I live in a flat that’s more like a hallway, three adjoining rooms closed in by a stifling roof. Each room houses one bathroom necessity: a toilet, a sink, and a shower. Outside our flat is a narrow corridor where we hang our laundry, which dries before the day is halfway through. The only fresh air comes from a small square at the end of this corridor, where, if you are willing to put your blind trust in a rickety iron landing, you are rewarded with a second-story view of the landlord’s garden: fish pond, blue-green under the papaya trees, kittens tussling by the thorned lemon branches. There were three, but I only see two nowadays; I think their sibling must have met the same fate that so many animals born into the havoc of Indian streets do. I take my showers in the washroom detached from the rest of the flat, where I scrub down next to an Indian-style toilet. Before entering the shower, I give a few raps on the wooden door to scare away the rat that might be gnawing at my soap bar; once I enter, I scope out the scene for mosquitoes, whom I might have to battle with one hand as I shampoo my hair with the other. The most relieving part of this process is stepping from the shower back into my room, where standing in a wet towel under the ceiling fan offers a blissful but transient facsimile of air conditioning.
Often the electricity goes out; other times the water from the tanki is depleted, a reminder to my American indulgence that water here, especially in rural Rajasthan, is a finite commodity. From my readings of research papers on water scarcity in the region, I know that fluoride contamination is a common problem for villagers perched on the Aravalli hills all the way to inhabitants of populated towns like Banswara. On every glass I draw from our clay matka, I use my filtration water bottle—a snazzy Amazon find worth approximately what villagers would earn from a year’s tenure under the National Rural Employment Guarantee Act.
In a panic-stricken moment, my first week, I realized for the first time in my life how inescapable heat can be. But I quickly grew accustomed to the stifling warmth, came to expect the sweat sliding down my limbs at night and collecting in a puddle that soaks into my sheets.
I enjoy living here, much more so than Jaipur. Jaipur was an extolled center of historical and cultural wealth whose landmarks struggled to keep the city afloat in its vast pit of dust, trash, and noise. Here, the piles of crumpled cellophane littering the roads are dwarfed by swathes of green fields that extend far past the unmarked roads where buffalo and bulls meander alongside bikes and old rickshaws. Most fields are lined with rows of makka and steadily accruing piles of hay, but one vast patch of land burgeoned with untouched grass and suspiciously bright lilac flowers sprouting here and there. Almost a month after I first arrived, I came to know that the field was actually a lake, packed so densely with water weeds that egrets and francolins could hop from stalk to stalk in their never-ending search for the next morsel. A few weeks later, men in boats would clear the weeds like footmen rolling up a red carpet, exposing for the first time the water whose ripples pulled the cattails back and forth, puppeteer of their swaying dance.
Life here is simple summer living, where the bit of extra work you have to do for each daily task is a reminder that you are, in fact, an agent of your own action with a physical body—a sharp contrast from my Jaipur lifestyle of screens and too-comfortable cafes. The heat, relentless instigator of the sweat dampening my clothes each day, is another reminder that I am a present and physical entity. People assume that I am unable to adjust to the heat, but in truth it’s reassuring to know that unlike in New England, where even summer days’ warmth felt precarious and deceptive, here my feet will never be cold for lack of socks; a chill won’t creep through our screened windows; the sun is an obsessive lover who will never let me out of its sight. I see myself in the chippkalis that skitter up our walls, clinging to searing stone, for a few months free of their anxiety that the heat will ebb and wither.
I write this now from the bakery my flatmate took me to during one of my first field visits, where we had grabbed French fries and momos. My flatmate introduced me to the baker whom she had befriended long ago, who helped me lay the first brick in the social network I would come to build for myself. Keri mangoes are turning yellow this month, and the baker’s just emerged from the back door with the first mango cheesecake of the season. Time to try a first bite.
