The tuk tuk creeks and wobbles at every bump in this half-paved road. Our feet bounce closer to the heavens with each movement of the rear of the auto and our heads bobble away as MB explains our route and our time to come. The sky explodes into a pink that could only be created by the hand of a Master- His smile practically gleams across the sky each evening in an array of seemingly unnatural tones and shades. We breath in the airborne dirt and the granite dust that floats in the oxygen over the road and watch as the villagers’ faces gleam with excitement to have visitors. The patties are flooded with mucky water and tall sprouts of green rice protrude the surface every few millimeters. Beautiful yellows and greens and purples and whites dance across the fields and the heads of women carrying buckets of water. Without blinking or thinking twice, a smile is shared between my face and theirs as they pause to welcome us. We wave and fumble our way through a quaint introduction in their tongue and our heads seem to never cease that rhythmic, soothing bobble that reassures the villagers of our attention and intention.
The tuk tuk haults to a stop as we question our current location and wonder if we’re meant to exit the automobile or if our driver will be turning around to rejoin the rush of the highway. Motos move hurriedly through, around, and between the randomly placed speed bumps and various sizes and shapes of paved ground on this remote road that’s only a few kilometers off of the way streamed with tail lights and chai shops. Cows anointed by the colorful heads of Hindus are scattered about the street and palm trees coat the land with their much-welcomed shade in this hot, humid area. While the patties are indeed filled with water, we ponder the possibility that the air just might be more moist. Our hair has been released from the pull of gravity and our sweat has taken its place as it drips down the skin nearest our ears and spines. Our ears are delighted by the local language as we are greeted so warmly.
To my right there is an old, red brick building with a crack that separates one section of the home from another. The grout line has worn thin and the roofing is a fresh layer of straw. There is the infamous rut of black, grungy sludge that remains stagnant and potent on the side of the dirt street. A statue of a man in white is held high over the home by a cemented podium and set of stairs. This statue is decorated by flower necklaces in every color imaginable and bowls of spices and is painted with the traditional Hindu head markings. His statue seems inviting.
On the left is a small, two story pink and orange structure with a stair case jetting to the ground from the second floor. Children dash from the building toward us calling out “Hi Akka! Hi Akka!”. The building has an Indian language written on its face. I wonder what it says. Another podium holds up a statue, but this one is quite shockingly different. Instead of the inviting face across the street, our eyes stumble upon a blue tarp that engulfs the form of the statue. The tarp is held on by segments of thick string tied at the ends to mask the figurine. I suppose we are not going to be seeing the idol beneath the layers of plastic and fraying fabric..
We are asked to “please get out” by MB. For a split moment we are crowded beside this vehicle wondering just what we have signed up for this evening. A flood of young boys rushes over for high fives, hand-shakes, and sweet giggles. They lead us to the pink building and we leave our shoes on the step. The woman is wearing a beautiful blue saree and kindness leaks from her heart as she brings us mango juice, bananas, and guava. The boys peak in through the door and are swept away by the men. Laughter, joy, smiles, and questions saturate the air.
Is this really my life?
