Driving in she got the feeling that the horse rider has in a John Wayne movie, the sultry mouth organ as a soundtrack, explaining to audience watching, that this is no–man’s land, and the rider is a stranger to these inhospitable parts. But with the silence, no tv., just the daily routine of teaching and coming back to chores, a silence set in. A nice silence. By which Dolly meant a silence which though not companiable, was friendly and purring, and kind of balm to the soul. As the days passed and she counted the 6th, she found, the insects roaming about the worn carpeting in the room were not so bad, the basic bathroom not so bad, the thick chapaties at dinner, not so bad, the lack of frenzied activity after teaching hours ended not so bad. Yes on the 6th day, the night before she left, the small town inconveniences, the shabby Guest House, the very basic amenities, seemed quite refreshing to her. Which is when she told a younger colleague that she had noticed one thing about the students. they mostly looked as if they were from happy, tension free homes. No, said the younger observant colleague, they are from mofussil India, that’s all. And Dolly thought to herself that metro chic was overrated, metro competitiveness was over–rated. metros over–rated. Three cheers for mofussil India. Certainly a happier India.
Dolly & Mofussil India–Banasthali Vidyapeeth
Dolly had forgotten what it was like to live in small town India. Even more to be in a small town women’s university–a Gandhian heritage circa 1935—deep into Rajasthan’s rural landscape.