Saturday April 21 - Sarasia
Today is going to take some processing; I have a lot of thoughts that I hope I can articulate eventually, but at least for now, I can set the stage for what we did - and why. This morning, I wake up after a much too brief night of sleep, and 6 am comes fast. It's four hours to Sarasia, where we only plan to visit for no more than an hour. There is nothing there, and no one would willingly go there. Except us.
Sarasia is the place where my father spent the first 6 years of his life. I've previous made mention that Papa was a doctor. When India obtained its independence, the British left behind the infrastructure of hospitals, schools, government, etc. But there was nothing in the villages. Papa and Ben left their families to go to Sarasia, so Papa could be the village's first official doctor. I've heard my dad talk about this place often, but couldn't actually even picture what it was like. When my dad lived there, they didn't have electricity, and to this day, the house and the commissary still don't have it, though the town itself does. In some ways, progress has come. People have cell phones, and I saw a commercial ice cream stand on our way out of town. On the other hand, these people can't tell us their addresses, or maybe they just don't have one.
My dad couldn't go to school when they lived there. It was too far, and too dangerous. So a tutor came, and he studied in the kitchen for what would be first and second grade. When his schooling was over, he walked next door to his dad, and helped him file paperwork, or clean up the office. It was just the three of them, and the villagers. My dad recounts the stories of being being teased by cousins in the city because he didn't go to school, or watch cricket. He didn't see a movie until he was well over 7. He listened to the radio for about an hour a day, because that's what the battery life allowed. And he waited patiently for the mail because when his stuff came for him, he finally had something to do.
His life might have been much different than the people who lived in cities, but he got to be part of something bigger than school and movies and city life. He and his family provided structure to a community that had nothing. Papa was not just a doctor, but tried to teach them about sanitation, nutrition, national pride. These people didn't even know India wasn't independent, let alone the fact that they finally were again. He measured rain fall with a rain gauge, and reported on it. He was much more than a doctor for that community.
When we get to the site today, the house is boarded up. It's been abandoned long ago. The rain gauge is filled in with rocks, and the porch is literally full of shit. But, within minutes, a huge crowd of people gathered. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say it was easily 50 people. One man said, in Gujarati, "Will you come back? It's only when you come that we remember what this place used to be." He means the doctor's house in Sarasia, but it occurs to me that's infinitely applicable to life.
Today is going to take some processing; I have a lot of thoughts that I hope I can articulate eventually, but at least for now, I can set the stage for what we did - and why. This morning, I wake up after a much too brief night of sleep, and 6 am comes fast. It's four hours to Sarasia, where we only plan to visit for no more than an hour. There is nothing there, and no one would willingly go there. Except us.
Sarasia is the place where my father spent the first 6 years of his life. I've previous made mention that Papa was a doctor. When India obtained its independence, the British left behind the infrastructure of hospitals, schools, government, etc. But there was nothing in the villages. Papa and Ben left their families to go to Sarasia, so Papa could be the village's first official doctor. I've heard my dad talk about this place often, but couldn't actually even picture what it was like. When my dad lived there, they didn't have electricity, and to this day, the house and the commissary still don't have it, though the town itself does. In some ways, progress has come. People have cell phones, and I saw a commercial ice cream stand on our way out of town. On the other hand, these people can't tell us their addresses, or maybe they just don't have one.
My dad couldn't go to school when they lived there. It was too far, and too dangerous. So a tutor came, and he studied in the kitchen for what would be first and second grade. When his schooling was over, he walked next door to his dad, and helped him file paperwork, or clean up the office. It was just the three of them, and the villagers. My dad recounts the stories of being being teased by cousins in the city because he didn't go to school, or watch cricket. He didn't see a movie until he was well over 7. He listened to the radio for about an hour a day, because that's what the battery life allowed. And he waited patiently for the mail because when his stuff came for him, he finally had something to do.
His life might have been much different than the people who lived in cities, but he got to be part of something bigger than school and movies and city life. He and his family provided structure to a community that had nothing. Papa was not just a doctor, but tried to teach them about sanitation, nutrition, national pride. These people didn't even know India wasn't independent, let alone the fact that they finally were again. He measured rain fall with a rain gauge, and reported on it. He was much more than a doctor for that community.
When we get to the site today, the house is boarded up. It's been abandoned long ago. The rain gauge is filled in with rocks, and the porch is literally full of shit. But, within minutes, a huge crowd of people gathered. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say it was easily 50 people. One man said, in Gujarati, "Will you come back? It's only when you come that we remember what this place used to be." He means the doctor's house in Sarasia, but it occurs to me that's infinitely applicable to life.
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