Your roots, My roots

by Uchchita Joshi (India)

Making a local connection India

She swiftly grabbed my arm with her wrinkled fingers and the soft chime of her bangles filled the air for a nanosecond. Her gaze followed the golden wheat heads bobbing in the sun. She then let out an exasperated sigh and with the utmost stoicism continued “…and this was our farm”. She always held on to something when we were in the car. Despite many years of sitting in one, she found it faster than her walk/bullock cart paced history. We were driving on the outskirts of a quaint little village called Wai in Maharashtra. Nestled at the foothills of the mighty Sahyadris, this village is nothing short of a true representation of tradition and mythology. As the car stopped to let across a herd of goats, she moved her fingers leaving behind a mud-stained patch. It was the mud from the cowdung and straw plastered walls of my ancestral home which she had cradled most lovingly a little while earlier. My Aji (Marathi for grandmother) was a woman of pride. Regardless of having to succumb to extreme conduct of patriarchy everyday– which her naïve heart treated as a way of life, she managed to smile. Smile through it all. And that day was truly magical when I saw her otherwise oppressed eyes – twinkle with excitement. The car dropped us back to our wada (Traditional Maharashtrian House) in Gangapuri but instead of going inside we walked the opposite way towards Krishna River Ghats. Chicks and Hens scurried as we trudged along the narrow path. Beautifully ornamented front façades of wadas on either side donned with rangolis on every doorstep felt inherently welcoming. She dilly-dallied as she soaked in the environment indicating almost as if this were the last time she would be seeing it and I used that time to let my young architectural brain wander into observing rural housing typologies. Upon reaching the ghat and without a second thought as if by habit she folded her hands and prayed to Krishna Mai (Krishna River Goddess). We sat on the abutting steps in the temple precinct alongside the river. The basalt felt cold and relaxing after our walk in the sun but before we knew it, the entire scene changed like in a painting. The sky filled with orange purple hues of the setting sun, half-naked kids cheerfully jumped in the cool waters, Buffaloes and their herders (not to mention their companion egrets) started to come out of the water after their bath. A group of women sat under a tree discussing daily gossips. Few Brahmins came for their evening rituals to Krishna Mai and a young couple filled with adolescent love sat looking at the birds. It was all too surreal to be honest, but for Aji it was nothing new. The nostalgia infused words coming out of her mouth told stories – of her childhood, her life, her family. She spoke very little of the time she got married and moved to the big city. I listened but like a cartographer does, I tried to trace my origins on her sentences. The last ray of sun reflected the red color of bangles onto the water. I looked at her mangalsutra and the bindi on the forehead (symbols of marriage that a woman wears) and I thought. Perhaps of the darker side of gender inequality in India. I couldn’t quite understand how a woman dedicated her entire life in service of a man. First her father and then her husband. Thankfully, Aji grew up in a privileged family. But it pained me to think of several generations of women who died without having lived at all. And several young female fetuses who got nipped in the bud. Even though the scenario is changing, I could - at that moment, do nothing but hope and pray to Goddess Krishna. Aji expired a few months later, and while I am lucky to remember her in the mud stains on my arm- here’s a lesson I learnt that day. There are places that stir up strong feelings of reminisce inside you and while you may associate a sense of belonging with a context or culture, its undoubtedly the people where your roots lie.