Pieces of Home

This is the home I remember best (through the eyes of a five year old.) We hired a car and took a day trip out to see the little village called Beerasundra. Most familiar to me were the trees along the sides of the road, their huge limbs outstreched in an ancient greeting.

I have a very clear memory of coming out to this road with Josh. We would lay down in the middle of the hot dusty pavement and stare up at the branches of this tree. When we heard or felt the rumbling vibrations of a vehicle we would jump up and run out of the way pretending it was a near miss. In reality, we were much more likely to encounter the plodding feet of a bullock cart. In which case Josh would flag it down and ask for a ride. Hitchhiking five year old style!

My first stop in the village was to go and find the house had lived in. I found the area where I thought it should be but couldn't find the house, a yellow one roomed, used to be silk factory. The home of munching worms. Sudarshin (who came to help us translate) asked some men standing close by for information and they pointed to a brand new green home that was right in front of where I was standing. The house had just been renovated. These stones were from our old fence.

The house now looks like this. Gone is our front yard and beautiful subabel trees. We were invited to take a look inside. The old stone was plastered over, but the roof was a familiar bumpy friend. There were walls where there had been none before.

I remember being in this house at the very centre of the village. It was where people would congregrate to celebrate any festival. We would put cushions in the window to block out the sound of blaring music that played for days and days. Once during a festival, mom had to leave the house and told me to watch Kendrah for a minute - she would be right back. Josh went with her. A minute is an eternity when there is the scary craziness of a hindu festival outside your window. On another night, we remembered that it was Halloween and dressed up like ghosts to walk out the front door and around the the side door to say trick or treat. It was the same night that Indira Gahndi was assasinated. The door you see to the left was the entrance to my mom's clinic. Holding babies waiting in line for vaccinations was a favorite activity. Carrying water was another. If you walk down this road, you will come to a little pump for that purpose.

As I stood outside the house thinking about it, an old lady walked by, and stopped to stare at me - not an unusual response to having a foriegner in your village. I smiled and she smiled back, a beautiful familiar face, and an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia.

Sudarshin saw her and made a comment that I was here to look at the house I had lived in a long time ago. "Havi?" she said quietly? "Havi?" "Havi!!" And all of a sudden she is hugging and kissing me before I even had a chance to respond. I am stunned. She takes my hand, no questions asked and takes me down the road... home. I do not know her name or at this point the role she played in my life, but I know she is part of the concept "home" - I can feel it.

Along the way she chats away, expecting me to know the language like I used to. The sound is familiar, and when I stop thinking about it I almost understand. She points out the house she used to live in, places we played with her son Murthy (ah! I think - and collect another fragment of memory). Our reunion is repeated a few minutes later with another woman that walks into the house where we are sipping chai and looking at old pictures. This time I am transported to my former chubby cheeked little self as she strokes my face and calls my name again and again.

We walk from house to house as I am introduced to children, and grandchildren. We drink chai, chai, chai. A cell phone is handed to me and Murthy is on the other end. He is married has two kids and is the pastor of a thriving church. We are cut off before the conversation can continue. He speaks like a friend. Like we last talked a few days ago.

We take a walk across the road to look at the "land," where we played, went for barefoot walks, had picnics, climbed trees, sang at the top of our lungs in kunada, ate watermellon, followed dad into the fields and dug worms out of the rich soil, watched my uncle dale mold imposible stone slabs into bridges and buildings, stared in awe at the bright red spit of old women chewing bettle nut as they worked in the fields...

This spot has powerful memories. Sitting in sun with Josh and Isaac eating watermellon and spitting the seads over the edge of the bank - and seeing watermellon plants there the next time we try the same activity. Dale and Adele lived in this house behind me (built by Dale).

I also ate a piece of dirt here. Yup. Dirt. I was old enough to know better. My mother had drilled into me the dangers of dirt and the hidden terrors it contained. I had seen it first hand in worms people had to dig out of their feet. We knew where we could walk barefoot and where we couldn't, as did the rest of the village that raised us under the thoughtful do's and don'ts mom legislated. And under no circumstances were we to put it anywhere near our mouth. But I was sitting back here alone, and as I held it in my hands, I began to realize how good it smelled - good cultivating soil - beautiful and rich - I couldn't help it. It grinds more than crunches. Afterwards I felt an incredible sense of guilt and dissapointment in myself. It is strange the things we remember in the most vivid detail as children . So here is my confession out there for you all to see. Yes, I once ate dirt in this very spot.

We come back to the village for one last goodbye - addresses are exchanged, hugs, kisses, a slow letting go, surrounded by the familiar end of day rituals being performed around us. A herd of water buffalo prodded down the street, workers from the fields methodically making their way home, the sky a little dusty and tired.

My last view is of the winding road out of the village. A puja man used to live here at the entrance to this village. A man with wild hair and yellow red markings on his face. I remember waiting about here with a group of kids - watching for him to emerge from his little hut. And if he was nowhere in sight, someone deemed it safe and we would run for our lives to make it to the end of the road. I don't think we really knew why we were running - at least I didn't.

I had the urge to sprint down the road for old times sake. But instead got back into the car, leaving the 5 year old me watching, and quietly drove away aching a little for what I both lost and gained today.