The mountains rise up purple-blue, as the sun casts a lavender glow over the landscape.  Smoky, muted colors reflect a reprieve from the glaring heat - an exhausted but welcome haze – even the sun has gotten lazy, worn out from the day’s work.  I can hear the sounds of a people awakening from afternoon naps, eager to get back to the business of domesticity.

Despite the chill morning air, by noon the temperature is relentless.  Between sunrise and midday, it doubles until reaching its peak in early afternoon, hovering around 41 degrees (105 F). I have been reassured that this is only the beginning, that the thermometer’s red mercury will rise several more notches before the monsoons bring relief. 

Dry mountain winds blow down from the arid Shivalik mountains – the foothills of the Himalayas. In spite of their snow-capped relations, this range is desert-like, hosting cacti, and scraggly brush, the only flora able to take root in the sandy, rocky terrain. Trapped in the geological joint where mountains meet plains, the loo swirl around and settle in stillness at Rishikesh. The climate is endured with no air-conditioning, intermittent breaks in electricity, and very short periods of running water.  These inconsistencies have been seamlessly woven into the daily activities. 

Over the past two weeks, I’ve become familiar with the flurry of morning preparations that capitalize upon the brief period when water is running.  Before 8:00 am, the house and area outside are swept, dusted and mopped. Laundry is already hanging on the line in anticipation of the heat to come.  Chai has been made, everyone is showered, morning poojas have commenced, the vegetables are chopped for breakfast subzi, and roti dough is kneaded. For the remainder of the day, we use only the reserve water in a tank on the roof (refilled each time the municipal water comes back on), or when those are emptied, the buckets of extra water. 


Enjoying my role as green bean cutter!


I try to insert myself into this routine, although Suraj’s mother, full of warmth and grace, is reticent to let me do much to help.  For her, I am a guest, meant to enjoy her home and hospitality.  Initially, my middle-class values refused to let me sit idly by watching the household work so diligently. Over the past few weeks, I’ve come to recognize that my daily attempts to sweep or chop vegetables hold a much deeper significance:

I am aware (though this is not articulated, and thus much may be internalized on my part), that my presence here brings a host of (unanswered) questions.  My relationship to Suraj is ambiguous by Indian standards – even progressive families don’t often afford weight to the concepts of a long-term boy/girlfriends, life partners or domestic partnerships.  In a culture where arranged marriages are still the norm, there’s little gray area.  Unfortunately, that in-between is exactly where I happen to currently reside. 

Add to my self-consciousness an inability to hold a conversation in Hindi. Despite earnest attempts, it’s not an intuitive language for me.  I stumble over the most basic sentence constructions and communication is a mixture of garbled Hindi and hand gestures.  Naturally a talkative person, I’m often silenced, a captive audience to the family rhythms that I can observe but not actively participate in.

Taking part in the daily routine allows me to be part of the family, to some small measure it transcends my status as outsider. It also provides validation: In a home where so much of the daily routine is foreign to a Westerner, I take pride in producing a job well-done.   It also offers me a means to bond with Suraj’s mother.  While his father and cousin speak some English, we’ve had to piece together a method of communication; what’s lost in translation is found in the love and patience of each attempt.  My efforts have been rewarded with a feeling of belonging – I am grateful to be here, comforted by the growing familiarity and my role within it.


The best remedy for the heat - night time motorbike riding!