Yesterday was my last day traveling down the winding road of rubble into Nanegaon. I leave later this week to return to Saratoga, a world apart from India, a universe apart from Kolwan Valley. With all the time I've spent here, I expected to be a little nostalgic. So in the late afternoon, I put my bag aside, and sat out in the porch overlooking the farm.
The chickens had just been released from the coop, and were frantically socializing around me. A couple birds stirred in the trees above, and Sarjaa, the dog with notoriously high BP took notice with the raise of one ear. In the background, I heard the bells around the cows in the shed ring as they nestled into the Napier hay.
And I realized, its really quiet. Even the distant whirr of a scooter engine couldn't disturb the stillness. A swift breeze dove into the trees above me, almost to counter my thoughts. I looked up, and saw the clouds rolling in in the distance.
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While working for Gomukh, I've had the opportunity to not only be involved in the renewable energy project, but also gain exposure to the organic vegetables project. The NGO mode of operations can just like that of a corporation, but at the grassroots level, it can often be like a family. Tasks are assumed and shared, hours are not counted, eating together is a priority, and the line between work life and home life is indistinct. My trips to Nanegaon were thus often like going home.
As the rains came in, I felt this strange sense of excitement. I was excited partly because these would be my first rains in India during this trip- I was worried that I would leave without seeing any. In India, rains have a positive connotation- they mean humidity, the smell of wet dirt, damp clothes, and a welcome cooling. Well, at least positive for me.
But I knew that the excitement was not only because of this anticipation. I think that in an agricultural area, inevitably, the rains mean something much more. It means free irrigation. My own germinating Napier grass aside, being in Nanegaon, I feel like some of the unsaid hopes and desires of the locals rubbed off onto me. Maybe it was the buzz in the air that infused that feeling, as the slow, light drops started to dot the soil. The feeling was magical.
The relationship of the villagers with the rain is also interesting. Rain is revered, but at the same time, seen as a bit of a tease. Even as the clouds rolled into the valley, they insisted that it would be a short rain, a passing sprinkle. It was only when the drops started to splash on our skin that they sprung into action, pulling out tarps and covering their bales of hay.
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When the rain passed, and the clouds started to migrate, we were finishing the work on setting up the digester. Finally, I felt like I was leaving after completing a significant part of the project. This digester had taken a long time to get going.
The sun, which had not quite set yet, was shrouded by the misty remnants of rain clouds, and actually looked like it was rising. The roosters about, and the freshness of the air, created this really amazing pseudo dawn- at 6:30pm. As the dawn gave way to darkness, I looked at the lights in the distance. I asked Jalender dada whether they were the lights of Pune, he laughed and said that they were the lights of the neighboring village.
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As we rolled over the Pirangut Ghat and into the lights and sounds of Pune, I wondered what my next visit to Nanegaon would be like. Change is unquestionable. Being a part of it for the last five months has been special.
-Nikhil
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