The Auroville Girls

I noticed them first on that rock formation, middle of the first mountain pool, standing-- wet, giggling, saying something. One by one they jump down. She jumped twice. “Eric, Eric”—somebody calls. Sweet Tamilian accent. Long dark oiled hair, dripping with water, eyelashes brimming, skin still unblemished splashes up. And then the next bobs up-dark, dark eyes, dark hair, with little gold earrings glinting in the emerging sunlight, a nose stud, and brightly coloured “swimsuit.” My friend would say “She’s a proper girl.” Proper girls on a trek through Nagala.

Eric stood tall, taller than he is, capturing the moments—each girl, defying a certain conditioning as she steps out of that ledge, free fall into the grey early morning water.  Every splash—a silent victory of time over tradition.

I met this one on the way. She was sitting, wondering if she should change from her slippers to shoes.  And the second sat in a shade— quiet aloof, large eyes tilted downwards and away. “Resting” she says dismissively, as I hover. Then the third, lithe like a snake—she wants to call home.  Gayatri says she cried that night—she missed home. The fourth never stopped, never stopped. When she sat, she definitely meant to sit.  And the fifth smiled full moon into my gaze. Five brown teenagers on a trek through Nagala.

Eric is talking. He says something like “It is decided that girls should have a second helping of cereal. Agreed?” Everyone looks at the girls. Have the girls eaten? How much? Where are the girls? Go ask them. Centuries of neglect quietly undone. Have you eaten?

Tucked away in their own little island—the girls eat. This one refuses to take food in the bowl I bring. “I will eat in my bowl only,” she insists. Yes, I remember that bowl—a fertile green thingy--being passed down the food queue, making me smile, “Aah, the girls will be eating.”

I saw them later in the picnic pool. Standing under the waterfall. Keeping each other together. Chattering away till that sun came overhead.  A story is made—of the five friends who stood in the waterfall together, of a night under the stars, of the tears and chatter, of the fireflies that flitted all night in the mountain-land of snakes. A story that is rarely made.

“Akka, do you swim?” one of them ask. Memories of my grandmother—fresh from her American trip to the home of my cousins—photos of the blue-watered swimming pool. “Did you swim?” Grandma laughed, her wrinkles creasing near her mouth, little eyes twinkling—“Yes, I did. I wrapped my sari around like this and then I swam longer and faster than any of my granddaughters.” We laughed, as she showed us how she wrapped that sari beneath her blouse, and took those long strokes in the Mumbai air. Grandma swam!

 In the pools of Nagala, I hear the past whisper: “Akka, won’t you swim?”

I see them again later, standing  against a ledge wall—dark brown against the light brown ledge, slightly bent to the side carelessly, long tresses open, hands tucked behind, eyes flashing, with a hesitant smile-- “Akka, do you want a hand?” Aah yes, future beckons.

“Yes, my dear.” I extend my hand—from this generation to the next --with love, blessings and gratitude.