Darling:
These nights the moon has been full and of course reminiscent of home. We like to sit by a camp fire -- yes, it's chilly at night! -- and trade lies about our adventures in the States. And that brings back the paradise of the past. But how can I explain until you're near again? So we'll talk about India.
The other day Floyd Bush (West Virginia and St. Louis -- Aunt Fanny and Uncle Roy met him in [crossed out]) and I hiked to the outskirts of a nearby village. You'd never believe the immense pageantry of the river unless you saw it. The mid-morning sun was bright, but not too hot. And I think every woman and child in town was at the river or on the way. On the muddy banks scores of women had spread their washings, painting the slopes with long rectangles of bright cotton -- red, blue, green, burnt orange and gorgeous violet. These are the real-life "saris" which become sarongs when abbreviated for D. Lamour.
The sari is a modestly draped gown, caught up at the knees into informal pantalettes, usually wrapped higher on one leg than on the other. At the breast is a sort of camisole-effect and the feet are either in sandals or bare. On the head a coil of cloth is worn for carrying a bowl or basket. Otherwise the shawl is used in the age-old fashion.
In the murky waters the women (and a few men, professional launderers) beat the clothes into semi-sanitation. Other women filled bright brass water-pots, carrying two on their heads with never a drop spilled. Even tiny girls carried smaller bowls, walking erectly with precocious gracefulness. (Apparently only girls and women carry water, even for plasterers and construction gangs.)
In the river children romped or carefully washed horses, cows or buffalo. Occasionally a dignified elder unwound his outer robe and took to the water, but never naked as the little boys. On a road winding around the valley ox-carts rumbled, drawn by patient beasts with the stoicism of the centuries in the bovine eyes.
Young sports in European pants -- shirt tales out -- lounged on bicycles, gossiping or singing in monotones the tunes that must have been on B. C. Hit Parades, weird and repetitions hymns that somehow suggest the clang of temple bells.
At last onto the clamorous scene rode a graybeard who must have been a Brahmin priest. On his roan pony he looked like a feudal seigneur surveying his lands and his subjects. One brash, naked boy ran up to demand "bakshish" but instead of a gift he got only the chill or a narrow escape whistling lash. I don't think the elder intended to hit the lad, but was determined to express vigourous contempt for impoliteness.
Facing the sun, the perfect note to complete the exotic spectacle, was a stone figure, crudely carved like an Epstein statue. Its brooding face was red with some native dye and its cold, staring eyes surveyed the scene with impassive boredom.
I bitterly regretted having no camera. They are once again permitted, but of course film is the problem. If you feel circumstances warrant, send Old Faithful along, but only if you can nestle a few rolls of film and can get more occasionally. It's a shame to miss these chances of a lifetime for photographs.
Do keep me posted on the daily doings, even though mail connections are uncertain, if only temporarily. And be sure of
All my love,
S.
P.S. I think licorice might stand the trip. Ahem!
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