Lost in Translation

Vasentha and the Old Man are engaging me more and more. (I mean beyond the evening tea ritual they’ve pleasantly implemented with me and Monica.)

In turn, I spend long hours wondering if they’re doing their jobs, if I should be giving them more direction, and if so—how?

The nights before Vasentah comes, Monica and I agree upon which tasks we want her to do, then take turns assuming the responsibility of miming the messages to her the next morning.

And the Old Man? Forget about it. I’m in over my head.

But still, they look to me eagerly. They tell me things about the house and the forest and wait for my response. As if I have any clue.

This afternoon they were particularly animated. Something about cashew trees, branches of wood, and something above their heads. A bird was eating the cashews? Is that it? They mimed movement. People are stealing the wood?! What???

They dragged me to a couple sites on the land where bundles of cashew branches rested or where the earth was scarred from a recent fire. They gestured to the surrounding trees and leaves damaged by smoke. They pointed into the depths of the land and hollered wildly. Then they spewed more Tamil and waited for my reply. Four deep brown eyes staring at me. Two mouths biting lips in anticipation.

That’s when I cracked. I fell to my knees laughing hysterically, Gopal kissing my face, the sun beating sweat from every pore in my body. “I don’t know!” I cried through my incessant giggles. “I don’t know what you’re saying, and I don’t know what to do, and I just don’t know!”

The workers laughed too, but I’m not sure they knew why.

I laughed so hard my cheeks hurt and tears burst from my eyes. “I’ve lost it,” I muttered. “I’ve finally lost it.” I called out names of people who surely will not come soon.


Alas, I recovered. There’s a way to fix this, to understand, to explain. I just don’t know it yet. I marched to the kitchen and asked Vasentha for tea. And I learned another lesson in patience.

Everything in Auroville (And perhaps everywhere? It’s just more noticeable here?) happens in its own time, in its own way, and it’s all connected—if only you have faith that the answer will emerge in time. Only moments after I recovered from my fit, a friend who speaks Tamil happened to come by. I begged him to translate.

“They’re just telling you that there’s wood all over the land, not in one place, and tomorrow Vasentha will spend her day carrying it on her head to move it instead of helping indoors. Is that ok?”

I swallowed hard. It was my pride, I think. “So they not only know what they’re supposed to do, but they’re doing it?”

“I guess,” he responded, perplexed by the humor I seemed to find in the situation.

And I laughed some more. “Seri, seri!” I said to the workers. Ok, ok!

I’ll be better at Tamil long before I get better at charades.

Gay Pride Parade

Sometimes I look around and realize that these are experiences so few other people will have. For example, I don't know anyone else who rode four hours on a bus with Indian transvestites to the first-ever Gay Pride Rally in Tamil Nadu.


The ride was like taking a bus with a varsity sports team; every time another car passed they'd hang out the window, bang on the side of the bus, and scream as loud as they possibly could. And in India, there's a lot of traffic.

But it was fun! They also serenaded us with Bollywood movie songs and tried eagerly to speak with us in broken English. We, of course, tried to show of our ridiculous Tamil vocabulary, but they were most happy when we agreed to take pictures with them. It's the fair skin.


The event itself was mild (although it may have appeared so tame because we arrived three hours late... as the bus was three hours late). In this case, mild is good--it set a strong precedent that peaceful rallies of this kind can take place here, hopefully inviting more gay, lesbians and transvestites to come out next year. It was also interesting to see so many people with masks; this life still isn't as openly accepted here as it is in the States or Europe. Still, seeing so many supporters--even if they hide their features--is empowering.


After the Rally we ate Subway at Spencer's the crazy Indian mall. We opted for a taxi home, and that experience was even crazy. But I'm too exhausted to even begin to explain.

Alas, just another day in the life...

The Story of the Old Man

The Old Man is the source of awe, superstition, rumors, and truths. Most assume he's a crazy drunk, but few can deny a certain...presence...he commands. Everyone who spends time on the land sees him, wonders, and guesses. He moves slowly amongst the trees, black skin shining under the Indian sun. He sits in silence outside his hut, the whites of his eyes watching you even in the darkest of nights. He wears a loin cloth and turban and nothing more.

Sometimes he shaves; sometimes his silver stubble grows a bit too long. Sometimes he sings; sometimes he converses with no one in particular.

Tonight I asked Raja for the Old Man's story.

"You know," Raja began, "he talks to himself sometimes. At first it scared me, so I asked him why..."

'The asuras,' the Old Man responded. 'They walk this land constantly, and if you cross their paths, they'll take your mind.' The devils will steal your sanity. 'I talk to nature, to the gods, to them. I sing about my life and release my sorrows; I do it to keep them away.'

Raja was intrigued and asked a great guru if there was any truth to the Old Man's tale.

'Yes,' the guru answered. 'There are no asuras in that land; what he's afraid of is no longer possible. However, the asuras--and any bad spirits--will only bother those who are afraid, who think negative thoughts. If you are strong, if you are a friend to all the energies, to all the souls lingering in the air, you will be safe no matter what.'

And that, I found, was sound advice.

"But what's his story?" I pressed.

He came from a town whose name means 'Two Dams.' "So," Raja said, "he grew up by the river." But, despite being a good person and a hard worker, the Old Man had no job. "So he came to the land with the first family that owned it. He came to make little works, to do the gardening, to tend the land." Years later, he still does... with great pride.

"He's also a bit of a translator, a communicator with the gods," Raja explained. Sometimes people will take him to the temple where he will begin to work as if intercepting instructions from the Divine. He'll do his piece and advise the locals on what they must do differently, and of what they're doing right.

I smiled. "So the man who protects Lumière speaks to the gods, to the spirits, and to nature. He sings his soul out to ensure he's strong enough to fight asuras. And he's so tremendously grateful and entrenched in this land that he's a part of it and it's a part of him. Right?"

Raja considered the question for a moment. "Right."

What better watchman could you ask for?

Listening to the Land

I learned two important signs tonight:

1. When the gecko croaks, the words being spoken are certainly Truth. For example, if you're speaking of rain when it cries, it will surely rain.
   
   
2. When the owls cry, good spirits are present. Every night they wake me from my sleep, and now I can take comfort in their bittersweet song.
   

Pawns in our hands

I read this in an ancient Indian stories captured within Krishnavatara and had to share:

"Then his [Krishna/Vaasudeva's] voice grew kind. "And I tell you, she will marry you. She wants you..."

"Vassudeva, you don't know how heartless she is," said Shvetaku angrily. "I was only a pawn in her game."

"My brother, you don't know women," said Krishna with a laugh. "We are all pawns in their hands.

"But they can give us strength to make pawns of everyone else."