India | a family
Walking through the streets of Udaipur one day, I heard the sounds of an instrument I had never heard before. Drawn to it, I met Kishna.
I took this photo a week later once we had become friends. It still holds the nature that drew me into his presence (along with the beautiful music that he was playing). Look into those eyes and you meet the gaze of someone who sees the best in people.
Kelly and I sat with him as he demonstrated the sound of the instrument that he makes and sells — the ravanhattha. This instrument has 14 strings which reverberate when you play just one; bowed with a bow with bells on it that create a rhythm as you play. For the rest our days in Udaipur, I went back to spend time with him and his family every day. He was always accompanied by his wife Babaori who sold jewellery and two of their sons, Ganesh and Gamput.
Every time I was embraced into the company of Kishna and his family — playing music or sitting and drinking chai — I left feeling light and energised.
It was November, and Diwali was approaching. A time of lights, fireworks, and mass celebration. Kishna invited Kelly and me back to their home to celebrate with them.
In the late afternoon, we went down to the lake to meet Kishna, Babaori and Jorsta and Felicia (a father / daughter combo from Sweden who visit Kishna & Babaori annually.) They put us all in an auto rickshaw — 5 in the back, 2 in the front and 1 in the boot and we drove out to their village on the edge of the city. As we traveled through the city we passed people stringing up lights and laying candles for the evening festivities.
We walked up a path through dotted houses made of mudbrick and some tents passing families who waved and greeted us. A couple of children were sorting rubbish on the side of the path. They smiled coyly and giggled as we went by.
As we wound our way up the hill we reached Kishna and Babaori’s house.
Kishna and his brother-in-law Hare arrived with fireworks and supplies. Kishna handed me a beer and said, “What do you think of my house? Five star, no?” He had mischief in his eyes and was full of joy.
Babaori lit the fire and made chai followed by delicious puffed rice snacks and fresh fruit. Later we ate curries and chapati.
As the evening cast longer shadows we met more of Kishna and Babaori’s relatives and many of the kids that lived in their neighbourhood. Babaori brought out a photograph album and leafed through their journey as a married couple - musical endeavors, their house evolving from tent to mudbrick, and photographs of their children who had died.
We were surrounded by children and they were all so open and loving. They didn’t doubt us for a second.
As the sun went down, Kishna and his sons lit candles heading up to their small temple beside their house.
One of the younger men started playing the ravanhattha and Hare accompanied him on a small drum. The men got up and danced their best Bollywood moves. They got Kelly, Felicia and me to our feet. All the children crowded around and danced with glee and excitement. We set off fireworks and Kishna linked up fairy lights across the front of the house.
As we wound our way down the path back to our auto rickshaw accompanied by two gentlemen as our guides, we could hear the laughter and the music drift down the hill behind us. I had just experienced some of the most genuine generosity of my life.
On our last day when we went to say goodbye we found them in one of their usual spots by the lake. There were many Indian tourists at the lakeside. We became somewhat of a spectacle. They stopped to take photos of us sitting with Kishna and Babaori. They did not speak to either of them. One man approached and spoke to me as I was sitting chatting with Babaori. He asked me, “can you understand what she is saying?” I replied, “of course, we are friends.”
