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.

Daily Activities

People from the States keep asking me what life is like these days.

The thing is, running a forest is a lot of work. Period.

Twenty acres is a lot of land. Period.

And there are animals to protect! Just this morning the villagers brought their dogs to collect cashews and—as they do almost every morning—the dogs chased the chickens. For the third time since June, one of the dogs succeeded in catching a poor bird, and I had to come with a stick to free the cock.

Plus, our Gop__ needs a lot of loving (which I’m more than happy to give) and company (which I spend simultaneous writing about watsu and/or complementary currencies). He’s just a puppy, after all…

And the cows come several times a day to eat the young trees and blooming flowers, and the house/kitchen/storeroom always offer improvement projects, and the workers—my God, the workers.

Everyday they try to teach me Tamil. However, the lessons include me repeating what they say without any clue what it means. We laugh a lot. Then they ask me serious things in Tamil and look at me with expectant eyes. I suddenly have to make a thoughtful decision based on a frantic stream of grunts and hollers which meant absolutely nothing to my ears. Sometimes we play charades, but I’ve always been bad at that game.

They look to me more and more for direction. I point and explain what needs to be done around the house. But in the forest? I clearly have no idea, and even if I did, the Old Man would have no idea what I’m saying.

Thus, after working on watsu and economics, between fighting village dogs and chasing cows, while tending to Lumière’s puppy and employees, I’m now researching Tropical … Forests and practicing Tamil online.

So, my fellow Americans, my only answer to you is: I’m keeping busy.

Chics Day Out

Interesting how much we’ve seen shapes how world view. Many will never leave their home country, many have never been on an airplane, many can’t even conceptualize elsewhere. I, for one, strongly advocate for travel and encourage others to see as much as they can. If I had the resources, I would give EVERYONE I know an opportunity to leave their sheltered life—even if only for a few moments.

Why should the baby chickens be exempt?

Thus far, the chicks’ entire world existed only of the blue birthing bin, the protective basket, and a few futile glimpses of the storage shed corner as we changed the sand or water in their home. It was time to push their limits.

(Plus, the Steward of the Land suggested a chick expedition via skype… so I was simply following orders.)

I first let them out in the morning. They just emerged from the storeroom door when the Old Man ran over hollering, pointing to the sky, and herding them back into the protective den. Apparently there’s a giant gray bird that eats baby chickens if they come out too early in the morning. Seriously.

So we tried again at the zenith of the day. Voila—Thelma, Louise, Beatrice, and Momacas (she’s a bit fatter than the others)—you are free! Go forth and prosper!

And while we (mostly Monica) took their guardianship quite seriously…

…this is primarily how and where they spent their day of freedom:

Getting them back into the basket was the hard part. It consisted of using the basket as a shield and a giant stick as a sword, so I pranced around like a gladiator until they were successfully herded back into their tiny dominion.

One of these days we’ll shift them to the abandoned hen house…

The Newest Addition

In the middle of the night Monica turned to me. “Catherine,” she whispered, “do you hear that?”

I listened to the sounds of the land. “Hear what?”

“That creepy noise that’s definitely not a cow.”

Yup. Yup, I heard it. And there was nothing me, Monica, or an injured old watchman that my grandfather could beat up could do about it. (In all fairness, my grandfather’s in remarkable health for 80.)

“We really, really need a dog,” I said.

“A big dog,” she replied.


Hours earlier, across Auroville…

Raja had just finished dinner with his family when his eldest brother marched in. “I need some leftover food.”

“You don’t have enough?” his mother asked, full of concern.

“It’s not for me; it’s for this damn dog that won’t get out from under my porch.”

“Dog?” Raja’s ears perked up.

So his brother told the story: A few days ago he—a mere puppy—was chased by bigger village dogs, and now he’s broken and bleeding in the sand near Brother’s house and refuses to move.

“Lumière will take him.”

So suddenly we have a guard dog in need of serious mending… and a name.


Any suggestions?!

Old Man vs Wild Cat

Last night there were noises. Violent noises. Noises too scary for us to check on. Plus, we have a night watchman, and his voice triumphed over the cries. So everyone in the house returned to dreams, and only this morning did we learn of the previous evening's heroic adventures...

Apparently the shadows hid more than sleeping bugs last night. Somewhere in the bushes lurked a wild cat, and his hungry eye was on the chickens. While the chickens' protectors slept soundly, the cat pounced--snatching away a beautiful white hen in its blood-thirsty fangs!

But the Old Man isn't too old. He sprung from his bed and approached the vicious cat with a big stick and only mild intimidation. It was one wild creature versus another, and with flaring arms and bizarre shouts, the Old Man frightened the beast away.

But not in time. The hen lay wounded on the ground, blood staining its precious feathers. The Old Man scooped the poor damsel up, nestled her in his arms, and walked away slowly. He soothed the creature, wrapped her in bandages, gave her the love and attention any old bird needs.

And today, she's walking with her chicken comrades across the Land.

No wildcat will get us down.

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?

Arrival

I am not as much of a stranger to this life as my previous post infers. In fact, I come from a land that absorbed me like this land absorbed its steward; in Camarat, the soft scratching of sanglier startled me from my deepest sleeps, the maze of forest paths are clear as highways, the local herbs and spices and flowers and fruits were put to good household use. So in some ways I am used to life in the wilderness.

Plus, this isn't my first time in Auroville or at the Forêt de Lumière, which is why--to my great pleasure--Vasentha and the Old Man greeted us so warmly upon arrival.

They laughed at our obnoxious amount of luggage and gasped at Monica's fair skin. We were carefully guided into the home and allowed to rest. I curled up in the hammock with my favorite sheep-pillow-cased pillow and slept like I'd never slept before. But not for long.

A slight breeze broke the heavy heat and carried tamil to my ears; I recognized my name through the harsh grunts and words. Walking down the windy staircase, I smiled. Vasentha had made us a plate of jackfruits (which I'd never had before) and a variety of mango (which I'd never seen before), and two cups of perfect Indian tea. God, I forgot how I missed chai.