Back to the Village | Music, a companion that knows just how to soothe

Dearest Amma and Appa,

 

As I write this, the sky is painted in 17 shades of blue. A cloud-shadow shaped like Lord Ganesha smiles at me from the hill to my right. The tinkles of cowbells, an occasional moo and the twitter of seven sisters is my background music.

 

Did you know why they are called ‘Seven Sisters’? Because they always fly around in groups of 7.

 

There’s so much I’m learning here every day. The past two months have been a reality check at many levels. Each day comes with many discoveries that have taught me the true difference between literacy and education.

 

We so-called educated city people are actually only literate. The real education, I’m acquiring here. The real wisdom is what the trees and animals pass on to us — this is the wisdom the village folk have, and are so unassumingly modest about. They can look at a plant and give you a 20-page oral report on it without even having passed primary school.

 

By the way, I have figured out the Internet scene here. All I have to do is go to Singarapettai, the nearest town, 8 km away. I go there once every 5-6 days. Usually sit either on the bench outside the barber shop or under the Peepul tree outside the Murugan Temple. There’s something quietening about these two places. The rest of Singarapettai is a regular, dusty highway-town.

 

I get stared at a LOT, no matter how hard I try to blend in — attire- and speech-wise. It’s quite difficult, getting rid of the Mallu accent in my Tamil. And the short hair makes it worse.

 

But no complaints. The people here are a friendly lot. Priya Akka at the banana shop has practically adopted me. She calls at least four times daily and gets offended if I don’t visit her every day. Sultan Bhai at the parotta shop was extremely curious about my ancestry and about why I would choose to work here of all places — that too ‘Free mein kaam’.

 

But my favourite of the lot is a little boy of four with the sparkliest of eyes. Sudesh came one day with his older brother Hari, who was helping their grandma with carrying pots of water to their hut. (The villagers from around the school get their water from the tank on our campus.) While his responsible elder brother was filling the pot, Sudesh was wandering about cluelessly. I went and said hello to him. He smiled a hi back. The rest of the day, we were inseparable. Apart from goofing about, playing with Shushi and laughing over nothing, we also read a few picture books together. As in, he pointed out the pictures and narrated his own stories. And here I was calling myself the storyteller! Kids have an amazing way of giving you an ego check. Just when you think you are good at something, they show that they are better than you without even trying.

 

A few days after Sudesh and I had first met, I was in a particularly low mood. So there I was, sitting in a corner and crying. And that little boy stood beside me the whole time waiting for me to stop. After the tear glands had all dried up, he told me a story from his favourite picture book about vehicles.

 

Then later in the afternoon, while I was lying down in the farm hut, I started tearing up again. The PMS perhaps made things worse. Sudesh was sitting nearby reading a book when he saw those silent tears. “Nee azharuya?” he asked. (Are you crying?) I shook my head and said I wasn’t. Then he wiped my cheek and said, “Oh ok. Edho thanni varudhu. Paravalle. Ninnudum.” (Oh. Ok. But water is coming out. Don’t worry. It’ll stop.)

 

The next day, the PMSing continued. I was sitting in a corner crying quietly when both my hut mate Jude and my little friend Sudesh walked in. Jude immediately asked me what was wrong. The thing with grown-ups is, they never know how to react when someone is crying. Point number one — never ask what’s wrong. The person is too upset to be talking about why they are upset. Just give them a glass of water and hold their hand.

 

Anyway, I stopped crying, drank some water, and asked Jude if he could play some music. “Unnaku music venuma?” asked Sudesh from his corner. I nodded yes. Jude stood there silently, not knowing what music to play. In the meantime, the little boy disappeared and reappeared with a musical instrument called the Kalimba. We had been playing the kalimba the previous day and that was when he had learnt the English word ‘music’. Two days later, he was sharing his ‘music’ with me — those tiny fingers pattering at the kalimba.

 

 

 

Cuckoo has given me many precious things and memorable moments. One of the most precious of them is Sudesh. And that moment when he played his ‘music’.

 

Don’t worry, parents. I’m doing great now. With Sudesh for company, how can I not!

 

What is up at your end? What’s keeping you busy and happy? Write longer letters please. And oftener. I miss you both extremely.

 

With lots of love

Maya

 

 

p.s. A few days later, I’d asked Sudesh if he wanted to play the kalimba. He didn’t understand, until I asked again if he wanted to play ‘music’ :-)

Only kids know how inconsequential names are.