The Village lunch

‘You are invited for lunch; the words spoken softly as he greeted us early morning. A beautiful crafted invitation card along with a pack of sweets is taken out from the carry bag. The invitation card is drafted in Hindi language. The occasion is to celebrate the retirement of his elder brother from the government job. There is joy and excitement in his tone and deliverance. These invitation cards are specially printed for close family and distinguished guests. A fatherly figure in his gait and manner, my driver has been working at my place for last few years. Over the years he had developed his good reputation in my family. At times, I seek his advice in the matters of interest. This invitation has sparked inquisitiveness in me, to feel the rural life in its essence and entirety. We accept his invitation and ensured him of our participation. For him, it is great honour to have us as guests, at his homeland in his village. It is an opportunity for me to understand the ethos and essence of village life.

Villages are the most remarkable unit of our Indian system. It holds its traditional values with collective responsibilities and is mostly run by the village headman. The headman is elected and is much respected within its society. He generally belongs to the dominant caste, wealthy with a mature persona. All matters of interest and conflicts are presented to headman. The panchayat is called for discussions over the subject matter. Its pros and cons are discussed with community folks and decision made and dictated. When we think of our Indian villages, we reflect on its attributes. The very essence of village lies in its agricultural arrangements, community sense, management systems, caste and class structures, people, animals and living habits. The agriculture system, farming and producing crop by villages constitute the social and economic structures of the Indian system. The village community mostly depend on the seasonal crops, produced and placed in the buy and sell roll out. The whole economic structure of our country depends upon its agricultural arrangements.

My driver’s elder brother is due to retire from government sector on the very day. A traditional farewell with thankyou speeches along with sendoff gifts by his colleagues at office is arranged. Coming home is arranged with procession by his family and friends thru the streets of the villages. This is told to me by my driver. It is the most important day for him, a grand farewell in office by the colleagues, followed by rousing welcome at his home, by his family and friends

In villages, celebrations are not limited to the individual family or the group of families. Be it marriage, funeral or any other occasion like this, the whole village and neighboring villages too, pour out to celebrate/console respectively for that one individual family. It is this social setup which still runs deep into villages.

My erstwhile driver belongs to Gujjar community, living in a village called Jalauf, few miles away from the main town Narnaul. It is accessible and can easily be approached by road. Gujjars are nomadic in nature, hence this name. Most of the seasons, this class community used to wander and live off mountains, with their animal herds. But over the period of time, this community from jalauf, has learnt to live in plains and have become landowners. My driver has many acres of farm lands, producing seasonal crops mustard and wheat, along with other edibles.

The place jalauf is some hundred miles away from my home and takes few hours of driving on road. I along with my husband set off early after breakfast, driving towards his village. As we entered in, on to the interior roads towards village, mustard fields are seen thriving on either side of these long roads. The spread is far into the vast acres of land, seemingly touching the horizon. The whole spectrum is in its yellow green setting with the backdrop of clear blue sky. The environment is serene and surreal for us, the beauty and radiance just touching our souls. These farmlands are owned by landowners from these neighboring villages.

There are no guide posts or signage seen on the villages roads. On these unknown roads if you are lucky to ask for destination from a passerby, He may or may not be able to take you to the right place. There are quiet good chances to loose the track. Not taking any chances, as we neared the village, we called our driver to guide us thru the inner lanes of the village itself. He sounded excited over the phone and humbled too for his invitation was respected. His joy was spellbound. He directed us to follow his vehicle. In his excitement compounded with nervousness, he screeched his wheels over few puppies who were loitering on the street. The sight so horrible to watch. I am shocked for the moment. My driver is conscious of this act but the celebrative joy is much more in him, than the cry of these puppies and of its mother who is lamenting over her loss. From the side windows of the car, it is easy to identify a big white house made of concrete, built at a little walking distance. The shamiana in red with hanging frills and buntings is seen installed in front of this house on the street, chairs are arranged on both sides along the path. We parked our vehicle little away from the house.

As we are walking, I see one big water pump installed in the open space on left side of me. Few women are standing there, some chatting, some filling their pots and pans. A lady is seen pushing the lever up and down, a scene which my eyes had already anticipated. Water pump is an essential arrangement to serve their water needs. Few steps forward, we see a Chopaul under the big tree. It is concrete round block, located centrally in the open space of the village, for casual chats or serious matters. The village-men take control over the subject discussions, law and order, socio and economic imbalances, in the interest of village community. Few more steps, cluster of small houses are built. These houses are all opening to central square. Cow dung is seen almost everywhere, the site stinky and muddy. Few mothers along with children are mixing and rolling this wet dung into round shapes and pasting on to walls outside of their houses. Large number of these cakes are scattered around in the open spaces for letting it dry. The dried cow dung cakes are crucial for their survival and are used to cook meals of the day. There are few horses tied to log heads, a small truck trawler is stalled at the end of the fence.

We march further towards the house. The invitees are seen rustling here and there in their best of clothes. The preparations are full on, the excitement and joy of celebrations is in the air. Frequent calls to friends and families is being done by the people around, to ensure their confirmation of arrival. The arrangements are being talked loudly over phone. My driver is also letting his people know of our presence. A warm welcome is awaiting us! We are surrounded by his relatives, greetings are exchanged. My driver is introducing us with a tone of pride and joy. His retiree brother is not home. He is at his office still doing up with his farewell formalities and is believed to take a full tour thru streets of villages before he reaches back home. it seems likely to be kind of procession on the streets with women and children awaiting his arrival at the border lanes of the village. We are told that whole process of his coming back home, will take time. We handed over gifts, to our driver for his retiree brother and his own family members. A glass of coke along with plate of sweets, made out of fresh cowmilk is offered immediately while we are exchanging few words with village elders.

As we are ushered in the big house, I see an old lady in her traditional attire, sitting on the staircase-end, smoking hookah. A sight, I enjoyed much. She has an aura and is demonstrating her position in the family. There is that freedom of expression in her attitude in the land of men. She was commanding respect from each and every one, who was coming in. I sat by her side and exchanged greetings with her. She was wrinkled, looked much older and personified. I was intrigued with her grace and grandeur. Her matriarchy order seemed very much in place. Clad in red cotton lahanga which is like big round pleated wear, matched with blue shirt and a long flowing dupatta embroidered in jari, she is holding hookah pipe in one hand and sitting upright. She seemed to me, the most respected and admired one.

Our driver took us to show his house which is next to his brother’s house. The one floor square structure had rooms all along on its sides. There were total of five rooms, doors of each room facing the open courtyard. I wonder about the privacy of his young married sons. The central courtyard is full of men sitting and gossiping, they are talking and smoking together. Some chairs are brought for us to make us feel comfortable and table laid out for a cup of tea with sweets. Variety of snacks followed. A sheer honour which I can never forget. His young well educated sons greet us. One of his son is working in software company and other one is lawyer. The proud expression I could read on my driver’s face.

The preparations are full on. Lunch arrangement is made for few special ones on the rooftop of the house, for rest it is arranged under the shamiana. We are escorted to that area for the lunch. From the rooftop I can see, what is happening down. The shamiana has covered the long street running thru these houses to accommodate all under its shade. It is colourful long fabric with red and white blocks. It is supported on tall bamboo poles, to render height and alignment for a cover. The make-shift kitchen is laid out at the backside of the house. Food caterers are called for preparation of party food. Halwai is famously known to the family and in the local town. The big banner of this caterer is hanging on to the wall, making it more known to the public in house. Each small details in the whole arrangement is taken care of. The whole village and neighbouring villages are invited. The whole lot of people, men, women and children are flocking together to the tent. The kids are rejoicing and leaping everywhere. There is another long queue of men, children, ladies, standing in line for food. Variety of Food is served in good quantity on to the disposable plastic plates. These plates are big enough to hold together all the food. The disposable cutlery is given in sets, yet they are eating with their hands. Kids are sitting in groups, some with parents, some with friends. The amount of food served is more than their belly size. The lunch is arranged and hosted by his elder brother. Each and every one is served well.

It is quite an experience to understand the ethos of all that is happening there. Community sense, wholesomeness, abundance and sharing is so visible in this small act of celebration. We are amazed to see all this.

Some ladies old and young are sitting together in the next verandah close to this house. I go and meet them. The young teen girl prepares good cup of tea for me. The old lady is amused to see me. We chat and talk over girl’s education, their rights, their limitations, their freedom. She is old widow yet joyful and is accompanied by the younger women of the house. I love chatting with them while sipping tea. The villager’s chai (tea) has flavor of freshness and sweetness of their innocence. It transcendes into my soulful spirit. I meet some little children on the street, they are shy of holding my hand but are ready for photo shoots. I pick some pics as memoir. it helps me to go back on to these memory lanes.

It is 4 pm on my watch and yet the retiree has not returned. For us, it was getting late, we had a long drive back home. Thought of driving thru village roads in the evening hours is little scary. We begin saying goodbyes to our driver’s family and friends. As we approached our vehicle, we hear some noises from a distance, large number of people are seen coming towards our direction following a chariot. The chariot is driven by two horses. Ladies with round decorated clay pots on their heads are singing village hymns. They are walking in the front of the chariot and are brightly dressed with armlets and heavy necklaces. The jwellery in silver is tradional and unique in its design. Young boys are seen dancing to the tune of loud music. An old man in crisp white clothes and a red head dress is sitting along with his army of men in the chariot. He is waving his hand to the all people gathered around. Some are stepping up the chariot to shake hands, greet and meet him. He is the retiree, the big brother of my driver. There are drums and dholaks played by few young men who are walking past the chariot. The chariot is stopped and my driver introduces us to his big brother. We exchange congratulatory greetings and good byes with him. He is humbled by our presence. I am amused by all this arrangement; the show is spectacular. Lot of community sense is seen prevalent here. In the mad city of ours, we don’t get to see this. It is already late evening hour, we are rushing back, driving on to roads back home. It has been a long day affair, a lunch which unfurled the essence of village in its entirety, an event unforgettable.

The new rural sector is now trying to emerge out with changing reforms, be it the education of children especially girls, land reforms, infrastructure, caste’ism or its religious myths and mores. It is being few years since then, still the village lunch remains etched in my memory.