A handful of rice

When we finally arrived at the farms, it was past eight in the morning. We were all thankful for the sleep we had managed to catch at the village on the way, as we were fresh and ready for the day ahead instead of being sleepy and weary.

Immediately as we arrived, I was struck by the beauty of Hastur. Hastur means "the town of elephants" though it was hardly a rough settlement of a dozen mud huts in the middle of the thick jungle full of the magnificent pachyderms. Since nobody knew Hastur too well, H and his friends always said they were from Ponnachi, a village nearby, not too far from the famous Hogenakkal falls. Neither Ponnachi nor Hastur can be found on Google maps, something I had given up on after we left from our overnight stay at Hanur village. H's house was at one corner of the settlement, and from his house we could easily walk around some other houses and straight into his fields.

It was a very cool, cloudy morning, with a fairly persistent breeze that the others felt was very cold. Our car driver was immediately impressed by the weather, commenting that it was almost like Mysore. Almost all the others asked me if I needed something extra to wear, but I was more than comfortable in my t-shirt and trousers. There was a certain openness and airiness about the place that seemed to give me freedom. Once we walked out into H's seemingly-freshly-tilled fields, the smell of the earth combined with the coolness of the breeze and the absolute lush greenery around me seemed to call to me to bring out my inner boyhood, to start singing Pacchai nirame and to allow them to know me at my least guarded. But I told myself that I was there to vet H's grand business plan, and not on an impromptu holiday. He showed us his fields, his open boundaries that always welcomed wild hogs and elephants and other animals to come and destroy his crop, and even took us on a short walk along the elephant track, something the young lawyer Nanja was reluctant to do, especially after we saw fresh-looking elephant dung right at the start of the trail. Along the rest of the one-metre-wide track we saw bear droppings, lots of elephant dung and also heard some shrieking and whistling from nearby slopes to signal elephants approaching. After a point we decided to return - H and the gang felt it was either too boring or that we were actually close to wild elephants; I'll never know which - and we were back at the hut in about an hour. The trek was definitely worth it and the weather was straight out of my description of heaven. A spot of rain and it would have been early English summer. The place was pristine and unspoilt and very raw. I still had doubts about his plans but all along, H kept a reverent eye on me as if to suggest that one's guest is one's God, like the old Indian saying goes (Athithee Devo Bhava).

Even before I entered H's house I knew that there were several challenges facing his grand business plan. There was no easy way of driving up to his fields as there were no concrete roads in from the highway. There was no electricity in the whole area. There was no running water. Most people in the village did not have footwear. There were no basic necessities available nearby - vegetables and other provisions had to be purchased on foot by the settlers from nearby areas/markets on a regular basis. Even the farming was totally manual - a couple of the families didn't even have oxen, instead making their children stand on the plough for weight. To ask for anything else was simply too much. I had seen such conditions before, especially in the last few years, but my daily life is so far removed from these realities that it always has a deep impact on me. Across India, hundreds of millions of people live in such conditions, often justifying their plight to themselves as sins of a past birth, an unknown debt that one can only pay by spending subsequent births in penury and hardship. Since Hinduism believes in rebirth and the cycle of life, the story ends happily as one eventually repents sufficiently for one's sins, to be born into a comfortable situation once again.

In spite of the poverty, the hospitality in H's house was five-star. Only the driver and myself entered. We were welcomed in and made to sit on the only cot in the house, located in the only room in the house (the only other room was the kitchen next door, where hot idlis were being cooked for me). On the wall were photos of his father, who had passed away a few years ago after a life of trying to make ends meet, and his brother, who had been killed in a fight with some nearby hooligans a couple of years ago. The story of his death made me sad. The family had so many other troubles that they did not even pursue the police case for too long.

H's mother looked thin and worn out for her age. She could not have been very old - H is my age. But she smiled honestly and seemed happy to receive me and cook for me. Her idlis were a little bit hard but quite hot and tasty and the chutney was genuinely good. "Hallina thindi, saar" (a village breakfast, sir), H kept saying, with a self-deprecating smile on his face. I finished off six idlis in a jiffy and the driver seemed even hungrier than me, making our hosts very happy. When we finished, they themselves took our plates away for washing (In India, washing used cutlery is considered a menial chore). After we finished, I noticed that H wasn't eating idlis. He had traveled with us and had to be extremely hungry by now. And that's when I discovered that he was eating ragi (finger millet). Though very healthy, socially Ragi is a far inferior food to rice and was grown cheaply and locally. In his house, he said, my idlis were the first rice-based item in about a month.

I used all my courage to not allow my tears to well up. A handful of rice meant the world to this family. And they had used it for me. It didn't matter how poor they were. It didn't matter how uneducated and under-privileged they were. In their hearts, they had shown themselves to be bigger than the largest mountain. A handful of rice often teaches you more than a bank-full of notes.

I thank N for allowing me to post this