Our farmland This was an actual sign that I saw when we were driving to Dugal; I'm not sure that whoever put the sign up realized the irony behind it. Anyway, today we (my grandmother, father, and I) decided to visit our family's farmhouse and land in the village of Dugal. The farmhouse had been built by my great-grandfather, but my grandfather decided to let other farmers rent the house and till the land, as he had no time himself to do it. As I had never seen our ancestral farmland, I asked my grandmother if we could go to the village, and that's what brought me on this journey to rural India. As we were driving along the dirt road (and this was a complete dirt road- not a road covered in dirt, a road made out of dirt, fit for a Jeep, not the Honda City that we were traveling in), I wondered what had put that question in my head. I'm not one to get nauseous very easily, but driving along this one-lane road made me want to throw up everything I had eaten for the past week. Dugal is surrounded by a few other villages; seeing as our driver didn't know which exact village was Dugal, we frequently had to ask people where the village was, back-tracking and reversing until we found someone else to ask. At one point, the road suddenly increased to a higher level, almost like a set of stairs. There was no way that a car could "jump" to the higher elevation, and there was no ramp in place for the car to drive over, so the driver and my father found stones to put in front of the car's tires that would act as a ramp. Although ingenious, this idea failed, and we soon had to reverse the car and take an alternate road that would take us through the villages instead of above them. We finally reached the village and our house.
The farmhouse seemed to be a two-room house, although I wasn't sure because it seemed rude to explore. The family initially wanted us to sit in a room, assuming that we would feel more comfortable inside than outside, but as that room was partially covered in large rice sacks, we decided to sit outside on a mat. After that began our tour of our land. We were sitting facing the backyard, which had ten coconut trees. As we had come, the family sent for someone who would climb up the tree (using only a rope) and bring down three young coconuts. Acting as a typical tourist would, I pulled out my dad's camera and took quite a few pictures of this incredible feat. After the coconuts were deemed fresh, someone else pulled out a cross between a knife and the swords that pirates used (with a curved blade), and hacked off the top of the coconut. These were young coconuts, meaning that there was delicious coconut water inside. Sticking a straw in the top of the coconut, I quickly finished the coconut drink, and then ate the flesh of the coconut. It was a taste that I hadn't tasted since my vacation to Thailand the year before; nothing in the US could compare.
Afterwards, we walked to our farmland, where rice and lentils are grown. While my dad was talking to the three farmers about the amount of rainfall that allows for the maximum amount of rice to be grown, the type of lentils grown, and other such topics, I was busy taking pictures of the village (that will soon be uploaded). I wanted the pictures to truly symbolize the village and the tight-knit, hardworking community that the villagers had created. So in addition to the pictures of the rice-fields, I took pictures of the villagers, particularly the girls. Many of them were shy, running into their houses before I could take their picture, but once I took a picture and showed it to them, they were all smiles. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but smiling and nodding seemed to transcend the boundaries. Word must have somehow spread that there was a tourist girl snapping pictures, because every time someone saw me, they would try and pose for a picture. For a small time, it seemed as though I was accepted in the village (which is more than I could have said half an hour earlier-people would stare at me as I crossed their house, surprised to see a girl not wearing a sari (even though I had dressed conservatively, wearing a long skirt instead of jeans)). I was almost a part of the village. And in truth, I could have been. It was mere fate that landed me where I am today- a slight change in plans could have landed me in Dugal, speaking Oriya and learning how to husk rice. Each village had a temple, so too did this one. On the way to the temple, my dad explained everything he had learned about the farmland a mere 15 minutes earlier. Apparently, our rice fields amounted to 0.9 acres; each year, rice would be grown only once, as the water from the canal wasn't enough to have it grown twice. The rest of the time, lentils (apparently my favorite lentils) would be grown. They used no modern technology when harvesting rice-they only used oxen and their own farm-made tools. Even with that, the amount of rice grown per year was about 900 kilos, equivalent to about 12 sacks of rice. 900 kilos on 0.9 acres with no technology?! My mouth fell open. Originally, when my great-grandfather had told the farmers to take care of our land, we had proposed a 25-75 split, meaning that they could keep 3 sacks of rice, and we could keep 9 sacks (eating one and selling the rest, the money earned going towards my grandfather's education). Now, it seems to be less a split and more that the farmers can keep 11 sacks, give us the one sack that we consume, and give us coconuts and lentils when we need them. We reached the temple, prayed to the Gods, and returned to the village, as all three of us were eager to get out of the humidity and heat and into fans and air-conditioning. While my dad and grandmother gave some money to the farmers (my grandmother later explained that it was out of politeness, for these families had been tilling our land for generations), I was busy taking pictures of the village kids. Their smiles (at seeing their own pictures) reflected happiness. True, their life was much more labor-intensive and more difficult than mine, but their simple pleasures seemed to give them more happiness than any material object ever could. Their happiness seemed ethereal. It is the smiles of not only the children but all the villagers that will continue to stay with me even as I finish typing this blog post.
The village temple
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