Firstly I want to say how sad I feel to learn today of the passing of Whitney Houston.
Instantly I was reminded of Amy Whinehouse another talented singer who died too young. It is apparently not confirmed how Whitney died and why but I hope she is now at peace.
My heart feels heavy and sad for all tortured souls that find themselves in the claws of addiction. It is so easy for others that have not experienced the tight grip of such addictions to judge others, but nobody however pure of heart they may think themselves to be, should ever judge or hold themselves in a superior or elevated position.
I think such afflictions can effect anybody at any time no matter what age race or religion, who knows what may unfold in your life that could drive you to the depths of the deepest sorrow and depression and who knows what comfort or oblivion you may seek to block out that pain.
The song 'walk a mile in my shoes' is a perfect song to listen to if you find yourself in a position of judging others.
Yesterday I visited the weekly Chaudi market with my little friend from the beach shop Sharhu.
We were buying vegetables and grains for dinner. Sharhu had promised to educate me in the ways of the Indian women in the kitchen.
The market was great. It attracts traders from all over Goa and beyond. It is mainly selling fruits and vegetables but also grains and flour and dried beans and pulses, spices and teas and everything really a good Indian wife would need for her kitchen.
What really made me smile whilst walking around the market was the amount of market traders that were asleep on their stalls. On nearly every stall there was a man asleep on the floor with his dirty feet up on what ever he was selling, hilarious. I could not imagine for one second going along to the Bullring market in Birmingham England and been fronted with the filthy soles of a hundred feet of market traders asleep on their stalls.
It was a very colourful market with lots of fruits of all different colours and shapes and sizes and things I had never before seen in my life.
I saw pink onions and pink carrots and prickly looking fruits and cauliflowers the size of beach balls.
I learnt yesterday that Sharhu is only fifteen and as I watched her bargaining and arguing with the market traders I was amazed at her confidence at such a young age.
There was a great atmosphere in the market, Hindi music was blasting from transmitter radios and cows and their calf's were leisurely strolling between the produce munching on any discarded vegetables surronded in a cloud of flies.
Sharhu bought flour and mung beans, millet and lentils for dahl. chai tea powder and lots of different spices and fruits and vegetables.
There was only a few foreigners in the market so I did attract a lot of attention. I wore a long dress down to my ankles and a scarf around my shoulders but still everybody stared at me and quizzed sharhu about who I was and what was she doing with 'the white woman'. Everybody was friendly though and smiled their tobacco stained toothy smiles at me.
Once we had bought all the vegetables and fruit and pulses we needed we flagged down a tuk tuk back to Palolem. I love riding in tuk tuks I used to use them all over Thailand and Cambodia, they are fast and nippy weaving in and out of the traffic with ease, the only thing they slow down for are the cows as it would be the worst of crimes to harm the sacred cow.
I met little Sharhu at seven o'clock from her little shop on the beach and we walked together the five minutes to her room. Sharhu shares her room with her brother, it is a small room in a family home. They are not relatives of sharhu's just a family that rents out rooms in their house. The room was small about the size of my bathroom in England and had a single bed against the wall and a little gas cooking stove in the corner. sharuhs sari's and salwar kammez were hung across a piece of rope that was tied to the ceiling and her brothers were hanging on hooks on the back of the door. The concrete walls were painted bright yellow and the roof was made of terracotta tiles. On the ceiling was a small fan and as I sat down on the floor she switched it on. It was like the propeller of a bloody helicopter, I moved my self promptly from under the fan worried that the metal beast would come screaming from the terracotta tiles at any moment decapitating my nervous head from my freckled body.
It was a nice room, sharhu asked me if i liked it and I answered truthfully that I did. it was small but it was spotlessly clean and I could see she took great pride in it. There was small alter on the wall at the end of the bed. it had a picture of a Hindu god an incarnation of Krishna. Sharhu had incense and candles and fresh flowers in front of the alter and i could see by all the candles and incense that that alter was a daily part of Sharhus and her brothers lives.
That is the main thing that I love about India. Never before in any country I have been to in over twenty years have I ever found anywhere that is as spiritual as India. God is part of every bodies life. Each adult and child believes with all their heart that their relationship with god and finding enlightenment is the purpose and the main meaning of life. I love this about India. I love that these warm and open souls praise god every moment of their lives. That worship is not just saved for Sundays and holidays like Christmas and Easter. These god loving people are praying and worshipping God every moment of every day. Alters are adorned with flowers daily and prayers are said and offerings given. I know this is where i am supposed to be right now and i feel so much closer to the spiritual life I crave now I am in India amongst these wonderful people and their traditions and beliefs.
Sharhu got to work straight away. She removed the little gas stove from the table in the corner and placed it on the floor. Borrowing a rotti board from here neighbor she sat herself on her haunches on the floor. It amazes me how the people of India can sit like this comfortably for hours. Sharhu opened her bag of rotti flour and removed a small saucepan of boiling water from the stove and went to work mixing small amounts of the water with the rotti flour. She gently folded the mixture together with a metal spatula and when all the flour was mixed together to form a soft dough she began to need with her hands. She then separated the dough into about fifteen balls and worked each one with such speed and skill into a flat shaped circle on the floured rotti board. Then she pounded each rotti cake over and over again until it was as thin as a sheet of paper, turning it and pounding it, turning and pounding. the noise it created was so loud and she was working so fast and I just sat there stunned watching her tiny young hands creating such wonderful food.
Sharhu started to heat a flat circular rotti plate on the gas stove and then placed the delicate wafer thin rotti onto the plate, she then dipped a small cloth into the saucepan of water and smoothed the wet cloth gently across the cake, no oil was used or salt or anything else just flour and water.
After a few minutes using her hand she turned the rotti over pressing it into the hot plate and then went back to the turning and pounding of the next cake on her board. Her neighbour had shouted through the little window in Sharhus room that she needed her rotti board so Sharhu started working even faster. Her hands did not stop for a second and before long all of the cakes were cooked and the board returned to the shouting neighbour.
Sharhu offered me a warm rotti and I sat there munching the delicious warm cake and marvelling at such a simple recipe but the skill and care that was taken in its preparation.
Sharu then went on to share with me another vegetarian recipe using cauliflower and chilli's and garama masala and onions and tomatoes. She worked so quickly and washed and cleaned and sliced everything with such care and attention that I found myself thinking of the fifteen year old girls back home in England, never had I seen a girl of her age at home preparing a meal with such skill and attention.
We all ate together Gopi, Sharhu and myself crossed legged on the floor of their room. the food was delicious, simple ingredients but so tasty and good. We laughed and shared stories and munched on a box of Indian traditional sweets I had bought for them as a gift.
Sharhu told me that she sleeps on the floor while her brother sleeps on the comfortable bed and she washes his clothes and prepares all his meals. Sharhu then works seven days every week on the beach and returns to their room and takes care of her brother as if he were her husband. It is hard for me to imagine living this life but sharhu is always smiling and joking and I feel such admiration and affection for her.
Whilst walking back to my room along the beach that night I thanked God for my life. The opportunities I have been so fortunate to receive, my education that Sharhu and her brother have both been denied, they have both been working for years to support their family. I feel very humbled by the way of life in India and it warms my heart that these people smile and laugh and praise God and are devoted and grateful for what they have.
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