The driver who took us to Sharup's village burned incense on the dash, wiping away the ash as we prepared to depart. The weather is inclement; bullock carts and rickshaws appear no more than ten seconds from our overtaking them and the turns in the road even less, which has been a source of some anxiety for the backseat. Sharup turns around to say "The fog has covered total" in explanation for our inefficient progress.
I sit next to him later during the Baul performance and he leans over, periodically, to explain the songs they are performing. The Beetles hung out with Bauls; they're like hippies; they wear orange which is the color of renunciation.
So we heard songs whose synopses include:
- Comparison of moon and maternal uncle
- Woman is taking a bus and the conductor touches her for the fare.
- Comparison of India and Bangladesh through the lao (sp) fruit.
- Men can even concieve.
- "The soil on the street is red."
- "Actually she says about the black. The black is the neglected of our society. The black woman, she is regretting that she is the neglected soul. Not only for her sister but her husband."
[The next day.]
After visiting the holy site where Sati's thigh is said to reside in a pond and before it is time for dinner, I flee the mosquitos in the lobby of our hotel to a different hotel that has a kitchen where at least I can have a cup of cha while the mosquitos consume me. They could span pennies with their legs and are wont to fly up the back of one's shirts, find any exposed centimeter of ankle. Two Indian men in the chairs across from me take tea also and I am still frustratingly unable to distinguish the words. All that I hear is the second person pronoun and then as they begin slapping, the word "mosquito" enters their discourse.