wind in the treetops.

Our sanctuary is soon discovered by small bands of children from neighboring villages.  They come to watch us, keeping a safe distance, then disappear into the trees to spread the news.  A tall, lanky, awkward boy approaches and asks to see my pen.  Pens, rupees and chocolate are favorite requests of Indian children.  He covetously examines my pen, motions that I should give it to him, and when I refuse, he leaves with pen in hand.

 

I follow, slightly annoyed at his manner of "asking" for the pen, but more interested to follow the thread of the day.

It leads where it has to, to a field, to his mother, his sister, his younger brother, his father, their dog and a solitary shade-giving tree in a field of wheat.  Alyse joins us, and after we all come to an understanding through body language, we sit in the shade.  The boy's father goes into the field and returns with a handful of wheat.  He starts a small fire, and slowly roasts the wheat.  The shells and leaves crackle as they release their seeds.  Mashing the seeds in his hand and blowing away the chaff, he separates seed from husk.  The result: a handful of green wheat seeds bursting with juice and flavor.  All this, a nourishing gift, from this field.

We sit, talk as much as we can without a common language.  I look in my bag, which piques the family's curiosity.  Another pen?  Anything from "the bag" is something unique in this place, something that carries its own story.

Camera.  A photo.  A TIMER, which both mine and Alyse's camera have, to take the pictures.  Fascinating, coincidental, embarrassing, conversation stimulating.  Do cameras have a mind of their own?  Photos.  Why are we so anxious to preserve the moment on film?  This is a question often asked, one that suggests living in the moment rather than missing that moment while trying to preserve it for posterity.

The father goes out to collect more wheat, and teaches us to coax the seeds from their bed for ourselves.

 

After an hour of this pleasant exchange, Alyse and I take our leave and continue our bone-jiggling bicycle ride over dirt paths until we reach another clearing awash in the warm light of mid-afternoon.  The silence and sense of peace stimulates writing, painting with watercolors, and playing the clarinet.  Twilight is approaching, but we choose to push onward rather than return to Orchha, on into the countryside, knowing that somehow chance will protect us.  We come to a farm; there must be a village nearby.  As always, our presence is soon discovered.  People come out to greet us, and invite us to their village, Singhpura.

Singhpura

Walking the bikes, we form a small parade into town, past low brick buildings with wood shingle roofs, log fences and farm animals, to a house.

All the children of the village seem to have gathered.  I juggle stones and work a few magic tricks.  We are invited inside, through a dark room, to a courtyard covered by the starry sky.  A candle is lit, then another.  Ladders lead to doorways, to the abodes of a family of families which surround the courtyard.  Chapatis are cooked and we are served a delicious meal.  Different people make their way to the courtyard to greet us.  I can't imagine a reception for two unknown wanderers in some town in the United States that would even approach this hospitality.

At one point, I wander through town to a small, scantily-stocked store to purchase a pack of beedies for our hosts.

That night, we sleep on a low bed in the front room, fighting off enormous alien insects that are drawn to the solitary light above the front door.

 

In the morning, we finally reveal that we have cameras with film.  With that news, the entire family appears in their Sunday best: two young brothers with the firm gaze of their grandfather, and two baby girls with black kohl spread thick under their eyes to ward off the evil eye.  Two women enter dressed in beautiful saris, one in reds and the other in a spring-like floral fiesta of silk.

Notice the kohl under the baby girls' eyes.

They each wear bangles on their arms and red vermilion powder in the part in their hair, a symbol of marriage.

Grandfather poses in the front room, stern and proud.
These may be the only photos they ever have of their family.

Nobody asks us for money but we give them one hundred rupees as a way of thanking them for their kind hospitality.  There's really no price for what they've given us.

It's time to check up on life in Orchha.  We are guided to the main road, its potholed asphalt slightly smoother than the dirt paths, and peddle to town.  Our room at the Paryatak Hotel is just as we left it.

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