FEBRUARY 25, 2007

The day dawns bright in camp, and we have our first camp breakfast. Morning meals are at a long table surrounded by beige molded plastic chairs (one of which blows into the campfire in a windstorm resulting in a charred, barely standing version) and the table is set with a thin tablecloth, salt and pepper, and a jar or two of hot pepper chutney and pickled relish. It can never be spicy enough for some. For lunches and dinners, we balance plates on our knees, usually around the campfire, the folding tables now used as the bar. As we are finishing breakfast, some dancing women and two boy musicians arrive to play and dance for us. The deep colors of the women’s saris are a huge contrast to the shades of beige and tan surrounding us: crimson, bubblegum pink, spring green. Of the four dancers, maybe two seem to want to be there, the other two are obliging if not joyous, but the theme of the dancing is not necessarily celebratory. We are told that one of the dances that is very inward and introspective, danced by what seems to be the leader, is in fact, “dancing her day.” The stylized motions and graceful movements are the chores and tasks of her everyday life; cooking, gathering items from around her, carrying water, praying. It is fascinating because it seems so private, like we are voyeurs just for watching this performance. We receive Puja again to bless our endeavors and it is all a beautiful start to the day.

We jump into the jeeps, some of us jammed into back, seat-less sections so we can all go, and arrive in a small village near well housed in an ornate shrine being built/repaired, with many stone blocks surrounding the incomplete structure. The Thakur and the same dancers and musicians from camp are there. A large blanket is spread on the ground and villagers have begun to gather. Many women and children are at a distance on a raised stone level, not part of the event, but enjoying the spectacle. The Thakur, full of pomp and circumstance (as usual) reads the names of 30 or so families—the lowest income families in the village (they have been vetted ahead of time so both local political parties are equally served, and each has a government certificate of “BPL” or Below Poverty Line). A representative member from each family, mostly men and one or two very old women, take a spot on the blanket. They wait quite patiently, staring at us, most of us clicking pictures frenziedly. They seem uncertain, but surely have been told why we are there and the purpose of this informal ceremony. We are told that in the small domed structure with the loose grid of sticks door covering, that a local goatherd has already brought 30 milking goats, some with kids, here. Each of us in turn goes to the hut as the Thakur bellows a villager’s name out. They stand, and we lead our goat, by hook or by crook (more like by ear or by horn—though I notice how the boys assisting us are doing it—grabbing by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, and find it pretty easy and inspiring less laughter than the folks being fought and dragged) in front of the crowd, and present the goat to the villager. They are extremely grateful—a goat can radically alter a family’s livelihood. One of the elder women who is evidently extremely crippled (I’m sure that’s not the correct term—one leg is noticeably shorter than the other and secured in an elaborate cage/splint/crutch contraption) falls down when she grabs her goat. She laughs at herself with a warm, beaming smile, which diffuses the tension from when she first stumbled.

After all the goats are distributed (all females for milk) dancing and frivolity ensue. An old turbaned man with a face like a roadmap starts swinging around a cutlass blade (he may have been one of last night’s performers—nobody seems quite sure) being daring as he swipes it over our heads. The crowd steps back to give his stumbling drunkenness a bit of room. He grabs Lisa from the group to dance with him—she gamely complies as he holds her hands in his while still clutching the sword, and spins her around faster and faster—her balance is better than his and he nearly wipes out. The colorfully sari’d women dance some more. The Thakur, also with a few drinks in him (I’m told that is his standard operating procedure from waking until passing out at night) begins to throw his weight around, literally. He is rubbing his large belly and someone translates how that is how we know he is the leader—he is the fat one. I am standing next to him, so stick out my belly as far as I can (sadly not a huge challenge for me any more) and rub it with the same Snidely Whiplash evil cackle/laugh the Thakur is doing—not mocking, just comparing. He thinks it is hilarious and claps me on the shoulder, Hail Fellow Well Met-style. We could easily be in a pub in Ireland. We eventually are called back to the jeeps and drive away in the dust as kids run chasing and yelling after us.