The rooster crows about a half an hour before the sun actually rises, and I somewhat resent it every morning for being so unpunctual. In romanticized versions of country life, the rooster is supposed to crow exactly at the crack of dawn, but this rooster seems to be in a slightly different time zone.
I am in a haze at this point in the early morning, not able to remain sleeping, but unable to pry my eyes open without discomfort, rubbing out the sleep sand. My neck feels stiff, and my knees are sore, for apparently no reason at all. I’ve been having strange, disturbing dreams lately, and try to shake the unpleasantness created by my subconscious during the night.
Allah ho Akbar breaks the stillness of the early morning. The voice is deep, clear, and slightly out of tune, but the effect is beautiful, the rich tenor tones reaching out like tree branches to the sky. Some days it mixes with the bhajans from the temple, clashing at first, then resulting in a strange, somewhat eerie harmony. Each time, I get goosebumps.
I open my eyes to the sound of soft swooshes of the broom from downstairs and the voices of people calling to each other below. It’s still dark. The clanging of the aluminum and steel pots climbs up from the ground to the top floor of the Hanamshetti’s home, where I sleep, protected from the chilly breeze, dogs, and dust. The sounds from below translate into images; I imagine Roopa’s mother squatting in front of her corrugated tin roof home, scrubbing her rice pot with gravel, and Roopa searching for her school uniform all the while hefting her little baby brother on her hip. The thut thut thutting of Anita Akka making rotis for her sister’s lunch in the fields and the slushing of water spilling out of plastic pots balanced on women’s hips remind me that I got it easy.
I finally manage to shrug off my covers and peek outside my window. Women are busy as ever, chopping firewood, putting rangoli in the entrances of their homes, or preparing food for a long day working in the fields. I can see the red sun beginning to peer shyly over the coconut and tamarind tree horizon, making it look a bit like a cantaloupe rind. A sleepy fog hangs lightly over the village, like a protective blanket. As it ascends higher, the sun gets braver, its brightness spilling color into the town. The fog dissipates, replaced by smoke from cracks in tin roofs and dust picked up by the wheels of tums tums and ox carts.I pull my sweater off and fold up my sheets, then head downstairs to start my day.
I am in a haze at this point in the early morning, not able to remain sleeping, but unable to pry my eyes open without discomfort, rubbing out the sleep sand. My neck feels stiff, and my knees are sore, for apparently no reason at all. I’ve been having strange, disturbing dreams lately, and try to shake the unpleasantness created by my subconscious during the night.
Allah ho Akbar breaks the stillness of the early morning. The voice is deep, clear, and slightly out of tune, but the effect is beautiful, the rich tenor tones reaching out like tree branches to the sky. Some days it mixes with the bhajans from the temple, clashing at first, then resulting in a strange, somewhat eerie harmony. Each time, I get goosebumps.
I open my eyes to the sound of soft swooshes of the broom from downstairs and the voices of people calling to each other below. It’s still dark. The clanging of the aluminum and steel pots climbs up from the ground to the top floor of the Hanamshetti’s home, where I sleep, protected from the chilly breeze, dogs, and dust. The sounds from below translate into images; I imagine Roopa’s mother squatting in front of her corrugated tin roof home, scrubbing her rice pot with gravel, and Roopa searching for her school uniform all the while hefting her little baby brother on her hip. The thut thut thutting of Anita Akka making rotis for her sister’s lunch in the fields and the slushing of water spilling out of plastic pots balanced on women’s hips remind me that I got it easy.
I finally manage to shrug off my covers and peek outside my window. Women are busy as ever, chopping firewood, putting rangoli in the entrances of their homes, or preparing food for a long day working in the fields. I can see the red sun beginning to peer shyly over the coconut and tamarind tree horizon, making it look a bit like a cantaloupe rind. A sleepy fog hangs lightly over the village, like a protective blanket. As it ascends higher, the sun gets braver, its brightness spilling color into the town. The fog dissipates, replaced by smoke from cracks in tin roofs and dust picked up by the wheels of tums tums and ox carts.I pull my sweater off and fold up my sheets, then head downstairs to start my day.
