Jayeshbhai Gets an Idea

Five of us start our walk in silence from Jayeshbhai's house shortly before noon. Destination: an award-winning octogenarian sculptor. We stop early on to sit with residents of a relatively new slum growing haphazardly along the side of a busy road. Jayeshbhai's idea is to collect kids from the area later in the day and give them baths and snacks at the ashram. A small crowd gathers. I play peek-a-boo with little Sonal around her grandmother's skirt. Jayeshbhai gets the parents to buy into Operation Clean Kid and lets them know we will be back in the afternoon. We head out and a few of the kids tag along until harkened back by their mothers.

Just up the road I pause to help a girl put the chain back on the sprockets of her bike. It's not going on easily and almost immediately I manage to get it more wedged and kinked than I found it. I can feel the heat of doubting, curious eyes on my back. Focus. A minute passes and the others are fading from view as they momentarily forget about their over-sized white appendage. Did I error in stopping? I mentally commit to getting the chain on now even if it means losing my traveling companions. Another twenty seconds of greasy prying doesn't pay dividends. Push the bike forward and pull up hard on the chain. The owner is reclaiming control of the bike from me. Somehow its been fixed?! I run to catch up with the others and a minute later am passed by the bike running smoothly up Ring Road.

Past tents of red hot chili pepper sorters and cricket bat makers. Another brief stop where women are painting a watermelon cart's wheels and allow me a few strokes with the brush. Grapes are offered in response to our groups friendly efforts. Down the road Guri and I reinstall a metal cage around a sapling on the median. Crossing streets is a 360 degree scanning affair with no hesitations allowed. Find a crease and commit. Past three-packs of uniformed school girls that look on with amusement at our entourage. Hard left turn just past a cavernous concrete school building ringing with the cacophony of squealing children. To the right an impossibly quiet chiku orchard throws dappled shadows down on grazing peacocks. The sun catches a brilliant tail feather here and there. The sculptor's pad and studio sits at the backside of the orchard. He opens the door to reveal a warehouse lobby of larger-than-life marble and plaster likenesses of larger-than-life personalities. An almost twenty-foot Sardar Patel lords over the assorted Gandhis, Anadamoyi Mas and Ramakhrishnas. The sculptor answers matter-of-factly that he has been plying his trade for many incarnations now.

He is more a twinkling, mischievous, white-haired wisp of a man discovered at the end of a children's fantasy book than the world-renowned, corporate-courted artist that refuses to work under pressure of deadline. He sits with us on mismatched lawn chairs stained with bird droppings and explains that planning is an exercise in futility. What is the source of time he posits. Nipun: maya? Me: mind? He swings his head from side to side and ever so briefly his face registers a look suggesting that us silly boys have much to learn. Moments. Moments are strung together to give the impression of time. Planning is fruitless because we can only act in any given moment in response to what is before us. More time-won wisdom is interspersed with stories of walking with Gandhi and Vinoba back in the day. Nipun is inspired and wants to work up a feature story on the sculptor who seems predictably ambivalent about the ambition for further meetings. Before heading back home we sit in the orchard on an impossibly serene wood and cloth swing that hangs from a buoyant tree branch. The orchard is remarkably reminiscent of the one next to the Carmelite monastery in Santa Clara half-way round the globe. One peacock at the fringe of the orchard limps noticeably--a victim of the kite flying celebration that yearly claims countless bird lives on glass-coated strings. Other outside influences have attempted to penetrate the sculptor's magic garden, including plans for a road through his property that were diverted only by last-second string pulling.

We catch a auto rickshaw back to Jayesh-bhai's house and the driver is invited inside for tea. He is wary of the offer, but few are those able to resist the Goodfather's insistent charm. Jayesh and family keep their house open year round to young and old, rich and poor. Jayesh threatens to fast until the driver gives up smoking, but the driver explains he gets the shakes without his beloved bidis. Jayesh takes pity on him and simply encourages him to slowly give up his deadly smoking habit and offers him a place to stay if he desires.

After lunch I head out with Sunil from Manav Sadhna and Ellen, a young volunteer from the States, to recruit children for baths. An hour later we head to the ashram with our Sumo packed door to door, bumper to bumper with apprehensive children and their parents. Lots of sitting and nervous waiting at the ashram before shampoo, soap and pails are readied. I am paired with a young boy who shivers as the water covers his body, but he stoically bears repeated soaping and shampoo in the eyes with real grace. Next is perhaps his older brother who is hesitant to disrobe and clearly doesn't even want to remove his filthy weather-worn cap. Underneath, his head is shaved save a small tuft of hair. He ties his shirt round his waist over his pants before "dropping trou" to avoid being naked in front of the assorted volunteers and Manav Sadhna children that are helping with the baths. We find a free bathroom for privacy where he completely disrobes and I help scrub him clean. After the washing he puts back on the same clothes he came in before I discover "new" used threads are being doled out. He reluctantly accepts the clothes and tries them on while I shield him from curious eyes.

A drum establishes a frenetic beat and an impromptu dance competition ensues. I throw down a wild leg spinning move which tears the lungi I am wearing (no worries as I have shorts on underneath). Nipun counters with his patented punjabi-influenced, arm-thrusting hopping which cause the children gathered behind him to explode into a frenzy. The slum kids are slow to join in the wild-eyed fun and stay on the periphery, save for two of the youngest who dance without reservation. Kids clamber on my back, two or three at a time and in the process my kurta is ripped. It seems that despite Jayesh-bhai's better efforts I am a hopeless project for fashion suavity.

Snacks are distributed which all enjoy. Before leaving some of the parents express disappointment that no makeover was offered to them and Jayesh makes mental note of this and somewhere amidst his finely-tuned neurons plots a more ambitious sequel. Stay tuned.