SAD DAY IN CHAHALKA - January 29th

It is Thursday, January 29, and we went to the farm for breakfast, as usual, and learned from Sanjiv, that his night watchman, who lives in Chahalka, had told him his grandniece had died. Shahid, who has worked for Sanjiv and his family ever since the farm was built about fifteen years ago, has a rather sizeable family in the village. He himself has a number of children, and his brother, who lives next door to him, also has a rather large family.

It seems that the little girl, who was only a year-and-a-half, had been taken to the hospital a few times over the past month. Each time, she was sent home, presumably with medications for whatever it was that ailed her. However, as a result of dehydration, most likely caused by dysentery, the little girl died. It was difficult to get many more details, but the loss of a child is always trying on those who remain. After talking about it with Sanjiv, we decided to finish our work earlier in the afternoon and go to the family’s home and visit with them. Although none of us speaks Hindi, we felt we might be of some comfort to them, just by paying our respects.

As we worked through the morning, some of us wondered how it would appear to the family if ten or twelve people descended upon their home, and I expressed our concern to Sanjiv. He checked with Shahid, and told us it would be all right, and not only that, but beneficial. We even suggested that a few of us pay our respects, but Sanjiv assured us it would be appropriate for us to all go. At lunch, we checked to see if we should be taking something to the family – food, flowers, whatever. Again, Sanjiv checked and was told that our visit would be sufficient. I think each of us tried to imagine ourselves in the position of the family, wondering how we might feel with a dozen total strangers arriving at our home to express their sympathy for the loss of a child none had ever met. Whatever our feelings were, we finished our work for the day and walked through the village to the home.

Nearly every time we walk through the village, whether it is just a short walk through the streets and alleys, or if we are walking from the farm to the village, as several of us have done for the past few mornings, we generally end up looking like the Rotary pied-pipers, with dozens of children and a fair number of adults walking with or behind us. It was the same today. We walked along the road from the project, and to the central intersection that led down to the mosque. We passed by where the omelet man is generally stationed. We came to another “mom and pop” shop and turned up the street and began climbing the hill, as the street curved to the right and upward. There was a gentleman who was walking in our midst, who seemed to know exactly where we were going (since none of us did). As it turns out, the man was Shahid’s brother, the grandfather of the little girl who had died. We arrived at his home and walked one doorway further, and were invited into the yard. Three beds had been placed outside on what we might refer to as a terrace. We were invited to come in and to sit down on the beds. There was a nanny goat tied over in one corner, and lots and lots of people, most likely family and close friends. Some of us wondered if we might have caused discomfort to the family by being the focal point of the people gathered.

Shahid’s brother spoke with Sanjiv and told him who the father and mother were. The dad was probably about thirty years of age, and was wearing a red tee shirt with white sleeves. The mother looked as much like a Madonna as any woman I had ever seen. She was dressed in a peach-colored sari, with her head covered. It seemed to me that perhaps another younger woman might be her sister, since they were wearing saris of the same color. Another woman, considerably older than those two, was also dressed in the same color. As we learned, this woman was Shahid’s wife, so I guess our assumption was pretty accurate. The child’s mother simply stood with a regal look about her. Somehow, she must have understood the fact that we were a bit uncomfortable or uneasy. We were offered hot chai, served in small glasses. It was steaming as Shahid’s brother poured it for each of us. A little girl of about ten years in age, with her little brother, sat next to Crissie, and seemed to be quite taken with her. We later learned that this little girl was Shahid’s sixth daughter, and she told her grandmother that Crissie was her model, her ideal. A few photos were taken and we just sat and chatted amongst ourselves, not knowing exactly what to do. As I looked around our group, over the next several minutes, I saw tears welling up in each of us, again maybe placing ourselves in the circumstances of the parents and grandparents.

When it was time to leave, we checked with Sanjiv as to the appropriate behavior toward the parents – whether the women in our group could embrace the mother; whether a simple handshake with the dad would be acceptable. Each of us expressed our empathy and sympathy to the parents, the women hugging the mom and the men shaking the hand of the dad. When I got to the father, I shook his hand and he reached out to me, so I just did what I would do with a friend, I embraced him. It seems this was all right, since he hugged me tightly, in return. We left the home, but as we entered back out onto the street, the grandfather – Shahid’s brother, invited us in to see his little shop in the front of his home. He sold mostly food items and offered me a bottle of orange crush. I thanked him but declined his offer. I felt he had given way more than any of us expected, sharing his home and hospitality at a most difficult time. The little girl was the second of two children, but we were told the parents, although grief-stricken, were resigned to the fact that it was Allah’s will that the little girl should die.

We wandered back down the hill to the center of he village and I asked if we might be able to enter the mosque, since there were no prayers going on at that time. Sanjiv checked and by the time we reached the entry gate, it was unlocked and opened to us. A few of the elders in the village entered with us, each of us removing our shoes and covering out heads as we passed through the gate. Since Sanjiv did not have a hat, he placed a clean handkerchief over his head. We walked into the mosque, a plain brick building, where the windows faced west toward Mecca. Without asking to check, I suspect that each of us in his or her own way offered a silent prayer on behalf of the little girl who had died. Outside the building, Sanjiv pointed out the types of arches used on this building – not simply the plain ones used by Muslims, but also the more ornate ones (scalloped) used by Hindus in their buildings. It seemed appropriate to us – the joining together of two cultures, and actually three, if you added the members of the team. We left the mosque, put our shoes back on and walked a short distance to board the bus to return to the farm for dinner. Hopefully, we were able to bring some comfort to the grieving family, and to show them we cared, although most of us had never experienced a tragedy such as this.