Lack of Perception

We make a right off the main road leading out of Bhuj and drive toward the village.
The pavement fades to dirt.
I lean over to catch a glimpse of the clock.
Five fifty eight.
The sun has already gone down.
We are just about reaching the time of day when the burning desert heat surrenders to the cool, dry air that sweeps over the land like a slow, steady breath being released from above.
I roll down the window and get the chills. I smile as I realize how long it has been since I've had this pleasant sensation.

Meera, the driver, and director of Jamie's NGO, stops the car and asks a man on the side of the road where Bharman lives, in Kutchi (the local language). He points ahead and tells her to continue on a bit further. She thanks him, but the words are not absorbed. He has just spotted the two foreigners in the car and seems to have drifted into a trance. We slowly roll away, but his gaze remains on me until we are out of sight.

I do not feel exposed, as I still sometimes do on the streets of Mumbai. I feel as if we have entered a dream in which we are the only two people present. In it, we stand at a distance from one another, as neither of us wishes to intrude on the others space or step out of his/her own.
Our stare is unbreakable, yet shallow.
There is no shared past, no deeper meaning, merely curiosity.
As I face him, looking into his eyes, I imagine his curiosity is on a macro level, while mine is on a micro. I may be more familiar with his world, than he is with mine, but he is as much a stranger to me as I am to him. We are simply two individuals who have never seen each other before, and likely never will again...

The car stops as I'm jolted back to my surroundings and out of my"dream."

We walk to the center of the village where we are surrounded by small circular clay huts. Meera walks ahead and greets Bharman. His mother follows, clearly delighted for the arrival of visitors, and gives Meera a warm hug. She proceeds to Megan, Jamie and I and places her hand on each of our heads as we ever so slightly bow to meet her hand. We walk with them to the knotted rope cots (similar to hammocks on posts) and are asked to sit, as they stand next to us. More people come over to listen to the conversation Meera engages in with Bharman and his mother. I assume many of them are from the same family as they pass a baby around listening to Bharman explain to Meera why he likes life in the village more than the city. (She has kindly taken on the role of interviewer and translator for my sake as I am experiencing my first visit to a village.)

"In the village," he says, "time is free. You can be sure when you visit there will always be time to sit down, talk, drink chai...people will always have time for this. In the city you never know if people will be too busy to speak with you. People do not always have the time to relax and visit with you like we are doing now. That is why I enjoy living in the village."

I ask to hold the baby.
Meera translates my request to Kutchi.
I am suddenly distracted by the bright colors and intricate designs of the women's attire. Their tops remind me of extravagantly embroidered aprons with short sleeves and open backs which are connected by a few thin horizontal elastic bands.

"You can hold him," Meera says to me, "but he's not wearing a diaper so he may pee on you."
It wouldn't be the first time, I think to myself as I bob my head from side to side to accept the offer. I keep my eyes on the baby bouncing on my knee, as I start to feel the eyes of the baby's present guardians, ranging in age from around 9 to 65, focus on me. I am aware though that their attention does not come from distrust or hesitancy to hand off the baby to me. Once again, I see it as nothing more than mere curiosity of how this foreigner will handle the child, or perhaps how my "baby holding techniques" vary from theirs.

I notice that Bharman's mother has taken a seat on the edge of the cot as she continues conversing with Meera. She explains that even though it may not seem like it, some things have changed in the village over time. "Now I am sitting next to you and we are talking. It used to be that I would not be allowed to sit and speak with visitors. I would have to sit back there," she points behind the cot where a few older men are sitting, uninterested in what's going on in front of them. "Things change here, but very slowly. I wish I could wear the modern clothes like you! But we have learned to make our traditional clothes from the age of five and have been wearing them all our lives," she says as she pulls her shawl further over her forehead as not to expose her hair. (The four of us are dressed in salwar kameez - very light weight outfits consisting of loose fitting pants, a long tunic like top and shawl worn over the chest that many Indian girls and women wear.)

As we talk, and listen, the sky gets darker and and the evening breeze makes me shiver again. I am reminded that this India is so far from the India I know. The baby has fallen asleep in my lap. Bharman smiles, takes him from me and passes him to a young girl standing close by. She rocks him back and forth a few times, lays him down on the cot and gently leans over to kiss his head.

Meera laughs with the women and then explains how they were reminiscing about their first meeting when she came to the village years ago to help set up women's empowerment groups. "Do you girls want to know anything else about the village or what they do here?" she asks us.
I stare at her blankly.
Sitting on the cot I realize how much and how little I'm feeling in this moment.
I gaze at the covered arms of the women standing around us. Bangles cover wrists to biceps.
I have never felt so full of emotion, yet so completely empty at the same time.
I have nothing to say.
I am experiencing sensation, yet lost in my inability to reach perception.