My visit to Tungi happened all of a sudden, just when the winter chill was quietly setting in. I needed a break and I couldn’t have asked for a better place.
But this story is not about me or my Tungi resort. It’s about an experience that I had there, which stayed with me forever.
One afternoon, we just set out to visit the nearby villages on persistence of one villager who was very keen to show us around.
As we trudged up the uneven, unkempt lanes, it was difficult to appreciate the beauty of the place, which was actually oversold by the self professed guide.
I lost my patience soon enough and took off separately into the first village that I set my eyes on. I was greeted with loud barking of dogs, which immediately deterred my adventurous swagger. I hesitated to step up any further, when I chanced upon a small boy holding onto a couple of fairly large sized dogs, and looking curiously at me. The dogs betrayed their antecedents by barking away rather raucously and with greater gusto.
By then my prestige was at stake. I looked at the boy and stepped forward bravely, hoping he would be able to hold onto the two ferocious animals till I crossed over the stretch.
Surprisingly, God was kind and I moved into the village without further trauma. Or maybe I was destined to walk in there.
There was nothing to write home about the village. I was sorely disappointed. It was full of cow dung, dirty water milling all over the place and most huts had asbestos roofs. Since there were stacks of rice husk, the air was dusty and heavy.
I just moved up, wanting to find an exit path, when I chanced upon a small hut to my right. It looked rather out of place, neatly laid out with a wooden door having nice flowers decorated on it.
It looked so quaint and vibrant, that it lifted my mood. I started to dig out my cell phone to click some pictures. As I was rummaging my bag, my diary fell out and I tried to grab it before it fell into the dirty water. Unknowingly, I think I may not been so diplomatic with my expletives, because an old lady came out of the hut to watch the small scene being enacted in front of their habitat. Fortunately, I retrieved my diary without much damage. This time more with my acrobatic efforts than with God’s grace, I must admit.
However, back to the hut. By now I had three spectators, one dog, one small girl and the old lady. I smiled at the easiest link, the girl. She, in turn, smiled back and ran into the hut. The old lady called out for someone. I waited. I was curious to see the members who stayed in the hut.
All of a sudden, I saw an energetic, smiling young woman come out of the hut, wrapped in a bright pink sari. Her smile from ear to ear was as electrifying as was her sari. I was dazzled and absorbed this emissary of Pink in silence.
She was a tad dark and her teeth were sparkling white. The sari was immaculately worn in the nauvari style (6 yards) and sat loudly on her complexion. The घुंघट (veil) was up on the head, unruffled and majestic. But there was nothing majestic about the young woman. She was warm, kind and homely. I realised that she was the only one who spoke Hindi. Rest all spoke the local lingo.
She asked me if I wanted something. No, I said. I was certainly eager to see her hut. I didn’t have to wait. Much to my happiness she called me inside and I quickly walked in with her. I was ushered into a longish room, which doubled up for the kitchen and the living room. It was neat, clean and the utensils competed with her in their dazzle. Numerous steel utensils lay well organised on shelves. On one end stood two चुल्हा (hearth).
The hut was made of a single brick wall with an asbestos roof. There was one inner room that housed four old ladies, one floor-ridden, and the small girl. The backyard was covered and their buffaloes were kept there.
She introduced herself as Uma and then introduced me to her mother-in-law. I declined an invitation for tea but said that I would take some pictures. The two women were ever so enthusiastic. Uma went on to tie her sari in the regular style for her photo shoot!
After the photography session, Uma took me around. I saw a few more villagers, their homes and a small Shiva temple. But no one was as eye catching as Uma and no house matched her hut. Not even that of the मुखिया (Village head).
As we walked, Uma chatted. There was one man in Uma’s family, her husband, who had gone to the field and was expected back soon. She said she spent her time tending to her family. Apart from her mother-in-law, she had three more aunts to look after. One aunt was very sick and couldn’t get up. The local doctor had given up on her. The buffaloes gave milk which was used at home and was sold too.
But she didn’t want her daughter to lead this life, she said with determination. Uma wanted her daughter to study in Mumbai. She said she would take her there. Her aunt, her mother’s sister, stayed in Borivali. And Uma had her plans in place. I smiled.
A strong woman with progressive aspirations. Who would imagine that in a remote, unknown village, a woman in pink was dreaming big for her daughter? I marvelled at the tenacity of such a breed of women. They didn’t let adversity cower them down. They dreamt and the dreams flowed down to the next generation.
It was time for me to leave. As I bade her goodbye I knew I had a memory that would stay with me forever.
The picture that I share here has given me so much hope and positive energy when my chips are down, which is more often than not, I just can’t express. Uma and her happy, smiling face works like magic on me.
There’s always another day, Uma tells me from the picture.