Friends, neighbours and expats
Old-faces wearing new clothes coming back to join a village festival
This month our village witnessed an influx of hundreds of villagers who have settled in Mumbai. Festivals bring forth all the lost glory of the village, then be it only for a few days. We see all the age-old faces, wearing new clothes, bringing back the latest ‘thing’ from the city. Now, although this lasts only for a few days, until the festive season is on, it feels like the village has come alive. I think about this quite often- only if we had some tourism or other income sources in the village, we could welcome all these ex-pats into the village, for good. That doesn’t seem likely in the near future.
Anyway, Santosh, Ajit, Vasant; all our neighbours, have come back with their families.
A message went around in the morning,
“Mumbaikars (as in people living in Mumbai) have arrived.”
And Sanju dada prompty responded, with a sarcastic yet compassionate tone,
“These guests are here only for a few days.”
To be honest, these are not guests and certainly no strangers to us; these are our neighbours, who we all have seen and played alongside, since we were kids. Economic uncertainty in the village has driven them to mega-cities like Mumbai. I have accompanied Santosh dada around the jungles, Chanda tai would let me tag along in her cattle herding escapades, when I was a toddler. Each one of them has a special place in my heart and its the same for others.
In Mumbai they live in tiny houses, slums, to find work in the residential and commercial buildings, working as sweepers, cleaners and labourers. It is a tough life in Mumbai. Living in my friends houses, I have witnessed many such migrant labourers who work in their house. They are usually silent, working in a corner, not speaking much. Many housing societies in Mumbai have created rules for these workers, even arranging separate lifts for them, so that they are kept under the radar- as if they don’t exist in their world. Check this article, where maids were fined for using main lifts. It’s not a surprise then, that dogs, cats and other pets are allowed in the main lifts where humans aren’t allowed. This isn’t new though. Scotland too had such a system. When I lived in Edinburgh, I saw many houses in the New Town which had a basement. I always wondered as to what use it may have in the past. My friend later explained the purpose of those basements - servants were housed on the lower floor. We don’t really learn from the past, do we?
Anyway, one thing is for sure, when they are back in the village, they are not Mumbaikars, but our own people, they are family. Elders in the village used to remind us the importance of the banyan tree, “Just like the banyan tree keeps growing in all directions and yet keeps its roots set firm in the ground, so is the village community. Wherever you go, even if you cross the seven seas, be like that banyan, and keep your roots firmly into the ground. Don’t forget the ones who raised you.”
These days, all those elders have perished, just like all those banyan trees which surrounded us. No wonder we are regressing.
Now, although we sarcastically call our neighbours, “Mumbaikars,” we don’t actually mean it. We all know how tough life is in Mumbai and being back in the village is in a way an escape from the rat-race.
This time the occasion is ‘gaav puja’. Every wadi performs a puja, where they offer sacred offerings to the Gods, in order to keep their community safe. It is almost a pagan ritual, where the ask is simple, for the rain gods to give ample rain, for nature to keep its balance, for the trees to bear fruit, for the families to be happy and prosperous, for the land to be fertile, for the community to be safe and so on. If you want to learn more about wadi, then read Saving Village from the start. This puja happens every five years, but this year its the village’s turn as a whole to perform this sacred offering.
Santosh, who works in a chemical factory in Mumbai, walked into our front-yard. Grandpa had seen a spark in him as a kid, and thus helped him in his education. Santosh dada’s mother wasn’t interested in his education, seeing this, grandpa asked him to write down a note every time he needed anything and keep it in the front of our house. He would write the list of stationery supplies and grandpa would bring it back when he returned from a big city. Grandpa even paid partly for his education, which would have been impossible for his family to pay solely.
“Dada” (Big brother), he calls my grandpa.
“How is your health?”
Grandpa, although weak in his memory these days, never forgets him. He was elated to see Santosh, as always.
“Arre, Santosh, come in. All good”, says grandpa with a wide smile on his face.
“I heard you are playing a character in the play! Congrats.”
Santosh is back for a reason this time. The village has organised a play and Santosh is playing an important role in it. Usually during any important occasions, the village community organises plays or theatre acts, as a means of entertainment. You might be surprised by the progressiveness of these plays. They are as sharp as the Greek comedies. Important issues like politics, societal changes are raised. Enactments of historical epics and mythologies are a common theme.
Suddenly a voice chimes in from the background, ‘dada’; this time it is Ajit, Santosh’s elder brother. He works as a tuk-tuk driver in Mumbai and has returned with his entire family in the tuk-tuk. Kids are at awe of this, playing around the tuk-tuk… and no tuk-tuks aren’t uncommon here, it just happens to be owned by someone that they know dearly.
Ours is not a big village, but it is enough to have cricket tournaments within the different wadis. This year, alongside the play, a cricket tournament is a must-watch. The youngsters who otherwise work in factories all over Mumbai and Gujarat have come back with their new pair of goggles and a t-shirt depicting their wadi and their name. There are 8 teams of 11 players each and some extras, in this small village.
Swapnil walked in with a cricket bat. I have seen him after ages. As far as my memory goes, he was the only friend I had when I returned to the village. We would be playing cricket in the front-yard, fighting over who gets to bat first. When I wished to go take a stroll on the beach, he would be the first friend I would call. Situations have set us apart and obviously his anxious face tells a lot of stories that he would like to hide from me.
Gaja dada, the son of the old couple next door, who works as a plumber in Mumbai, exclaims,
“Ashu, only if there was work to do in our village, I would have stayed here. I like living here. I like the calm this place brings within me. I will definitely retire here.”
It is difficult to predict whether he will retire here, because only a few months back, he fell while he was working and in the process had severe injury in his right foot. The working conditions in Mumbai are terrible, with no importance given to safety.
Vaibhav dada, whose family lives on the top of the mound, where our house sits, worked in a dye-making factory. He had an open heart surgery at the age of 32, thanks to the toxic chemicals he inhales in his factory in Gujarat. Last year, I saw him fighting for his life and trying to recall his memories, and then having no other option, having to plunge into the same factory, once again to put food on the table. I wish things were different. I know that most of the people who have gone to Mumbai will come back to Narvan in a heartbeat.
Anyway, as soon as all the members are back, they are off to work. Village gatherings mean the village has to actually make arrangement for the gathering. Every one works to build the stage, to make the neccesary arrangements for the puja and they make sure that their own house is repaired in this short time. Monkeys, who aren’t our friends here, dance on all our houses, teasing us, knowing very well that most of the people living here are aged, and helpless. Thus, all these Mumbaikars come home to a broken roof, broken trees and at times a water-clogged floor.
It is evening time, Sharda is sitting in her front yard talking to Savithri, the eldest, while Vishram, Savithri’s husband sits next to her on a reclining chair, looking out at the stars. It is a pleasant atmosphere, many old memories are re-enacted. Many dead people are remembered and all this happens while Sharda, with her glasses on, slowly finds an opening in her beads to sew a needle and a thread through it. No one is lost in their phone, watching some distant reality or distant opinion that is useless in their life. They are chatting about their life, their experiences. Even the shy ones are brought forth to talk about their life. This is natural therapy, in a village setting; no need of expensive psychologists who only diagnose a disease, give it a name and prescribe drugs, while forgetting the actual cause. No wonder my Brazilian friend, who runs an NGO in Goa, found in only two sessions, that the women who worked in her NGO didn’t like lectures on mental health. People here, although seen as primitive by many urbans, are well aware about their mental health. They somehow know how to stay happy and content in what they have.
I might be wrong, but I really believe that it is the abundant nature around this place that creates this feeling of content. There’s lot more to write but I will stop here today.
What do you think? Has living in nature and having a community benefitted you in any way? Does the madness of the world seem less and less important when you are on some distant farm or on a hike, without your devices around you?
Let me know in the comment section below.
If you are still here, I would take this moment to direct your attention to a book I have written. This book is almost 2 years in the making. In 2022 I left off on a walk across India and ended up walking 1800 km from Narvan on the west shore, to Visakhapatnam on the east shore. Initially to document the issues plaguing rural India, the project unfolded to become an unforgettable voyage of self-discovery; involving sleeping in unfamiliar places, venturing alone through the Naxalite insurgent jungles, and even being interrogated in a jail cell.
After contemplating on what is the right way forward, I have come to the conclusion that I will self-publish it. It is already with the printers and the first copies will be sent out all around the world this coming 25th. If you are interested in reading about my journey and supporting me to become a full-time writer, please consider buying “Journey to the East”- which is currently available through my website. www.ashutoshjoshi.in
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