Jasmine Flowers

On my first house visit in India, I was greeted by the joyful, amazing tea-maker, owner of the hostel where 6 of the other Alliance students are staying. Even before introducing herself as Swatna, I was handed a short string of small, incredibly fragrant, jasmine flowers. Without an explanation, I thought it was a nice gift and forgot about it beyond laying the strand on my pillow when I reached home.

Later, at Ganapti Temple, I saw vendors selling the strands and realized there was a symbolism beyond the beauty of the white buds. To show respect to the gods, you offer gifts of food and flowers. In India, guests are to be treated as gods. Thus, you give guests food and jasmine adornments to weave into their hair to thank them for visiting and thinking of you.

Today, was my first visit into the “slums” of Pune. As part of the introduction to Parvati Swayamrojgan NGO, two other students, our Indian interpreters, and I followed a field officer as she made her rounds to drop off health care cards to new subscribers and check-up on members who had been sick. I think I was expecting the slums to be harsher than they were—filled with the same sense of unease as a dark alley in a shady, urban neighborhood. What I observed was not that.

The houses were close together—one-room abodes made of stone, concrete, tarps, and aluminum roof siding. Inside, there was usually a blanket laid out on the floor as a bed, a television, and not much else.  And the people outside some of them were a little gaunt, their clothes more worn than those I’ve seen in other places. But their smiles were radiant, the children’s giggles loud, and their care for one another was evident as they sat outside in the tiny, long gaps connecting one row of houses to another chatting, brushing each other’s hair, and keeping an eye on the little ones.

Throughout our visits in several different areas, we were a constant curiosity, and soon became the leaders of a parade of shy children. And we were met with only questions and puzzled expressions, instead of the hostility and guardedness I thought we might provoke.  In fact, we were invited back to one household to observe and star in their celebration and rituals the next day. There would be food, they promised, as they eagerly asked our interpreters to relay the message. We would be welcomed back with open arms.

As we were leaving the last area, we passed two women and their young teen daughters. They were using wire to thread jasmine buds into the strands I had seen earlier at Swatna’s and the temple. As we were looking from afar, they must have seen our sidelong glances, and the two daughters ran over with three strings in their hands. Shyly handing them to us with downcast eyes, they explained that they sell 16 arrangements for 5 rupees, or about 10 US cents. As we tried to reach for some coins to pay them, they refused us emphatically and ran back to their mothers. 

I am still struck by their generosity. These are people who need every rupee they can get, and yet...   I have been wrestling with my feelings from this encounter for the past five hours and have not reached a conclusive communicable impression. Something about the shared bond of humanity in the situation definitely has hit me hard. But this is the best I have come up with—Tonight, I am incredibly humbled.