Village of the Peacock...Moranwali

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The Village of the Peacock…Moranwali,

Today Saroop and Maina took me to the village I have heard the most of since I was little. Sychronistically, today is Sept 14, my dad’s and his twin sister’s birthday. On the way to Moranwali, we picked up a few boxes of sweets for the occasion and as an offering to our hosts in the village. It was again a very emotional day…more so than yesterday. We started out quite early and headed towards Horshiarpur, then Garshankar. Of course when I ride in a vehicle here in India, my eyes are peeled and my focus is intense just savouring everything: the landscape and culture. Even the most mundane thing is a fascination for me. I watch as people go about their daily routine. As we drove through the city of Jalundhar (or any Indian city) it is odd to observe that city life is not really city life at all. Although some people live in big houses and there are merchants galore, as well as professional and government offices, rural lifestyle still prevails. Milk in communal steel milk jugs is still delivered fresh from the cow in the city on wooden carts. People buy a portion from these delivery men every morning including my Uncle and Aunt in their upper middle class neighbourhood. The milk is the real stuff, full bodied, fresh, fat cow’s milk…kinda yucky for me given the fact I have a minor allergy to milk and the thought of drinking a glass full makes me nauseous. Also, everyday, wooden carts powered by a bicycle or donkey go around city neighbourhoods selling fresh vegetables and another entrepreneur circles neighbourhoods delivering propane tanks from his fuel cart delivery service. In the houses here, stoves are not electric, but fueled by propane. There are no ovens. The food in the wealthier homes is not any different than in the villages. I have decided that cities are just villages that kept getting bigger. The city is truly a BIG village to me.

As we drove through the BIG village to the small village of my Uncle Saroop’s cousin (on the way to Moranwali) again I was pleasantly calmed by the fields of rice and sugar cane. The green lushness and clean air of the countryside teamed with the slow pace of life and quiet serenity of farm life was a quick reminder that village folk were “richer” than they believed. While we passed village, after village I couldn’t help but notice that the Gurdwara (Sikh temple) was always a magnificent, sparkling, impeccably maintained centre piece of every village. Unlike Hindu places of worship, where they can vary from a wooden box or shack, or little cave to a spectacular feat of architecture, Gurdwaras seemed to consistently have a magnificence to them…even the most impoverished village’s Sikh temple is a place of a heavenly, clean refuge from Earth’s filth below. From afar, over the vast prairie, Sikh temples in the hundreds, rise above the green fields, usually sparkling in silver, or gold, white and blue. This has always been my favourite type of architecture. My dream house would be in this style…J

We were greeted by an unknown young man my uncle managed to track down from Moranwali who met us and escorted us to Saroop’s cousin’s, then would escort us to Moranwali. We had a quick visit with Saroop’s cousin who is soon leaving to the USA to immigrate. It would be easy to get lost amongst the village roads, so having someone who is a “local” is quite necessary. Saroop’s cousin’s village is about 5 kilometers from Moranwali. At the cousin’s we were, as usual, greeted with love and generosity, chai and more chai, sweets and more sweets, soda pop…and some yummy deep fried paneer and chilly peppers yum! It turns out, by the end of the day and all the visiting, I ate so much sugar that I swear my blood was most likely syrup. The epidemic of diabetes in India was a notion I could fully comprehend.

We then ventured off to Moranwali. I could feel my heart pounding as I observed with sheer intensity all the surroundings leading up to Moranwali. Anyone who wanted to talk to me or engage with me might have well just considered me deaf. I was absorbing everything and did not want to be disrupted. My hyperobservant Colombo hat was on. Again, I imagined that the roads probably hadn’t changed in decades and I was most likely traveling on the same roads my dad did. A wave of uncomfortable emotions came over me as we were driving down these long, country dirt roads. Sadness, fear, excitement. I suddenly was able to really feel what it must have been like to leave this place for a foreign land. I felt more than anything fear. I imagine my father must have been extremely scared…petrified perhaps, as this place, out in the middle of the Punjab, was a whole other planet away from Canada. I could deduce that little was known of the west, even where the heck it was 60 years ago. There was no TV or outside influence…no way anyone would have known much at all of North America. And, to add to that, I could wholly feel what it must have been like the day my dad rode out of the village on his journey to Canada…not to mention the volatile political climate at the time in the Punjab with partition happening and all the unrest that accompanied that. It would be like saying goodbye forever and venturing into the unknown…this pain hit me hard. I could never imagine leaving all I ever knew at 16 years old and going to a totally different culture. It would be like flying to Mars. But, perhaps it wasn’t pain, maybe excitement and optimism…I do not know exactly and it is a frustration I harbour not being able to ask my dad these things. I will ask my aunt and uncle when I get back. I have many more questions that have emerged I would like to ask them too. (Note to self...talk and connect to my relatives more.) All I know is what I felt being here on these roads and the courage it must have taken to go to a foreign land. I am more able to piece together my dad’s past and his experiences that made him who he was…he endured a heavy heart his whole life I think…from his struggles here to some of his struggles in Canada, to the struggle at the end of his life…I couldn’t help but cry for some time in the car. The tears just came and I couldn’t stop them. Healing tears though…very healing. My dad was an amazing man for all he experienced...truly. Mom is amazing too of course, but that is a whole other book unto itself…Eastern Europe visit lurks in the shadows….

We entered a small alley of which all the villages are made up of and passed through a gate with the name RAI in the centre of it. WOW! I thought there’s my name. Moranwali is 1/2 Rai and 1/2 Hayer. Years ago in Richmond, I taught a young girl once and she said she was from my dad’s village of Moranwali…her last name was Hayer. Our escort brought us to his home. It is a typical village house with 4-5 rooms and a front room that opens out onto a big deck. In this small home, five people live. Two parents and three girls…no boy…amazing! There are beds in the front area, a living room area, a kitchen , bathroom and storage room. Outside in the deck area, is a small temple, clothesline, water tap for washing, and an area too cook in a tandoor oven. There is also a rooftop which is rarely used especially in this heat. The house seemed comfortable and admittedly was a home of what westerners would call beyond poor. We were graciously and excitedly invited in to the living room area and again we were served chai. Because I cannot speak Punjabi, everything was filtered through Saroop or Maina…or through my own non-verbal language skills which are superb now. Again, I walked outside, and up the alleyways to look at the village. This is a big village with 7 gurdwaras and it actually has sectors..it is more of a town. Apparently, Moranwali is one of the bigger villages in the Punjab. The three girls and their friends followed me around the alleys and we came across an old, white bearded man who said ,”Sat Sri Akal “ to me and gave me a brief hug. I thought wow, this is rather friendly of him. Charanjit, the driver explained he was a relative of mine, and I thought to myself, I guess so, but isn’t everyone with the last name Rai? Charanjit has this remarkable way of sitting on the sidelines and observing with great detail. Since he is “hired” help, he doesn’t engage much but he knows everything that is going on; he knows more than anyone it seems. He has this very, very wise and mystical energy about him…almost intimidating because he can see through anyone. I liked him much and often wanted to spend time just being around his peaceful presence.

Well, we saw the nearest gurdwara up the road, and headed back to the house where my uncle said we were waiting for an “old man.” It turns out the man down the road was a distant “uncle” of mine and he was who we were waiting for. To make a long, story short, the “unknown escort” who met us at my Uncle Saroop’s cousin’s is actually a relative of mine and the “old man’s” son…are you confused yet. His name is Trilochan (great name huh-love it) and his father is Kashmir. I nor Saroop had any idea! The story even gets better. We sat and chatted and were served a great lunch of dal, potato curry, yogurt and rotis…all made by my distant “cousin-“ a man! We laughed at the gender role switch on this and how modern Trilochan was. Manjit, Trilochan’s wife is such a smiley, lovely woman full of love. She hugged me and told me I could stay for a long time. She said she had been waiting all morning for our visit and the whole family was so excited.

After lunch, we were to go to the original place where my dad lived. Kashmir was to take us there. So, Saroop asked Kashmir to lead the way. Kashmir stood up, walked 5 steps to the room behind us and said in Punjabi, “Here it is!.” After my dad lived here, this was Kashmir’s house for a long time and now it belonged to his son. Me, neither Saroop could believe it! Saroop had no idea we were sitting right in the very house the whole time and that the man who escorted us from Saroop’s cousin’s village lived in my dad’s old place and was Kashmir’s son…all related to me in some way I will figure out later. My Uncle Gian in Canada knows the lineage. It was unbelievable. You see scouting out my exact relatives was not as simple as it sounds. Saroop knows my dad’s mother’s side and Buddhipind, but not Moranwali. Plus, most people who would have known my dad have left India or have died except Kashmir of course. Kashmir’s son ,Trilochan, of course didn’t know who my dad was nor who my immediate relatives were. Kashmir told me and showed me exactly where the original rooms were…I went in, looked around and started crying…again I couldn’t help it. The building had changed again from a mud house to a concrete one, but the location of the rooms were the same. Some of the doors in the house were very old and could have been original, but I do not think the mud houses had doors. The front area was laid out the same I was told. Everyone was moved by my heightened emotion. I was in such an altered state. I could feel all this past energy everywhere. It was kind of eerie in a way, but not scary. My movements were so slow while I tried to absorb the environment…Ramandeep Kaur, the middle daughter of Trilochan and Manjit, followed me everywhere like a shadow. She looked and reminded me so much of my niece Jaclyn, I couldn’t help but stare at her in awe. She was so darling…as were her sisters, Suman Jit Kaur, and Rajvinder Kaur…all Rai’s of course! Manjit hinted that I should take them to Canada…tempting thought. They were very, very adorable girls. I couldn’t help but point out that in our family, girls come in threes…mine, my cousin Rabinder’s, my brother’s, and of course their family all had three girls in a row… a Rai trait I think…My chant briefly became, “GIRLS RULE India, got it!”

I had a great time and there was a closeness and knowing and somehow we were not strangers at all. Funny how this happens. Kashmir told me he was, he thinks, two years younger than my dad…he doesn’t keep track of years he said. He told me how when my dad’s mom died, when my dad was only 10 I think or 8, that someone was willing to look after my dad only if they would split the twins up. This was not an option and so Kashmir’s, now, mother-in-law looked after them. After watching Manjit and her daughters and the strong bond all mothers have with their children here, it finally hit me how devastating it must have been for my dad, my Aunty Sito and Uncle Gian when their mom died at such a young age. To heighten the loss, their father had taken off for America many years prior abandoning my dad’s mom. They were orphans in a sense..no mom, no dad…but thank goodness for extended family. Uncle Kashmir I need to call him now, also joked around and said how my dad and his twin sister used to steal the top of the milk, the cream, and how Kashmir used to tell my dad how un-Sikh this was to do this. Uncle Kashmir also said my dad and him used to play fight a lot and that my dad was much bigger and stronger. I was listening to every word carefully my Uncle Saroop would relay back to me. It was very frustrating not being able to speak to Uncle Kashmir myself…but it was the best we could do given the fact I was the dork that couldn’t speak Punjabi. The most embracing and wise comment my Uncle Kashmir said to me was… “Nobody can truly own anything in this world and this humble property and few belongings also belong to me because I am family. I am welcome anytime and all that they can really offer me, which is the most important thing in life… is love and affection.” I am positive this was said with more grace than my translation offers. His heartfelt words were just what I needed to hear it seems. In these few words, it just made my entire visit to India complete…I could go home now I thought. There was some kind of closure to an unsettled feeling that has festered in me since I was little. In these strangers, I felt belonging…and roots and finally an entitlement to an identity. I am a Rai from Moranwali, I thought. What a great feeling it was to be on home turf!

Later, we looked at pictures I had brought of my family and discussed who everyone was. I brought old pictures of my grandpa and grandma as well as my dad and his siblings. I felt like I was in one of those “long lost” emotional reunion episodes I’ve watched many times on TV.

Of course I took photos and exchanged contact information at the end of our visit. I did not want to leave…I wanted to stay in the village and they wanted me to, but I was unprepared and it was not feasible given the distance to Amritsar and the logistics about transport in and out. Next time for sure I told them. I took one last walk around the street, and Charanjit, the driver, pointed out that the red brick wall across from my dad’s place was built in the 1920’s. As I stood there, I was looking at what my dad looked at every day and on the exact street my dad must have played on. Moranwali now does not seem too rural. There are big houses, many owned by NRI’s, Non-Resident Indians. Streets are narrow but there are many of them. To do farming from this Rai house, unlike in Buddhipind, one must go some distance from the house. In my dad’s old place, now, there is no room or space for a cow or livestock...The home is surrounded by other homes and walls. It really is like small town living…quite different than when my dad was there I believe.

We were all told that Trilochan has been quite ill lately. He had cancer around his knee about eight years ago, had it removed and had some reconstructive surgery on the knee. Now, unfortunately, the area has become infected and doctor’s say he needs to have it amputated. This is a MAJOR hardship for the father of three to lose a leg since he is a farmhand. Trilochan says he cannot afford to take the required medicine on a regular basis. My heart just sank hearing this. My Uncle Saroop was quite moved by Trilochan’s story and said he will help him…have him come to Amritsar to see a better doctor there. I will transfer funds to them when I get home I promised my self.

I reluctantly said goodbye to “my” family. I so wanted to stay. It seemed too short of a visit. In the last few moments before departure, the gestures made spoke volumes of what India is all about. Manjit and Trilochan handed me 100 rupees and Kashmir gave me 500!!! I was astonished and confused. There was no way I could accept this money, yet I did not want to offend them either...for I am told it is not “cool” to even turn down chai when offered. So in an executive decision of my mind, body and soul, I subtley gave the money back to the eldest daughter, Suman, plus an undisclosed “bonus” from my own wallet. Saroop was very moved by the generosity and love of my relatives and he said the visit to the villages had taught him a lot. He was so glad to have joined me.

The whole time I wanted my sisters and brother and my nieces and nephews to be here. I so wanted to share this with them, especially my brother, Rajan, who I know would be moved by this. In my heart, I carried all their spirits here to Buddhipind and Moranwali. Some people do not need to have an attachment to their roots nor discover anything of the past. I am not this type of person. In discovering truly who I am, I have had a longing to embark on this journey to help me put together a puzzle of sorts. This part of the puzzle has been placed and I look forward to the more inner journey of self discovery which is free from the constraints of nationality or religion. I have had to discover to in order to shed. I always say, how can one practice detachment without knowing attachment. My new journey awaits.

Om Shanti,
Leila

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