In a little village in the Aravalli Hills of Rajasthan, I meet a
human expression of the primordial force of Mother India.

Once and awhile, as a traveller, I get lucky. I not only chance upon a hidden gem of the road-less-travelled but also find a family.

My travel mate Iain and I set off on a journey filled with equal hi-jinx and hazard. Our destination was simply to be as deep in the bosom of Mother India as one could go. That meant if there was a hotel catering to foreign tourists, we were not deep enough. We exclusively hitchhiked for this journey, ensuring maximum adventure and certainty that we would arrive somewhere wholly unexpected.

Welcome to "A-Village-So-Nondescript-I-Don't-Even-Know-Its-Name."

Like all perfect paradises, cabin-fever began to set in as soon as truckloads of kids starting hanging outside of our room. Naturally, Iain and I were pretending to be man and wife, as is the custom in such traditional places. It could be our only justification for shooing them away. Our bags were filled with such wondrous oddities of the western world, the kids stayed to watch us unpack with as much captivation as if they were watching cartoons on a big screen.

We smiled at one another, acknowledging the secret item we carried that no-one would ever find out about. Munika.

You see, India, blessed country that it is, sells legal hits of bhang (leaves and flowers of the female cannabis plant). You can buy it baked in cookies sold in government authorized shops, drink it in lassis (yogurt beverage) or simply purchase it in little black lumps. These balls of bliss come plastic-wrapped, are sold for a penny apiece, and give you a significant body buzz for a good few hours. Iain and I had a condom-strip length of them for the entire journey.

This was precisely the kind of place that a little dose of Munika would go a long way.

Our first night in the village was spent with our ears to the door, listening to the maniacal rant of drunken Papa; usual village stuff.

We passed our days visiting family members' houses, walking in the picturesque hillside, and startling local passersby. We spent our evenings popping Munika and serenely sailing through family dinners with cheese-grins. By our final evening together, we were acknowledged as part of the family.

Sitting by the hearth of Mamas fire, watching her hand-roll and bake roti (bread), I had not realized how the primordial act of feeding her children was, in fact, a sacred offering of life from an invisible heroine. Never has a woman's position been greater venerated than in the home. There she is the foundation of all those who live under her protective wing. I felt privileged to witness her devotion. Looking into her eyes, I knew this was a damn, tough woman. God only knows what struggles were emblazoned on her heart. 

In India, the most significant symbol of respect for another person is 'Pranam' –– to touch the feet in the act of devotion and subservience. The night before we left, I bowed and brushed my fingertips across the tops of Mama's toes and then brought my hands in prayer before my heart. It was the first time I had performed this act wholeheartedly.

Perhaps it was the gentle intoxication of the Munika or the moon casting shadows on the folds of the Aravali hills. Still, I was sure I caught a glimpse of 'Mother India' herself and tonight she felt like my Mama too.  

In that unspoken moment, the gravity of my action bonded us to one another. 

Smiling, she accepted my humble offering and returned to tend the fire.