River Town Chronicles Read Free

forehead and then resumed his work. Inside, a gaggle of small children peeked out from behind the back door that led to a small courtyard filled with rubble. “ Angreez (English),” one of them said. “Nahiin, nahiin, Amrikan (No, no, American)” one of the others speculated. The boys put our gear down and called out for their father, who emerged wearing pajamas (loose fitting pants), a short cotton vest over a white shirt that hung below the vest, and a pair of scuffed leather shoes, the backs broken down, with no laces. He had a stubble of grayish beard and short cropped hair. I guessed he was about forty-five years old, but it was hard for me to tell for certain. He said Lallajii told him we were coming but that he didn’t believe him. He told us to sit down. “This is a bad time to travel. You should have waited until the monsoon rains stopped.” I looked around for a place to sit. There were two straight back chairs with their wicker seats busted out and a couple of charpois (rope-strung cots) propped up against one wall. On the opposite wall were several small wooden pegs sticking out from the plaster, apparently to hang clothes or other items on. “Tell your mother to make some tea.” A small boy scampered out of the room and disappeared into the courtyard. “Where do you all live?” I asked. “We live here,” the man replied. “We are your neighbors.” The man introduced himself as Ram Swarup (the image of the god Rama), and his sons as Mohan (“enchanting,” and an empithet of the god Krishna), Mohendra (an epithet of the god Vishnu), Bhushan (an ornament, a jewel) and the youngest, Paphu (an affectionate nickname). “All sons? No daughters?” I asked. He told me the girls were in the other room with their mother but were afraid to come out. “A jao betii (come here, daughter).” A little girl with huge, dark eyes emerged from behind the door. Her name was Meena ranii (queen Meena). “Go get your sisters.” Meena scampered off and returned with her three older sisters, Shakti (strong, powerful, like the goddess Durga), Saroj (lotus flower) and Madhu (honey, sweet), a young girl with a cheerful smile and generous eyes.
    A few minutes later, Mohan returned with a tray filled with cups of tea. Following behind him was a lithe, angular faced woman with high cheekbones whose small size was accompanied by quick, agile movements that hinted at some hidden strength and self confidence. I guessed that she was in her early thirties. She was wearing a thin, white cotton sari, the end of which covered her hair and was drawn across her face so that only her eyes and cheekbones were visible. She was barefoot and had several rings on her toes and a small ornament pierced the side of her nose. Ram Swarup introduced her as “the children’s mother” and offered no other name. The children all called her bhabhi. I introduced myself, Pat, Tim, Brian and Lori. Ram Swarup wrestled with the sounds of each of our names and motioned to Pat and me to sit down on the chairs. Our butts poked through the broken cane bottoms of both chairs. We were each given a cup of hot tea and the worn pot was placed on the floor in front of us. I asked Ram Swarup to join us, but he refused. The tea tasted delicious. It was sweet and warmed our insides after the drenching we faced in the tonga ride from the train station. Mohan filled our cups again and looked pleased that we accepted the tea. The rest of Ram Swarup’s family stood there watching us intently, perhaps wondering if we might not drink tea, or perhaps drink it in some strange, unfamiliar manner.
    After we finished our tea, Ram Swarup took Pat and I on the grand tour of our new home. The single room of our house, where we had been sitting, was about twenty feet by thirty feet. Behind this room was the small courtyard filled with rubble and a hand pump to draw water from a well. Off to one