Flowers and Filth

I know it is in the air. The smell of livestock, jasmine flowers, and sandalwood, that all mingle into a small breath of India. It has that balance of frenzy and calmness that somehow coalesce in the atmosphere. It is the air that is shared between both the masses in the cities and the farmers in the isolated villages. It is that same air that has filtered through my lungs, my blood, my brain, and my heart. That little bit of India will always been inside me wherever I go. It has gone past my tissue and my organs, now straight to the bone. It will always provide the attachment I have to those dusty roads and sugar cane fields.

I have very distinct recollections of my summer vacations in India. My parents, who came to the states to explore new opportunities, felt an importance in sending me to their mother country. Beginning at as young as one year old, I would spend long stretches in this thrillingly unique country. When I delve into my early memories I always think of the monkeys. We call them korangu in southern India, and they are much more cunning than you would think. Monkeys are very similar to those bullies from grade school. They pull on your hair, steal your food, even break your glasses, but no matter how much chaos they can generate, they are really just children. The first time I had come across one that had wandered onto our farm, I was probably around five or six. The instant I saw his shrewd little eyes and incredibly human-like face, I fell in love. In about ten seconds flat, that small monkey had ripped the ribbon out of my hair, poked my eye, and was frantically pulling on my ear lobe. In the next five minutes I had already named him, declared him my best friend forever, and started daydreaming stories about his life. Unfortunately, this little relationship didn’t last very long and the monkey was soon bored with me and off to bother his next victim. Realizing at this tender age that I could not rely on a monkey for a friendship, I started making friends with the children in our village.

Along with the many hot summers on my grandparent’s farmland, I also acquired a close relationship to everyone on the farm. The cook, the buffalo herder, and the farm workers were all special to me. Each summer they would speculate about how much I had grown since last summer and constantly ask about my seemingly glamorous life in America. Each time the closure of a summer dawned on me, it would become a heart wrenching event. Many of them held me as a baby and watched me take my first steps on that dusty farm. Their children were some of my best friends. I was absolutely spoiled with love during each and every one of my trips to India.
Everyday during these childhood vacations, I would pout and whine while my friend Rupa and her younger sister were off to the local schoolhouse. Sometimes, I would lay with my grandmother on the marble floor, watching those sappy Indian soap operas while she fanned me from the stale heat. Other times I would wander on our large farm, chasing chickens, talking to the workers, or getting lost in the sugar cane fields. I could never wait until I would see my friends walking home from school in their blue uniforms and matching pigtails. I would fidget and wander until I saw them coming down the street with their small school bags in their hands. We had the most magical times together. Rupa loved to keep me entertained and would show me everything to do on the farm. We would take walks to the river and playfully splash the women washing their colorful saris. They would chastise us and chase us away, but our childish charm always won them over. On special occasions my aunt would put fresh henna on our small palms. I loved the aroma of the freshly ground paste but I was too much of a stubborn and impatient child to let the intricate designs soak into my skin. On other days, a worker might take us into the sugar cane fields and effortlessly chop a large pole down for us. We would retreat to dry dirt and gnaw on the sugar cane until the juice dripped down our chins and the fibers were stuck in our teeth. Sometimes I still can taste that syrupy sweet sugar cane and feel the hot sun on my neck. Sometimes I can even still smell that rich scent of henna on my palms and wonder if it soaked in much deeper than possible. Just like my memories, that henna had soaked far into my skin and somehow stayed there. Although those beautiful rust-colored designs have faded away, that scent always drifts back once in awhile.

I’ve realized that sometimes some of the most wonderful feelings don’t last. My recent summer trips to India have been slightly disappointing. The magic that India brought to my childhood has started to fade with the years. A few years ago I started a grudge against India during my trip. During my stay, I foolishly ate from an Indian street vendor and acquired food poisoning. Unfortunately, I wasn’t even home on the farm, but traveling around India taking in the sights. Being in a foreign hotel room sick to my stomach was definitely the last thing I sought after. Although I have gotten over the foul experience, I’ve also realized that while I’ve grown and matured, India doesn’t have the same things to offer me as it did while I was still a child. I then spent plenty of my time inside the house, in the newly air conditioned rooms, reading instead of spending my time on the farm. Some of those same childhood friends were now all grown up and living in a harsh reality.

My best friend Rupa, the girl I would wait for all day to come home from school, is now married and pregnant with her second child. The news was alarming to me and suddenly I was thrust into the reality of an oncoming adulthood. My friends that I would chase on these same dusty fields were already watching their children on this farmland and trying to provide for their family. It was overwhelming to wonder if my childhood was over and that I might be on the brink of adulthood, slowly falling into all the responsibilities and troubles that I wasn’t ready to take on. With my innocent and playful summers in India behind me I was still desperately clinging to the child with in me before it was forcibly shaken out in the face of adulthood. This started off the rollercoaster of ups and downs in my love for India. I can admit, sometimes I despised it. I even announced to my parents that I never wanted to go back. My parents knew it was just a phase, and still made me connect with my culture, whether I accepted it or not. On these forced trips I would visit the overcrowded cities only to smell urine and filth, not sandalwood and jasmine flowers. I was in an inner struggle with my identity, culture, and sense of home.

But then there were the times when I would see the murky but inviting river, the children running around, the worn down workers, and recognize that deep love I have for my country. I look into the large wet eyes of the respected cattle and see the deep love that my country has for me. I see garbage and beauty all tangled together in a whirlwind of culture and I realize that it just might be the splendor of India. You can walk down that dusty street to find piles of garbage at your feet but then you smell flowers and see the beautiful colors. All the filth and the flowers and the shouts of children fuse together into a rich and unexpectedly exquisite culture. It is something I have never experienced in America. The feeling I get when I see the sun baked faces of my grandparents and hear the distant noises of livestock is almost unexplainable joy and pride. India has a certain flair for containing this delightful beauty and culture while still having a depressing and dark side. Sometimes I see the hungry children and the dirty homeless and think that it is a horrific world, but as soon as I see one of those small children smile at me, I realize how great life can really be. India contains the intoxicating smell of the flowers and the filth. It is the flowers and filth that is coursing through my veins. It is the flowers and filth that makes me who I am and reminds me of the land I love so dearly. It is that raw air that will never leave me and it is my lungs that will always beg, always ache, just for one more breath.

Silent Stench

She sits in the room while muttering to herself. The silent stench of despair lurking in every orifice of the small room. She does not notice her body’s decay or the tough leather skin she has acquired from decades of farm work. In her lucid dreams she is still just the young girl married off to her lover. She has just bore her children, the last one still suckling. Not yet has she lost her husband to small pox. Not yet has she been left with three 3 young boys to bring up on her own. Boys for which she has no means of taking care of. No idea how to give them a future. She has not yet worked the dry and dusty fields that her husband has left behind. Nor has she experienced the day in and day out of slaving under the hot Indian sun, wondering when she will finally be liberated from this vicious cycle.

Sagging breasts, callused skin, lifeless eyes. Proof of what this endless life has gifted her. Thought of as only a demented hag. Pitied by the many. No one wanted her. Her sons were sent off. Far far away. Needed a future. An education in an overcrowded city. Where the silent stench of poverty drifted into every crevice. She would survive.She would absorb the hot sweltering sun, melting away her humanity. All that was left were the broken memories of a life before. Before she could even remember.

You might catch her dreaming out loud at times. Hallucinations of being young again and having her husband by her side are tormenting her. His kind youthful face and smooth skin in her vision. Yet all is not lost. Her three sons caught a future in their eager hands. They went off to that place called. Full of brilliance and grandeur.
It might as well have been another planet for her. Her withered hands had barely touched her young boys and now they are already men. Men that don’t need her. Never needed her. She just sent them off. They caught scent of a better life and left her behind in the stench. The silent stench. The stench that consumes her. Eats away at her and leaves nothing but a shell. A withered body that services the dusty sun-baked land. A body that is padding along in the dust. A body that was so consumed by the overwhelming stench that it relied on muscle memory and got rid of any feeling.
How sad. She lost so much at such a young young age. Don’t over look those small watery eyes and toothless grin. She will not resign to despair. No, no, no. In her eyes, she is not the deranged ancient woman or the young lady she once was. She merely is. She only exists. She dresses herself in the ragged white sari that is worn by the widow. She eats her meager portions of rice and watered down stew. She resigns herself to the dry old fields she has worked all her life. Her cracked leather feet padding through her dusty delirious life while the silent stench of her past attacks her nostrils.

There is no point of trying to understand her way of life. You can not walk a day in her shoes for the simple fact that she wears none. There is only her tired ragged feet and that awful stench. She’ll honor this vicious cycle. She will be prey to that stench. She will marinate in the distant memories of her lost sons. Memories of her young husband. False memories of being happy. And of course she will sit in that stench. That god awful stench.