Snapshots

I’m sitting at my desk in the KHAMIR Craft Resource Center. The hot wind approaches brazenly through the window, yet again knocking the papers off my table like a jerk. Sweet, steamy, milky chai arrives. It must be 3:30pm. I’m working on the craft-based newsletter we’ve decided to launch for the artisans of the region. A weaver from a nearby village comes in.

Namaste ben.

Namaste bhai. Kem cho?

Mujama.Tuhme?

Mujama.

Pankajbhai, a director, comes over.

Jamieben, can you help fill out this grant application?

Of course. When’s it due?

Yesterday.

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In the doorstep of our flat, I sit reading Mind Without Measure by J. Krishnamurti. A philosophical text given to me by an Indian friend happy to expand my western mind. Having finally arrived home from work before 8pm, I’m feeling calmly exhilarated. I look up from the page to watch evening life ensue on my little lane in Nooton Colony. I smile at the materialization of stereotypical images. Vendors are strolling by with their vegetable carts. Women are taking saris off the clotheslines. Boys are playing cricket. A grandmother is sitting on a terrace. Cows are being cows.

I’m unexpectedly struck by how fortunate I feel to have the chance to live here. To have this be my life for one year. How different and temporary it is for me, but how very real it is for my neighbors. The only life they know.

Then I think of how my brother would probably make fun of me for this dramatic train of thought, and I laugh at myself and at twilight for always making me feel reflective.

I hear my name. Pratik and Vishal have rolled up on their bicycles. I put down J.Krishnamurti and smile at my friends.

Come Jamie, let’s go play badminton. Yea?

Do I ever say no?

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There is NPR’s This American Life in my ears and Kachchh landscape in my gaze. It’s Sunday, our one day off from work, so I’m on my weekly extended stroll around Bhuj. Hearing America. Seeing India. I have no set path or destination because I’m a sucker for fortuitous finds. I become thirsty in the heat and stop at a juicer’s cart. For forty cents, I watch a guy slice a pineapple, peel a pomegranate, and use a hand cranked metal machine from the 18^th century to squeeze delight into a cup. It’s delicious.

I decide to take a right at the crossroad that normally pulls me left. While Ira Glass is telling me a story about Chicago’s classified ads, I suddenly come across a sight that diverts my pliant path.I’ve found a park with a walking trail, something quite rare for Bhuj.

YESSSS!!

On the way home, I stop by my favorite sweet shop. Feeling a bit smugly like a local. The owner hands me a good-lookin samosa fresh out of the oven and won’t let me pay. It’s delicious.

A bahu saru che. Abhar.

[It’s too good. Thank you]

I say it to him, but my mind applies it broadly.

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