Writings from a Village

By Rajiv Gera

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 13, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469103662

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Writings from

a Village

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Rajiv Gera

Copyright © 2009 by Rajiv Gera.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

THE VILLAGE

Chapter – I

Chapter – II

Chapter – III

Chapter – IV

Chapter – V

Chapter – VI

Chapter – VII

– INDIA –

Chapter – I

Chapter – II

Chapter – III

Chapter – IV

Chapter – V

THE VILLAGE

Chapter – I

This is a story about someone I knew, in a village, in a country not far away.

The village was not very different from anything that one may imagine; not too big, the usual establishments – a town-hall, a community-center, some restaurants, a library, and other places one soon begins to expect wherever people live together as a community.

A road ran through it, coming from a city close by, and went on to the next village and beyond. I would often be at a bus stop right off this road – whenever I had to go to the next village to do some chore, or to the city for one reason or another.

Across from this bus stop was a restaurant. I hadn’t ever gone in but they had a few tables outside, and when the weather was not too cold, people would be sitting outside. The bus came a little erratically, or perhaps my own synchronization to its times was erratic, or maybe I just did not mind waiting. I often found myself there with sometimes 10 or 15 minutes to go before the next bus.

I wonder if you’ve been in that situation, you know, just being able to sit somewhere comfortably and watch things without really wanting to, but just because they are happening. That is the way it was with me, and waiting for this bus I became quite familiar with the restaurant across, and its atmosphere.

Now, my own situation was definitely singular, or it certainly appeared that way to me. I was a foreigner, and had been living in this village for two years. But I had been a foreigner for a long time before that, having left my native land more than a decade ago. In the country I had lived before moving to the present one, I had not had happy experiences. My memories of them were tinged with some pain and suffering; consequently I was reserved and did not find it easy to develop relationships or go where I would be among too many people.

All of this held me back as I would wait for my bus, my mind regarding this familiar and warm place across the street.

Two years is a long time without having a person to communicate with, a friendly person who lets you speak your mind, to get past the initial pointless things and begin to speak from your heart, whatever. This press of feeling was mounting within and I would watch the people sitting and chatting and of course, they would sometimes notice me looking that way and would look away politely, or just towards me, friendly like, a question as though on their face, did I want to say something? Then one day, I finally went in. You can imagine, I was apprehensive. For many reasons, mostly imagined ones, of course.

I had prepared myself for this visit, taken a little care to be dressed neatly, but not too much, comfortably too. I was looking for a feeling of being at home with the surroundings and with the others in the restaurant. I had a little foreknowledge about the customs of the place. In this country it was customary that you were never hurried along. You did not go to a restaurant to have a meal, you went to become a part of the ambience. It was a respectful attitude towards human character, I thought, this idea.

Walking into an unfamiliar place for the first time is a little like entering a pool, almost. You feel its environment with your senses, your mind, in a rush. You look around for a place, making sure not to push yourself onto someone else’s space, just where you find yourself welcome.

Then you sit down, putting your coat on the back of your chair. You may have brought along a paper to go through while you’ll be sitting. It helps to keep from causing some discomfort to others, when they might otherwise see you alone and wonder if you needed some help of any sort, or company?

I remember my first few visits to this restaurant were quite as this, until a pattern sort of developed and people would smile with a little familiarity when I’d walk in.

Some of you reading this might have started to wonder how was it that I was even doing all this. You may be thinking, this is not about you. I accept, my story is different.

It was here that I found one of my best friends. She worked at this place, or maybe owned it. I did not know and never felt the necessity to know this particular fact about her. The other thing I never knew about her, was her age. I cannot say, if she was thirty, as I once started to think, or much older. I was a foreigner, and it is difficult to tell sometimes, even for someone who lives in the place.

‘We have this place here’, she said, ‘and as you can see, people come by and can sit as long as they please.’’

‘Feel yourself home,’ she continued, ‘so, do you live in our village?’.

‘Oh yes’, I answered. ‘I’ve been living here since two years now. It’s a lovely place’.

‘Yes. I’ve seen you, you’re familiar somehow. But, you haven’t come here to this restaurant before, have you?,’ she asked.

‘No. I often wanted to. You’ve probably noticed me, waiting for the bus across the street.’ I said.

And this was the early conversation we had.

Gradually I started to feel myself becoming a part of this place. A gentle smile in greeting always met me when I’d walk in. I’d find a place to sit, pull out my paper, and drink my coffee, and