Red Earth

by Vanya Pandey (India)

Making a local connection India

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a husband." I'm certain Austen would forgive me for this slight alteration, she of the strong-willed Elizabeth and Emma. I come in peace, and exasperation. When you're a single woman nearing 30, who can afford to travel through her own means, a question will greet you at every port - "Where's your husband? Boyfriend? Alone? No, really, your husband?" The water might taste different, people may speak a different language, but you can rest assured you will be asked this - whether in broken English, French, or another language. Its not a cultural thing. Its just a thing. Its quite the equalizer among women all over the world. And when a bunch of us ol' women gather round at some exotic land - having met just ten minutes back, we exchange battle stories over beers and cackle like a coven over the audacity and the humor of it all. We made it so far. Speaking of equalizers, death and vodka are the other great equalizers. At a funeral or a bar, there's kinship. Lives lived, lives lost. Stories shared with more vigor, received more sympathetically. So it is in India, where weddings and funerals alike have lives of their own. Rich or poor, they are accorded much reverence. Serious affairs tempered with rituals, songs and vodka, or any spirit brewed from the earth's bounty. One such is mahua, made from the flaming red flowers of the same name, brewed by the tribes of Madhya Pradesh in the heart of India. Sweet, fragrant, and knock-your-socks-off strong, its made by the women of the tribe, and to me, represents the spirit of the women of India with the same three adjectives. As a government official in Madhya Pradesh, I had a wedding to attend in a village, where I got talked into staying for a funeral and talked myself into a brewing. The circle of life, under the watchful eye of the Indian monsoon, where clouds travel, at their own lumberous pace, from the Indian Ocean to the Himalayas. Master and messenger, and the inspiration for countless devotions to love. The bride wore red. The Mahua trees wore red. The sky wore pink. And just then, black clouds came rolling across the sky. The Indian monsoon in its infinite wisdom decided to rain on the bride's parade. Her hair, scented with jasmine oil, was slick with the rain, and the glass bangles on her wrists matched the pace of the raindrops against the wet earth as she was hurried inside. Among the tribes, mahua is considered an aphrodisiac, and newly-weds are presented with a batch on their wedding night. Her batch had been simmering all night in a clay pot outside, now soaked with the rain. The pot was brought inside, and glasses procured. The women began to pass them around, filled with the aphrodisiacal mahua, and in between the song and chatter, I was asked, yet again - "No husband?" "No", I replied. "Maybe I need some of this mahua." As the wheels of the rusty bus lumbered over the kuccha road like an aging elephant, it left the red dust of the road flying off into the edges of a horizon framed with a redder sunset, leaving traces of itself over everything that came in its way - eucalyptus trees, the still waters of small ponds, the feet of those waiting along the sides of the road for the bus to slowly grind to a halt and pick them up - no waiting for designated bus stops here. Everything at its own pace. A small village indistinguishable from the previous one, except my purpose here had a more macabre end to it. The house of the funeral had peeling blue walls, lit by a single filament bulb. A farmer with insurmountable debts, a long Indian summer. He had left behind a young widow. She was surrounded by other women, who sang songs of loss. Monsoon clouds followed the funeral procession of men to the river side. Left behind, the young widow was asked, "No more husband?" "No", she replied. "Maybe I need some mahua."