印度：在外国寻找根源

由Hassan Awaisi

Our two jeeps tumble through the narrow, curvy, dusty, pothole-filled streets, lined with the afternoon rush hour’s swarm of road-side vendors, children dressed in rags playing tag in the alleyways, elderly men sitting in circles on mats and chatting, workers transporting petrol in heavy tanks fixed onto flimsy bicycles and women preparing lunch on outdoor skillets. Traditional folk music bellows from the car stereo while the Sikh driver, wearing a black turban and sporting an unkempt, lengthy beard, honks at goats blocking traffic. Twelve students, including me, two teachers, and our pudgy cook, are on our way to Raamghar, a tiny, poverty-stricken Indian village of 1,000. Raamghar is nestled near the Garhwal mountain range, minutes from the杜恩学校，我正在参加一项交换计划迪尔菲尔德学院。我们的团队正在Raamghar参加一个社区服务项目，该项目有助于为乡村儿童建造一所学校。

We steer right into the entrance leading to our campsite, our shelter for the next four days. The village school is five kilometers down the road. Our jeeps swivel into the side street, full of jagged rocks threatening to burst a hole in our tires and tree limbs that hug our vehicles and spit leaves at our windows as we inch slowly down the path. More than once, our driver has to step out and remove a piece of the “road” to save the exterior of his jeep. In the area around our secluded living quarters sit three nearby huts and a farm, home to cows, chickens and goats.

Our campsite consists of four buildings positioned squarely around a tiled courtyard: a kitchen, sleeping quarters for the students, a separate one for the teachers and an outhouse. For washing dishes and cleaning our hands, we utilize a slender, rusty water pump. After unloading all the food packed for our trip, oil, eggs, vegetables and flour, each of us receives a 7 by 2½ feet foam sleeping mat. Our room, no bigger than a one-car garage, is strikingly bare except for a small rug that does not cover the entire floor, a flimsy door to keep out the mosquitoes at night, and a window. We all fight to secure our mats on the most comfortable part of the stark floor, the section with the carpet. By the time I get settled in, I have managed to eke out a pathetic corner closest to the creaky door, with no rug beneath me. In our group, five are Doon School students and the rest, like me, are exchange students hailing from Germany, Australia, Canada and New Zealand. I am the only American. One of the Doon School students advises me not to reveal to anyone in Raamghar that I live in the U.S or that my family is originally from Pakistan. “Some people here are crazy fanatics,” he warns, patting me on the back. “Just say you’re from Delhi or Goa. Then you’re safe.”

每个人都安顿下来后，我们变成了崎rug的撕裂的衣服，然后下去开始在乡村学校工作。乔希先生和我们的两个伴侣纳耶尔先生将我们带到了沿着主要道路的公共汽车站。去拉姆加尔的旅程是一种难忘的经历。笨拙，殴打的巴士停下来，在服务员的哨声中停下来。除了老年人和有孩子的老人外，乘客只有几秒钟的驾驶员撞击气体。这条路线上的每辆公共汽车都有一个五颜六色的标志，在车辆侧面都张贴了印地语和英语：“我爱我的印度。”当我乘公共汽车前往学校时，被殴打的旧车辆的痉挛性向前倾斜，将我扔进一个空的座位。前面的锯齿状土路充满了倾斜和曲线，使这辆令人惊讶的敏捷巴士在广播中播放的Jumpy Hindi Dance音乐的节奏上下弹跳。一些乘客沿着节奏唱歌或轻拍他们的脚。当天的旅程和我们一起去工作，学生前往学校，老妇人在邻近村庄拜访了距离太远的朋友走路。

Soon, the school’s white dome comes into view. About forty students, the oldest among them twelve years old, sit in a circle outside a shrine to the Hindu God Shiva, decorated with yellow flags and banners. As we approach, they all respectfully stand up, place their palms together and in unison greet us, “Namaste!” Their manners impress me deeply. I could never imagine witnessing such a warm salutation upon visiting my old elementary school back in Amherst, Massachusetts.

未完成的教室在圣殿后面等我们。Nayer先生为我分配了一项艰巨的任务 - 从附近的小溪中拔出浑浊的水，以在桶中运输到建筑工地，以制作石膏。两个渴望的男孩自愿跳过课，并帮助我收集水。当我们蹲在Arroyo时，我尝试与助手进行交谈，问他们的名字，并给予他们鼓励。我在印度语中讲话，但似乎没有孩子理解我。纳耶尔先生后来告诉我，尽管拉姆加尔距离说印地语的小镇德拉杜（Dehradun）仅½小时，但这个村庄的人们以不同的方言交谈。这种丰富的语言多样性在整个印度盛行，这些方言有时不同于城镇，有时从根本上讲。

After working for three hours straight, our exhausted crew takes a tour of Raamghar, a village without electricity or plumbing. People dwell in small huts and own a few farm animals but in general, live in dire poverty. The unpaved, uneven main street parallel the sewage that flows through open gutters along the roadside. Hornets, mosquitoes and flies make their nests in the thatched rooftops and swarm over trash thrown along the path. On the day before we leave Raamghar, I bring 3 pairs of T-shirts and pants to give away to families. Growing up, I remember stuffing old clothes into plastic bags and tossing them into Salvation Army canisters at the Thrift Store. Thus, I felt awkward donating the clothes directly and seeing the villager’s expressions as I hand over a pair of jeans. “Too big,” the father grumbles. Anxious, wide-eyed children crowd around him. He does not smile. His weary features focus on the article of clothing in his hands—his eyes refuse to meet mine. My cheeks turn a bright crimson and my eyes bow down—I am making a fool of myself, handing out clothes to complete strangers. After my encounter with this man and my two assistants at the elementary school, I cannot help but feel like a法兰吉，一个外国人，是一个没有文化的美国游客，试图与贫困的印度村民交朋友，然后回到迪尔菲尔德学院的豪华生活水平，我认为这是理所当然的。尽管这个人住在一个​​微小的可怜的村庄，甚至没有在地图上，但我钦佩他的尊严，促使他对接受我的捐款感到尴尬。

回到营地，我吞噬了米饭和肉汁混合的淡淡晚餐 - 直到我在很大程度上住在印度教，素食国家三周的最后一天，我从不触摸肉或鸡肉，而我的母亲发誓我很瘦了当我回到洛根机场时。其他学生和我打牌直到十张，然后入睡，落入蚱hoppers合唱的舒缓旋律和驱虫剂的甜美香气。那天晚上，我想到了我在拉姆加尔的感觉。这个词似乎印在我的额头上，每个人都可以看到 -法兰吉。

第二天始于一场板球的早餐比赛，这是整个亚洲次大陆的一项非常受欢迎的运动。我们在比赛中轮换位置 - 我击球和外野手。每当球队错过球场时，球就会滚入我们身后的谷物场，有人必须耗尽以取回它。比赛开始大约十分钟，一个穿着灰色传统的老人Shalwar Kamiz和topi愤怒地冲进了临时舞台，举起双手，在乌尔都语哀叹时向我们每个人指着颤抖的手指。每个人都赶到院子里，纳耶尔先生试图使村民平静下来，将手放在男人的肩膀上，喃喃自语，而我们所有人都像温柔的树木一样站着 - 我们中的所有人都不敢运动。

纳耶尔先生终于与我们有关长老的愤怒的原因 - 通过践踏田野以取回球，我们的比赛使这名男子在这一年的谷物产量中花费了100卢比。他的领域的陷阱部分不再可以在市场上出售。“ Muaaf Kijiye。”“请原谅我们，”我们恳求村民。到这个时候，该男子已经停止大喊大叫和疯狂地挥舞着，现在他引起了我们的注意，继续向我们讲授我们的行动的重力。他使用强大的乌尔都语Nuqsaan，意思是“深层损失”，以描述我们的小板球比赛对他的生计造成的后果。我的喉咙中形成了一个肿块 - 我从场上的比赛中检索了三倍的球，并对这一贫穷，老农民的收入中的一部分损失负有部分责任。该男子的脸具有疲倦的皮革，他的燃烧的眼睛放在皱纹金字塔下方。戏剧在十分钟后结束 - 我们回到我们的房间，那个男人，双手紧紧抓住后面，洗牌，一半生气和半场胜利 - 尽管他失去了谷物，但他至少有机会为他的讲道提供那天。

The cool breeze that evening inspires us to continue our cricket game down by the nearby stream next to the large grass field. While Mr. Joshi and the students play and cheer, I abandon my sandals on the shore of the stream and step into the shallow water to cool my nerves and swollen feet. Ahead, the sun is merging into a landscape of tall, snow-covered mountains, dotted with lights from the small human alcoves settled on the majestic creations. Between the mountains and me lies a half-mile expanse of rocks, pebbles and weeds. To my left, a farmer has led his cattle to the river to drink and bathe in the refreshing water after a hard day’s work. Apart from me, the cattle and the boys playing behind me in the field, no other human soul shares this evening’s Shangri-La. I let my mind wander as my eyes gaze at the setting sun—I think of the man in thetopi，以及像他这样的数以百万计的其他人在印度，他们的家园和历史上努力挣扎。

我凝视着我的肩膀 - 老农民来观察纳耶先生旁边的板球比赛。我站起来接近老人。我拼命地想对他发生的事情表示歉意，但是我的印地语水平不允许这样详尽的表达。纳耶先生指向那个男人topi笑着说：“他也来自巴基斯坦，哈桑！”那个老人提供的嘴巴抽搐，我的心抬起。我发现他在1947年分区后从拉合尔迁移，并定居在拉姆加尔。最后，我感到以某种方式与这个地方有联系。

当我和老人一起观看板球比赛时，我的眼睛闪闪发光，我不禁以自豪地嘲笑 - 我想到了这些人，我的人民如何推翻他们的英国压迫者，并从六十年前的这片土地上抛弃了其残酷的占领者巴基斯坦和印度人是一个国家。纳耶尔先生疯狂地大喊，板球场上的每个人都迅速地躺在地上，一群野蜜蜂一千强，越过我们，朝着山上驶向山区。

当每个人都收拾行装并随身携带回家时，我滞后看，看着地平线下方的太阳褪色，而农民则带着他的内容牛回家。我的心根源在这座古老的土壤中。我的祖先在一千年前在这里定居在印度河谷的蜿蜒节奏的节奏河上。我将脚滑入凉鞋，挥手库达·哈菲兹（Khuda Hafiz）给老人topi并回到营地，解放了。