The Vagabond Muse: Two Women of McLeod Ganj, India
November 13, 2007
Sunita
The first time I saw Sunita she had a baby in a sling, and a red and black checked blanket draped over her head. Her smile was wide and bright, despite black plaque on teeth. As her smile broke open, she broke through. I felt it erupt in me like summer earth, cracked, wanting.
Whenever I saw Sunita she would point at something I was carrying or wearing, implying that she wanted one for herself — skirt sewn of sari fabric, Kulu shawl, new chappals, clean shirt for infant, earrings, a mala. Like other beggar women I encountered she would repeatedly drawl out her desires, “rice, chapatti,” an undertone in the daily cacophony.
Her baby girl, always tucked into dirty rag sling, was usually sleeping or suckling at breast. As I watched her grow older she would sit upright in sling gazing out at McLeod Ganj with wide eyes, smiling big like her mother. She would grab at my mala or squeeze my pinky singing delightful syllables.
I always imagined that Sunita and her family lived in settlement of shanties along river. The structures were built out of recycled materials, rotting wood, large sunflower oil tins, tires, stones, plastic bags. Huts huddled up against each other, grubby, tattered, foreboding. I imagined her husband sitting around all day smoking beedies with the other men as they waited for their wives and children to return from begging in the tourist town. At night they would all gather and compare their stash, trading amongst one another while cooking small rations of rice and dal on open fires in blackened aluminum pans. Maybe if one of these beggar women didn’t come home with enough, her husband would beat her.
I never saw Sunita swat her children or speak to them tersely like the many other beggars did to their own. She often had hand gently palmed on small son’s head and until her baby girl began to walk she was tucked in sling, a beacon like her mother. Joined at her hip, Sunita’s children were like vines and she, a wild young tree.
One night I dreamt that I stood with circle of Western women who were sharing poems. Sunita stood a few strides away, watching and smiling. As evening wore on and poetry circle continued to interact, Sunita’s intoxicating smile began to set and gather mist. Her glowing face transformed; she became creased and wracked with sorrow.
Through the year I would hand Sunita clothes that my two-year-old daughter, Tashi, had grown out of. I gave her old toys, rupee coins, rose water. She would quickly tuck offerings in her bag and move on. Sometimes she would ask for more, thankless, persistent. When on the following day I would see her child in Tashi’s old t-shirt, I would feel a rush of relief that this stuff wasn’t going to some pimp or overlord.
I longed to follow Sunita home and see the truth of her life. But in the early evening she disappeared as gracefully as she had appeared at dawn.
Ani La
One evening Tashi and I were having dinner at Ashoka when an androgynous character in burgundy robes and yellow rectangular hat approached table and pointed at French fries. I invited elderly Tibetan to join us and dished out some fries. She pecked at them slowly, all the while winking and smiling at my daughter. I offered chicken but she vehemently refused and instead asked for a Coke. She departed with bow of gratitude, holding bottle and straw against grubby robes.
It turns out that this nun was a fixture in McLeod Ganj and we often ran into her. Each time she would press forehead lovingly against Tashi’s. She would pull hard candies out of her robes that looked as if they’d lived there for a decade, or unwrap hanky full of dried yak cheese.
She seemed a mendicant, not associated with particular nunnery, always alone except when occasionally walking beside some Westerners. She was certainly devout, often found at prayer wheels, on circumambulation path, or at public teachings. From what I could gather she had no worldly possessions but for her robes, rosary and hat. She was full of spark and laughter, and some of her teeth looked as if they’d been glued to her gums with rubber cement. She was argumentative, often bickering with storekeepers or other robed Buddhists. She had a thing for Coca-cola.
One day we joined her on circumambulation path. She held Tashi’s hand, pointing out various views of the Dalai Lama’s residence. She and my husband exchanged some words in Tibetan. When he asked where she lived, she answered, “India.” when he asked her name, she mumbled, “Ani,” the Tibetan word for nun.
Whenever we would run into Ani La she would fuss over Tashi and then check us out, asking questions in mixture of Tibetan and hand gestures. Why did we buy bottled water when mountain water was delicious? Why was I wearing bangles when malas were superior? Were we on our way to circumambulation path, and if not, why? Had we eaten? Would we buy her a Coke?
It was a mystery where Ani La slept at night; she always appeared healthy and relatively clean. Toward end of our year in India Ani La donned a new hat. It was a floppy knitted sun hat, burgundy like her robes.
One day, as was often the case, we ran into Ani La at colorful prayer wheels near bus stop at center of village. She checked us out, doted over Tashi and accompanied us at spinning the wheels. She pointed out various paintings of deities upon walls, instructing us to press foreheads to them. At some point she turned corner, and when we turned expecting to find her, there was no one present in shrine’s corridor but a massive cow.
We were certain that Ani La could shape shift and had chosen that moment to do so.
About the Author : Zoe Krylova is a poet with a nomadic spirit who was born in Cyprus and moved to the U.S. at a young age. As a child she traveled a lot with her mother who was a travel agent. Once she was a mother herself she spent a year in India with her husband and two year old daughter. Zoe keeps a blog at http://www.valeofeveningfog.blogspot.com where she writes about family life, crafting, music and her adventures in Virginia, where she currently resides.
The TSM Fall Travel Writing Contest has been organized in association with On The Beach Holidays
Loved the stories! They left me wanting to find out more about these women who lead completely different lives than I do.
The narration is spinkled with high words and sometimes too hard to understand. The author deserves praise for a good try.
Great Stories - Where can we read more?
thank you for the kind comments and the interest. these stories are excerpted from a manuscript of mine called “the golden border,” about my year spent in india. i hope to someday find a publisher for it. in the mean time you can read other musings of mine and a few other excerpts from the golden border, in my blog http://www.valeofeveningfog.blogspot.com.
I found this peace (I meant to spell it that way) very compelling and beautifully crafted! The title lured me into a world I long to know more of and upon reading “more” I felt as though I had traversed the wilds of India along with the gifted poetess herself. The author omits tiresome connective English words such as “the, it, that…” (as is appropo in a travel diary entries quickly written in transit) - in effect giving each situation a life-possesing quality as if the path could have decided to turn a new direction of it’s own accord or a buddhist nun unexpectedly shapeshift into a sacred animal… sometimes life and dream are one, and we are out of state just the instant it takes to bring it back from one side to the other. How fitting that Zoe comes from the land of Persephone - I have been enchanted by the pomegranate-like seeds of wisdom she scatters in the “vale of evening fog” lands and will shamelessly forage for more!
ms. castillo-noble,
you make me blush!
and how appropriate you should mention the omitted connectors. i just noticed that the editors of the magazine added “the” twice to a sentence that originally read, “I always imagined that Sunita and her family lived in settlement of shanties along river.” I will have to go over the piece with a fine toothed comb to see where else my writing was changed!
You are able to conjure quite clear portraits of these two women, each finding a way to navigate their difficult circumstances. Sunita’s patience and grace are remarkable. I wonder if you let Tashi eat the hard candy Ani La produced from inside her robes!
A poet and tale-teller! spectacular.
I’m lucky enough to have known both women. Being a big white dude, it wouldn’t have been appropriate to communicate with them, so this insight answers a lot of questions. India constantly puts your senses into overload. Zoe paints these pictures so well that you can see, feel, taste, hear and touch India.
Damn - after reading this I feel like I need to eat somosas and take a bath!
Good work Zoe. I am also a contestant of this travel writing episode. I read and reread your travel story.You have given a clear picture of the two women and your creativity is inborn. Very glad to know that your stay in India for a year has given you the much needed insight of the culture and its people.
It’s the portrait of two women sketched with the colors of words.
Dear Mr. Chandrasekar,
Thank you so much for your endorsement. It means so much to me. As a Westerner writing about India, there is the constant concern of simplifying, or over-romanticizing,
or of making unfair assumptions. Your comment has eased my mind.
Dear Zoe,
Really glad you’ve taken this step in progressing your manuscript, which I was so lucky to read parts of in email message form at the time of your trip. Glad to see you have provided material here which is so delight to read. Nice to see others are posting favourable comments, and wish you best wishes in doing well in the competition.
Dear Zoe
Thanks to your cousin David who is my ’spiritual techno buddie’ who chose my Facebook wall as his tool of communication, I had the pleasure of reading your remarkable travelling account.
What an art form you’ve created for yourself! What style! Go for it! Internet fame can easily lead to paper publishing.
Yours in spiritual and techie sisterhood,
Sabine
Zoe,
I feel so blessed to have been able to read of your adventures in India. A far cry from the “T” in Bradford. I am always amazed when we do not hear from each other how much you have accomplished and grown, my hat goes off to you.
You have a great talent. My love to you and your family.
Peace,
Michele
“Two Women” reveals the writer as much it does as her subjects. Hers is an open soul with a keen eye for what surrounds us, a gift for poetry and a sense of wonder that does not cloy. Zoe’s women are whole people, viewed with a loving acceptance that sees them as they are. I want to see these sketches expanded into a novella, at the very least,
Kyle Noble
Dear Ms.Zoe,
I fully agree with Kyle Noble in motivating you to go for a novel. Since you have moved with them, lived with them and recorded micro details, it is time that you zoom it into a novel. I am able to visualize that this novel would take you onto the top. Let that day be this day to start your journey. Our good wishes are with you as guiding spirit.
Go ahead with the title — ‘A portrait of two women’.
All the best.
Regards,
S.Chandrasekar
Zoe, such beautiful, image-rich writing. I can see a novel/novella expanding from these vivid sketches, and I can also see poems. Go forward, and keep writing!
Meg
Hi alI,
I am the thrid umpire and am watching the score board closely. To the dismay I found that ratings of all the runner up contestants have been pulled down to the valley and very difficult to climb up again. Bullish & Bearish fever?
The voting pattern has to be changed completely.
Fondly,
Deborah
Zoe,
What wonderful vignettes. I love the sense of wonder and curiosity. What are these women’s lives really like?
Warmest regards,
Mark
Dear Zoe, What a delight to read your colorful word-paintings. I am impressed and immersed! It is a pleasure to discover another manifestation of our genetic creativity blossoming!!!
Love, Peace and Happiness,
cousin Mike
Nice story! i like to read stories from diffirent places out from diffirent minds