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Just in front of my window, on the opposite side of the stream, a band of gypsies has settled and constructed shelters out of bamboo frameworks hung with split-bamboo mats and pieces of cloth. There are only three of these little structures, so low one cannot stand inside them upright. The whole of gypsy life is lived in the open, except at night when they creep under these shelters and sleep huddled together. That is the gypsy way: no fixed abode, no zemindar requiring rent, they just wander about as they please with their children, their pigs, and a dog or two, watched constantly and vigilantly by the eyes of the police.
I have been keeping my own eye on the doings of the family nearest my window. By no means bad-looking they reminded me of the people from north-western India. Though dark, they are handsome, strong and shapely. Their women have tall, slim, taut figures; with their independent air, confident carriage and quick, straightforward movements, they strike me as swarthy Englishwomen.
One of the men has just put a cooking-pot on the fire and is now splitting bamboos and weaving winnowing trays, baskets and other items. The woman first balances a small mirror on her lap, then carefully moistens a towel and wipes her face several times, adjusts and tidies each fold in her upper garment, and finally goes, spick and span, to find her man, squat beside him and help him now and then in his work.
They are truly sons and daughters of the soil, in constant touch with it. Born in some unknown place, brought up on the road, they will die in an equally unknown place. Night and day is spent under the open sky, in the open air, on bare ground. It is a unique existence --- and yet work, love, children and domestic duties are all included.
They do not sit idle even for a trice but always are doing something. When her own task is finished, a woman suddenly plumps down behind another, unties the knot of hair and begins delousing and arranging it for her. Whether they fall to discussing the affairs of the three little mat-covered households I cannot say for certain at this distance, but I shrewdly suspect it.
This morning the carefree camp experienced a great disturbance. It happened about half past eight or nine, while the gypsies were spreading out their tattered bedding quilts and sundry other rags to sun and air them. The pigs and piglets were lying in a hollow like blobs of mud, relishing the morning sunshine after the cold of the night, until routed out by the two canine members of the menage and sent squealing in search of their breakfasts. I was writing my diary, absently looking out from time to time, when a real hubbub suddenly began.
I got up and went to the window, and saw a crowd gathered around the gypsy residence. At its centre was a personage flourishing a stick and using the choicest language. The leader of the gypsies cowered in front of him, apparently trying to offer explanations. I gathered that suspicious happenings in the area had attracted the attentions of a police constable.
The woman had so far remained seated, busily scraping the lengths of split bamboo as serenely as if she had been alone and there was no row in progress. All of a sudden she sprang to her feet, strode up to the constable, gesticulated violently in his face with her arms, and loudly gave him a piece of her mind. In the twinkling of an eye three-quarters of the officer's haughtiness subsided; although he attempted to say a word or two in mild protest he got little chance. He backed off in a manner much different from his arrival. When he had retired to a safe distance, he shouted back: 'All I say is, you'd better get out of here!'
I expected my neighbours to pack their mats, roll up their bundles, rustle up their pigs and their offspring, and make their exit forthwith. But there is no sign of it as yet. They are still nonchalantly splitting bamboos, cooking food, and picking lice.
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Just in front of my window, on the opposite side of the stream, a band of gypsies has settled and constructed shelters out of bamboo frameworks hung with split-bamboo mats and pieces of cloth. There are only three of these little structures, so low one cannot stand inside them upright. The whole of gypsy life is lived in the open, except at night when they creep under these shelters and sleep huddled together. That is the gypsy way: no fixed abode, no zemindar requiring rent, they just wander about as they please with their children, their pigs, and a dog or two, watched constantly and vigilantly by the eyes of the police.
I have been keeping my own eye on the doings of the family nearest my window. By no means bad-looking they reminded me of the people from north-western India. Though dark, they are handsome, strong and shapely. Their women have tall, slim, taut figures; with their independent air, confident carriage and quick, straightforward movements, they strike me as swarthy Englishwomen.
One of the men has just put a cooking-pot on the fire and is now splitting bamboos and weaving winnowing trays, baskets and other items. The woman first balances a small mirror on her lap, then carefully moistens a towel and wipes her face several times, adjusts and tidies each fold in her upper garment, and finally goes, spick and span, to find her man, squat beside him and help him now and then in his work.
They are truly sons and daughters of the soil, in constant touch with it. Born in some unknown place, brought up on the road, they will die in an equally unknown place. Night and day is spent under the open sky, in the open air, on bare ground. It is a unique existence --- and yet work, love, children and domestic duties are all included.
They do not sit idle even for a trice but always are doing something. When her own task is finished, a woman suddenly plumps down behind another, unties the knot of hair and begins delousing and arranging it for her. Whether they fall to discussing the affairs of the three little mat-covered households I cannot say for certain at this distance, but I shrewdly suspect it.
This morning the carefree camp experienced a great disturbance. It happened about half past eight or nine, while the gypsies were spreading out their tattered bedding quilts and sundry other rags to sun and air them. The pigs and piglets were lying in a hollow like blobs of mud, relishing the morning sunshine after the cold of the night, until routed out by the two canine members of the menage and sent squealing in search of their breakfasts. I was writing my diary, absently looking out from time to time, when a real hubbub suddenly began.
I got up and went to the window, and saw a crowd gathered around the gypsy residence. At its centre was a personage flourishing a stick and using the choicest language. The leader of the gypsies cowered in front of him, apparently trying to offer explanations. I gathered that suspicious happenings in the area had attracted the attentions of a police constable.
The woman had so far remained seated, busily scraping the lengths of split bamboo as serenely as if she had been alone and there was no row in progress. All of a sudden she sprang to her feet, strode up to the constable, gesticulated violently in his face with her arms, and loudly gave him a piece of her mind. In the twinkling of an eye three-quarters of the officer's haughtiness subsided; although he attempted to say a word or two in mild protest he got little chance. He backed off in a manner much different from his arrival. When he had retired to a safe distance, he shouted back: 'All I say is, you'd better get out of here!'
I expected my neighbours to pack their mats, roll up their bundles, rustle up their pigs and their offspring, and make their exit forthwith. But there is no sign of it as yet. They are still nonchalantly splitting bamboos, cooking food, and picking lice.
.....Rabindranath Tagore
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From:
The Picador Book of Modern Indian Literature
Edited by
Amit Chaudhuri
Varun N Achar
Hyderabad August 11, 2012
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