Note: This note is from 2018

For the last several weeks I have had the luxury of taking long walks or cycling through very beautiful countryside. Not very far from where I am, I find fresh air and quiet, and I am relishing this opportunity like never before. There is occasional traffic, a motorcycle or a rare state transport bus, but I do not otherwise encounter many people.

For perhaps the first time in my life, I have come alive to birdsong – the diversity of melody belongs to another world. And then, this time of the year, the sun is still relatively low on the horizon, so the light is wonderful for making images.

Day before yesterday, after crossing a nice forested area, I found myself at a small village crossroads. I thought it would be nice to sit down and have a cup of chai. I would discover later that I had been walking for a little over five Kms then.

I saw two people I took to be village folks, perhaps farmers, chatting on the street. I walked up and asked if there was a place nearby where I could get tea – there wasn’t. I didn’t mind that.

In these parts, people often ask ‘whose are you?’ as a conversation opener. It is how they identify you , something I find amusing. I am getting used to making references to my parents families, which often takes me down paths I stumble upon rather quickly.

So, when that question came as I continued on my walk, I gave them my family name. For the first time that response was followed up with more clarifying questions- turns out there are many types of Desais. There was an off-hand reference to caste, which I brushed off with – ‘who cares for these things any more’.

I was beautifully surprised when he said I could have chai at his home across the street. Rather unusually for me, I accepted his invitation. I sat down on the front porch and in a few minutes the lady of the house brought me a tumbler of water and this gorgeous plate.

I ate alone. The gentleman who invited me was going around doing his chores – was getting ready to wash his vehicle, in fact. A little more conversation about our families, and he casually said – oh you are Bamans (brahmins) like us.

Now it dawned on me. That was why I was invited. The beauty of his hospitality suddenly showed an ugly underbelly.
Across the street, a Buddhist stupa was under construction. His son an accountant had just returned from Bombay to start a dairy business and speculate on the stock market. We spoke of internet connectivity and strategy.

There was not much formality as I left. My ‘thanks’ were returned with, ‘please feel free to drop in anytime’.

I decided to return as the sun was also getting higher. Deep in my belly I felt queasy, a very visceral reaction to my being born a Brahmin.

Once again through the woods, the still desolate stretch. Such a long way to go.