India story by Kathy

Himalayan Dreams of Obama

“You need a better travel agent; you’ll be so bored. Tourists come for 2 days, then leave. Foreigners don’t stay here!” With these words, our Delhi-based driver expressed his dismay at our decision to spend a full week in a remote village in the Himalayan foothills in India. With high hopes and little information, my husband and I, from the comfort of our New Hampshire farmhouse, had picked a resort out of our timeshare catalogue. We were, in fact, surprised to arrive about forty miles beyond Almora, the hill station we had expected to visit. We didn’t have the heart to tell our driver that there wasn’t any travel agent; we had done this to ourselves.

Ray and I are of the generation that yearns for adventure, but find ourselves too old to backpack and too young to cruise. While quite fit and eager, in truth, we are probably a bit more hearty than hale. The Himalayan foothills offered an opportunity to explore another culture on our own. We figured that the unlikely timeshare would provide the benefits of good food and a comfortable bed after our days walking in the hills.

Our destination, in the heart of the Kumuoan region, turned out to be far more remote than we had anticipated. We were both thrilled and terrified getting there, as we careened along the narrow roads pocked with unmarked, gaping construction trenches every few hundred feet. There were no tourist facilities, no shops, no restaurants, nothing to buy and, from our driver’s point of view, nothing to see. We were literally the only Caucasians in the region, and like many travelers, we reveled in being “the only ones”.

Our visit occurred in early November, 2008 during the final days of the US election. We were constantly greeted with the question, “What is your country?” When we replied “America”, people would smile warmly and croon “Oooobaaama!” In the last week of the campaign, we began sporting our Obama campaign buttons. People repeatedly asked, “He’s a good man, yes? He will be good for the world.” As political junkies, being cut off from our rural New Hampshire community at the end of the campaign was a painful rupture. Each morning we huddled on the internet, surfing for news; each afternoon, we read the papers voraciously. There were always articles about the campaign. The Kumuoani waiters would approach us to discuss the election which they followed on television and in the newspapers. One young man knew more about the primaries than we did – which is astounding since we had spent most of the last year captivated by the process.

Hamlets in the Himalayas are connected by a series of paths that crisscross the hillsides. While there is a road, villagers don’t have vehicles. Their daily lives are carried out on foot – walking from their homes to the hillsides and to the fields. We developed a pattern of driving down the road a few miles each day, finding a trail, and following it. It was a joy for to wander these trails in a childlike reverie, open to every experience. Along the way, we engaged in a pantomime of greetings with the local people. Our driver served as our translator and guide. Our feeble “Namaste” usually brought wreaths of smiles. We would interact any way we could – examining tools and farming techniques, practicing carrying baskets on our heads (which caused roars of laughter). Living on our own small farm enabled us to share interests in crops and animals. The villagers would solemnly allow us to take their photos so they could view themselves on our digital cameras.

Each path ultimately led to a small cluster of house s. As we passed homesteads, we were frequently offered water or tea and would sit on the stone walls smiling and gesturing with the family. During daylight, most of family life occurs outdoors on the small stone patio where the women cook on wood fires, wash their stainless steel dishware, and dry foodstuffs like squash, peppers, and “ganja” seeds. While, at first glance, it appeared that the Kumoaun live in relatively large stone houses, we discovered that the family cow often lives on the first floor and the extended family shares in the upper story.

In many ways, the scene was idyllic. The Kumoaun people are generally farmers; every piece of tillable land is terraced and planted. The men drive oxen on small, well-manicured plots, followed by women in brilliantly colored saris who break up the soil with long wooden mallets. Other men catch dinner by setting an electric wire in the river and jumping onto stones while they shock their quarry. Tiny, muscular women carry huge loads of hay and firewood on their heads up and down the steep slopes. Children wear crisp uniforms to government schools. We admired the frugal intelligence of these hard-working people; nothing was wasted. At the same time, we were pained to see how many of them appeared prematurely aged. As our driver commented, “This looks beautiful to you, but it is a difficult life for them. “

The region is a collision of centuries; farmers who work with oxen and hand tools watch satellite TV or listen to the radio at night. We actually saw a young woman in a sari riding atop a huge load of hay on an ox cart working on her blackberry.

Occasionally we stopped at small roadside stalls to purchase snacks. In the village of Takula, at a stall run by two brothers, we were such anomalies that the shopkeepers brought us home to their mother who served us chai.

Later, we wandered down a narrow path into an isolated neighborhood where the women giggled at us as we stumbled into their yard. From the second story, we heard a man’s rather peremptory voice ask, “Where are you from?” To our response “America,” he boomed, “Do you like Obama?” We showed off our campaign buttons and he announced, “I like Obama too! Come up for tea.” We were honored to be invited indoors.

Our shared interest in Obama opened the door to an improbable friendship across culture, race, class, and lifestyles. We were brought into the family living quarters, a small room containing a few wooden seats, a small table and a quilt-covered bed. There was a shelf on the wall displaying the family treasures – a few photos and some imitation flowers. Our host, Chandra, was a teacher who spoke English quite well. Lalita, his wife, appeared to understand us, but spoke very little herself. Most of her communication was beamed through her smile. She made us chai, ruefully stating that she had nothing else to offer. I shared a packet of cookies that were in my pocket. Elderly ladies, clustered in the doorway, clucked warmly.

Chandra talked about family life. He wanted to know how long we had known each other before getting married; our five year courtship was amazing to him. Like the great majority of Indians, he and Lalita had an arranged marriage. They had met for fifteen minutes to decide if they could be compatible. In that brief meeting, he asked, “Will you work in the fields and the home?” Her positive response sealed the deal. They had been married for about 15 years and had three children. They both emphatically explained that there was no “boss”; theirs was a 50-50 partnership. She ran the home and he worked outside in the world. When my husband said something about housewives, Chandra quickly corrected him, “Never say housewife; she is the house minister. She is the boss of the house”. She adamantly nodded her agreement.

Without access to the internet, Chandra had been following American politics on BBC radio since the Reagan era. Declaring himself a “democrat”, he elaborated on Obama’s world view with its notion that Americans will prosper if everyone prospers. We discussed US domestic and foreign policy, Iraq, and our shared hopes for the upcoming election. We gave him one of our Obama buttons which he immediately pinned on his sweater. As we were leaving, Chandra told us that Obama would surely win. He insisted that after the election we must come back and celebrate. He confessed that he never would have spoken to us if we were for McCain. We felt a powerful emotional bond with this couple whose lives were so vastly different, but whose values were so similar.

In India, the election results came on the morning of November 5th. We had arranged for security to turn on the computer in the reception area at 5:30 am, so that we could get the news as soon as possible. With Obama’s victory assured by breakfast, we were giddily toasting over tea. The guests and waiters exultantly greeted us, “Congratulations. You won!”

The newspapers were rhapsodic about Obama’s success. One article in the Times of India brought tears to my eyes. Datelined Gaza: “From far away, this is how it looks: There is a country out there where tens of millions of white Christians, voting freely, select as their leader a black man of modest origin, the son of a Muslin. There is a place on earth – call it America – where such a thing happens.” This election, “…makes America – the idea as much as the actual place – stand again, perhaps only fleetingly, for limitless possibility.”

The Hindustani Times editorialized, “Obama and America have shown that countries can bridge the deepest divides… An Obama victory would be like India electing a Muslim to be prime minister….As our democracy matures, surely, a Muslim – or a Dalit (untouchable) – as PM is not an outlandish possibility.” The election was both a source of celebration and a mirror causing Indians to examine their own democracy with its remnants of religious turmoil and the caste system.

Several days after the election we made our way back to Takula. We found Chandra walking the 5 kilometers home from the school where he taught. Over tea, he exclaimed repeatedly, “Lalita said you would never come back, but I knew that if Obama won, you would be here! “ We relished the victory together, cherishing the historical significance of our predominantly white country electing an African American man. We shared our sense of how important this was, for America and for India. The Obama button sat proudly on the family altar.

We had brought some sweets from Delhi. Lalita gave us a large bag of homegrown black lentils, while Chandra carefully explained how nutritional they were and how we should cook them. They brought us to meet the village head man, the arbiter of planting and harvesting. He reportedly was eager to meet us because he was an Obama supporter too. The headman and his wife greeted us warmly, accepting our final campaign button. They showed us their crops, introduced us to their grandchildren and posed for pictures. As we walked toward our car, Chandra brought us to each house introducing us and talking about Obama. He and Lalita told us to come back the next time we were in India. We could stay with them overnight. The brothers who kept the local store showed up to send us off, congratulating us on Obama’s victory.

Two weeks after returning to our New England mill village, we were shocked by the tragedy in Mumbai. With news reports about Americans being targeted by terrorists, we found it hard to keep sight of how this election impacted the world’s view of the United States. The events in Mumbai could easily sow fear and isolationism, making us afraid to venture into the unknown. We have had to remind ourselves that this event was caused by small band of fanatics.

What we want to remember is that the world is full of places like Takula where people greet us with hope and affection. They welcome the world portrayed in Obama’s vision, because of what it means about us, but also what it might portend for them. We represent a world of possibility.