You need to live in the company of people who have nothing, and give that away, to understand what courage means.
Eashwaramma, landless, assetless, living on daily wage agricultural labour. My neighbour. Paalaguttapalle, Dalitwada.
Was just telling me that this paurnami (poornima) she will give rice, oil and vegetables towards the annadaanam for all.
I calculated my assets versus hers, and what I need to give to match her levels of giving.I was silent.
The ordinary people of my country are the ones who sustain this land. Living their duties to the land.
Duties that they call Dharmam.
We map inequality of assets. And call it richness and poverty.
There is a, possibly far more important, inequality. Inequality in the ability to give. With full heart, without a second thought, in full measure, even at cost to oneself.
That is possibly the real map of richness and poverty
And to reach that richness is the goal of a lifetime, or many lifetimes.
It is that wealth I see in the poor villages. In my village. A landless, asset less, illiterate village. Which village has gently and firmly made me face my own poverty of heart, and taught me to seek that richness.
When there is no money to go to the weekly santa and buy vegetables.
When one has only one small brinjal plant at home, in the small passage between the houses. And with just 4 brinjals on it.
And when that is brought and given as a gift to me. The giver, heedless that she will have nothing for herself the next day.
Then I sees Greatness. And bow to it. And remember the long distance I need to walk to reach that greatness.
A greatnes so simply breathed and lived in the villages of this land.
A village in drought, still gives ! That is how a village is.
Eashwaramma sent curry leaves from her scraggly tree, onions from her small basket that another farmer who had grown them had given her, and pounded groundnut-dhaniya that will flavour up any curry I can make.
I have always been, and will always be in debt to my village.
We are all always in debt to the farmers ... if only we knew that .
A village gives. And gives. Whatever it can. Even in drought.
Nagesh was in the village, and all this was given to him to carry back for us.
Curry leaves.
Gurugaaku from the drylands which makes a nice curry.
Munagaaku, drumstick leaves
Sugarcane for my daughter, who misses the village air and ways most of us all, when away. She grew up in the village on sugarcane and wild berries. Like all village children.
Annapurna has 2 children at home, and yet cuts away the only sugarcane growing at home, and sends it. I told my daughter that if I had a single sugarcane at home, I would have kept it for her and not given it away. She nodded, she knows. Our hearts are smaller.
(Also drumsticks stems to plant. And bachchala creeper to plant. Both of which I have planted.)
If you had just one plant at home. A beans creeper. And if the beans from there would have served you for the next three meals. As a dilute curry. And there is really no money to buy more at the weekly santa.
Would you give it away, without a thought ?
I asked myself that, as I received this gift from Jyothi Amma, Dinapeta. Who boils and serves milk to the Dinapeta children. Kala's mother. A winnowful of beans from the single creeper outside her tiny home.
I knew the answer. And it is not pretty.
It's a long long way to reach the simple generosity of the common man and woman of this land.
Which leads to the common people of this land. Their ethos. Their ethics.
One small brinjal plant outside Roopa's small one roomed home, in the narrow space between home and road. Four small brinjals growing on it.
Drought times. No way to purchase any vegetable in the market.
Roopa can pluck it and make a curry for children. Or give it away to another, "Its so tasy. You have it ..." She gives it.
How many times down the years have I myself been at the receiving end of such giving. In my village.
And wondered at the inifinite richness, of this so called very poor community.
And seeked that richness, that greatness ... and the roots of that infinite generosity.
Jan 2020
Someone or the other is in Eashwaramma's one roomed home with her as she is lying down in bed with the plaster cast.
Anita, "One or the other of us is with her, day and night. I just took food now. We are all taking care of her."
A village is a civilized place. It is a warm place. It is a caring place. It is a sharing place.
Sometimes I don't know what we get, when we get more money.
As all this essential goodness, proferred in simplicity and in completeness and in unselfconsciousness, gets rarer and rarer as prosperity grows ...
13 February 2016 at 23:09 ·
The day we reached the village, the motor has gone phut and there had been no water for two days. If there is no water at home - even just 2 pots, I lose my nerve. It is the upper class baggage of insecurity - the village people are able to hold their peace and adjust in the faith that they will manage.
Lakshmamma called our daughter home and told her to take one of her two pots, as did Eashwaramma. And then I had two pots at home, and knew I could now cook and also wash my face, and was able to hold me peace. The motor did get repaired and water was available the next day in the street taps, but it was equally possible that there would be no water for a week.
I also knew that if I had two pots of water at home, I would never have given away a pot to Eashwaramma or to Laskmamma. I might have given a glass of water. I know that for a fact.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall.
The village people have just stepped out of a severe drought, tentatively. The overflowing tanks have gone dry, and we dont know how long the bores will have water either. But people have planted what they can.
The day I reached, Kala came home with 20 or more sapotas ! As I demurred, she said, 'Madam, our tree has fruited profusely, and I have given everyone'. If I had lived thro' a 5 year drought and the one tree in my home had fruited I would have hoarded all the fruits for my two small daughters. She has two small daughters.
Annapurna followed with some brinjals and cluster beans, 'These are from home, and no medicines (chemicals) sprayed.'. She could have sold them, and goodness knows people need money. Sarojamma came with a fat yellow pumpkin, and a small sack of groundnuts.
Had I lived thro' a drought, I would have simply hoarded when I finally saw food. I used to wonder why the spontaneous generosity of the poor shakes me each time. It is because I and my richer urban clan are made of a poorer metal. But I have learnt to accept with gratitude and humility a generosity I cannot come close to.
Paalaguttapalle (Dalitwada)
As we are still eating the sweeter-than-honey chikoos that Bharati Akka got us from the village last week, I think of far more than the chikoos. Thoughts that we have been forced to face down twenty years now.
She has one chikoo tree at home, and she brought us all the chikoos. She has four grandchilren, Anita's Keerthana and Sashank, and Roopa's Shravanthi and Dinesh. There is no money to buy fruits, except what this small tree gives. She got us all the fruits.
If we had just one tree, and a child at home, and the fruit from this tree was all we could give the child, would we give away all those fruits.
I could not, and neither would Nagesh. We know that. And that reality has humbled us before the village day after day after day.
When we all give of our excess, it means nothing. Nothing.
No land of one's own. A single brinjal plant planted at the edge of one's home wall. 6 brinjal on it. She brings them all home and presses, " You have to take. They melt in the mouth. Oh, more will come and then I will make for my children. "
Again completely humbled. Before the gift. Beyond valuation.
A reminder of what true giving entails. To give away ones only possession.
A village reminds one of ground truths. The essentials.
Eashwaramma is going for coolie work daily. Leaves at five in the morning in the tractor with the others. To harvest mangoes. Back after a long day after dusk. Then does her house work. Cooks
InIn the short time they get for lunch at work, she goes to the rita tree a little away. Collects a large amount of Rita for my daughter. For her hair.
What price can one place on this? Though I will never dare offer money for something given with such spontaneous generosity.
These are what bind us in
#Rinam, invisible bonds of giving and taking across time and space. Bonds of hearts.
There is the well known story. Of how a man comes upon a sanyasi with a purse of money someone had given him. He demands it, and the sanyasi gives it to him with a smile and a blessing, and moves on empty handed.
And two days later the man comes searching for him, seeking him, and places all the money before him, "I dont want this. Give me that wealth which allowed you to give this away so freely."
I have recollected that story so many time last two decades. That is the same wealth I have seeked from my friends and neighbours in the village.
That courage that allows them to share their last glass of rice, without worrying about their own meal tomorrow. Even in drought.
The root of that courage. That faith. That strength.
Giving come easy in a village.
Simple and unthinking giving.
Rani comes with some dosais and groundnut chutney.
Made rarely, and shared easily.
Paalaguttapalle (Dalitwada)
Everything is scarce in a village when agriculture slows down, and everything has to be bought. Provisions have to be bought at market rates equal to urban rates. The income is almost nil. The nutrition is predictable.
The day we reached it was obviously going to be late. I called up Eashwaramma and asked her to also cook for us, along with for herself and her grandchildren. She hesitated and said there was nothing to make as she has not gone to the santa for two weeks. I told her to just make rice and rasam as she would for herself. I know that even rasam needs jeera and tamarind, which have also become scarce in these times. Tamarind which used to be had to the collecting has to be bought today at 100/- kg.
When we reached, she had made a pot of rice, a pot of rasam and two special items. She had a small handful of dal at home, and made that dal just for the three of us. She also got a few beans from the creeper at home, and make a little curry. A small spoonful each of dal and beans, along with rice and rasam. No feast every tasted better.
A village means many gifts. Given and taken. Because a village bases its sense of fulfilment on community and sharing. Not on consuming.
When we reached the village, Eashwaramma brought hot cooked food home. Kavya came and swept up the place. Eashwaramma got some medicine for my daughter that she had procured from Thathappa, a vaid, from maddavaripalle, 5km away. She gave my daughter the medicine, as a Dhoopam.
The days were full of giving and taking as always. Things material and non material. . As we got into Siva's auto to leave, Annapurna rushed with drumsticks from her tree. Eashwaramma gave some home grown rice that her brother had given her, which he had got as he went as labour to harvest paddy in his village. Home grown rice has a flavour and deliciousness that no purchased rice has.
In drought today people no longer have the groundnuts and corn and all other things they wish to share around. But the deep habit of giving will not go.
And in that case there is always something one finds to give. Something of deep value.
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