Four days in zone four

I examine the tan on my face, arms and feet. It's hot, humid, dusty and roads are marked with more cow dung than potholes. The stench of dry grass, animal dung and mud reeks in the air, and my face carries a layer of dust and sweat. I stand with a cap on, holding a writing pad, recording measurements being called out, and simultaneously sketching any detail that catches the eye. I take photos of every speck and corner of the house - its doors, windows, its roof, trying not to miss anything important. And if I make some time, I take some photos of the building's inhabitants as well - both the people and their cattle.

         

This routine ran for four days. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow; the speed varying on our mood, energy or urgency of finishing the task. The first day was the slowest, where most of the time got eaten up on figuring out where I was and where I ought to be. It was like after getting lost in an amusement park you look for that star on the map which says, 'YOU ARE HERE.' but on my map, there were only squares and lines indicating the houses and the roads running through the village. The village vaguely seemed to resemble my grandfather's place in Bowenpalli, (that is before tall apartments started invading the empty patches of land). I would sit on the verandah wall and witness ladies fighting for water in their nightgowns when the water tank arrived every morning, or cows grazing a small grassy patch right next to our house.

After an hour of fumbling through various zoomed in maps of my allocated zones, and matching it with the place in front of my eyes, I concluded (with a large amount of uncertainty) that a L-shaped stretch with forty to fifty houses is my zone. This is the area I have to live and breath for, four days.

I then walk around my zone, observing and making mental notes, while the residents stare at me with curiosity at my t-shirt and jeans attire, while I take photos of hand pumps, water tanks, electric poles and drainage lines. Someone shouts a question out in Kannada, and I politely reply, 'I'm sorry, I don't know Kannada', in Kannada itself.
The second day flew by a little quicker. The villagers became more comfortable with me invading their privacy and I with their never ending questions. They tell me about their problems at home, their children never returning from the cities and I patiently listen and nod at intervals.

The third and fourth day flew past me before I could even blink. We had to document six houses in thorough detail, and one house took half the day itself. So when we all looked up and discovered the sword of submission and deadlines hanging right above or heads, our hands and legs naturally started moving faster.

From stares to whole hearted conversations, by the fourth day, the whole village had warmed up to the presence of college kids walking around their home, and even I felt a sudden heaviness in my heart when leaving the place. And as if the skies were listening to me, right on cue, the clouds poured and poured; instead of tears on my cheeks, it was rain on the ground.

*This work was part of my semester's design project, where we had to gather information on one village (in our case, we were given Mudukuthore) in detail. The village was divided into zones, each one consisting of a set number of residential, and/or commercial buildings. We had to measure them physically, conduct surveys, and record any interesting details found in the buildings or in the lifestyle of the people.

I wrote this post from my perspective in a story format, but in reality this whole document was the hard work of the fifty of us and the patience of the many.