The Green Tent

In the heat of the Indian summer, the green tent has become my place of refuge. The green tent is really nothing but a large mosquito net, stretched tightly across the span of my landlord’s roof and tied to indiscriminate objects to keep it from blowing away in the bold evening wind.

Inside the net, I’ve set up my mattress and use my loveliest dupatta as a sheet. After going through the ordeal of retying the net which almost inevitably comes loose during the day, crawling in and out of the net to fetch my pillow or top-sheet, then once more to go pee, I lay down and take a deep breath. I stare up at the night clouds, which are thin and wispy and move so fast with the wind, as if they were running down the drain of the sky and emptying out somewhere over the mountains.

I never noticed the clouds before I started sleeping outside, or the moon, which – when it is full, feels like some one has deliberately left the light. But it doesn’t bother me, instead it feels like a mother or a sister, watching over me from above, looking down to see me asleep under the green tent, finally at peace in the night’s refreshing air, the flowery print of my dupatta surrounding my body adding just a little bit of beauty to the polluted city life.

Before I walk to my side of the rooftop where I've set up camp, I sit with the landlord and his wife on their swing. He asks me questions about my family, about my country, am I happy to go home soon? We talk about his infant granddaughter, who, in the summertime, is the best distraction from the heat for the entire neighborhood….

When I come home from work, she is often sitting in the lap of her grandmother who peels garlic and gestures wildly, speaking in the local Kutchi dialect to our neighbors, who sit in their doorway on the other side of the street. As I approach them, I marvel at how content they are doing nothing.  They don’t read or watch TV much, they don’t listen to music – they just sit and talk – as if there is no other place to be in the world. It’s a kind of being-present that I wish I had sometimes. A clear and focused acceptance, I am where I am. I notice this same attitude, this same way of being when I visit the villages – and I love that a little bit of that lifestyle has been carried by these grandmothers to the city.

Walking down the street to my house, I can’t help but pass through their conversation, which is actually an invitation for me to sit and join or more likely, an opportunity to change the topic of conversation and talk about me - my work, my clothes, my hair, how I look so tired. Sometimes, Varsha, the young girl who lives in the opposite house says, "What happened? Your face!" I sigh and then laugh, I have grown accustomed to being the subject of evening banter, but sometimes still struggle to feel okay about it. So, I sit and join, tired as I may be, and the rest of the neighbors emerge from their homes as the evening grows cooler and cooler until we are effectively having a block party.

Urwa, the baby, is passed around from neighbor to neighbor and is calm and comfortable with each one. Entering another person’s arms, she grabs at the face trying to read it with her little hands. She is subjected to all kinds of tricks and tickles. A man emerges from the house down the street, takes her and balances her on one hand, all the other neighbors clap and laugh. At the end of the night, she is carried to the rooftop of her home, while all the neighbors return to their own rooftops to walk its perimeter over and over. It’s the only version of exercise you’ll ever see anyone do here in Bhuj. From my landlord’s roof, I peer over the edge and see several people walking around and around in circles on their roof as if they were performing a bizarre ritual and in some sort of trance.

The nights are really the best part of the days, when everyone can finally breathe easily. Sleeping in the green tent is the perfect ending to an evening with my neighbors. When I finally drift off to sleep, I hear the landlord explaining our conversations to his wife, who does not understand or speak English. He recounts all the comments I’ve made and the two of them chuckle, his a deep laugh, originating in the lower belly, hers of a higher pitch but equally aged, calm, and resigned. I love that he shares these conversations with her and it comforts me as I fall asleep to feel the presence of family, of an old married couple laughing at what it is to be young.