I am a master in India

Chapter 450 Anand's Hometown
Anand's hometown is in the countryside of Mabang, in a place called Sande village.

It's a very remote place; there are no direct flights, and even the bus to the village only comes once every two hours.

Ron didn't need to travel so far; he could have simply gone to a local county to get a general idea of ​​the local customs and culture.

The rest can be handled simply by pointing and gesturing on the map, unless you encounter a particularly difficult problem.

But considering Anand's unparalleled enthusiasm and restless spirit, he simply went to the countryside.

He decided to treat it as a rural trip; it had been a long time since he had been to the countryside, and this was his first time visiting rural Mabang.

The off-road vehicle sped along the bumpy dirt road, kicking up large clouds of dust.

On both sides of the road are countless cornfields and banana plantations, as well as rows of millet fields stretching as far as the eye can see.

The corn plants had grown almost completely, towering much taller than a person. In just a few minutes, they felt as if they had entered a maze of thick walls.

The vast sky shrinks into a blue arc, merging into green and golden curves in front and behind, like a drawn curtain that isolates the bustling world stage from the outside.

The surrounding area was bare, with no utility poles and not even a single power line in the distance.

"Does your village have electricity?" Ron asked, looking out the window.

“Oh, no.” Anand grinned.

"It's the year 2000 and there's still no electricity?"

"No, not at all."

Ron remained silent, then slowly turned off all the appliances he considered indispensable in his mind.

There were no lights, no television, no air conditioning, no stereo, no telephone…

How could he possibly live like this? He simply couldn't imagine it.

"Sigh, there's not even a radio, you can't even listen to music."

“There’s plenty of music, Ron Baba.” He was delighted. “I can sing, everyone can sing.”

"Alright, consider it a form of entertainment."

“Everyone in the village can sing,” he said seriously.

"Hmm, how far is it from the village?"

"Oh, just a little while longer, not far at all. You know what, our village has water now too."

"What does it mean that there's water now?"

“I mean there’s a water tap in the village now.”

"One tap, the whole village?"

"Yes, the water is drawn for a full hour every afternoon at two o'clock."

"A full hour every day..."

"That's right, alas, most days. Some days the water only comes out for half an hour, some days it doesn't come out at all. At those times, we'll scrape off the green stuff on the surface of the well, and we'll still have water. Ah, look over there! My father!"

Ahead, on a winding path overgrown with weeds, there was an oxcart.

The cow was huge, with curved horns and a milk-coffee color, pulling a tall, barrel-shaped two-wheeled flatbed cart.

The wheels were wooden wheels with steel hoops, very narrow but very tall, about shoulder level with an adult.

Anand's father sat on the carriage shaft, smoking a small cigarette made by hand thread, with his legs dangling in the air.

His name is Kishan, and he is very short, even less noticeable than the short and stout Anand.

He had a very short buzz cut, his hair and beard were gray, and his thin frame was supported by a large belly.

He wore a headscarf, a khaki shirt, and a waistband, dressed like a farmer.

The oxcart carried Ron and the others in front, while Kishan, sitting on it, did not notice what was happening behind him.

Anand was very excited, but the off-road vehicle couldn't get onto the small road, so they had to get out and walk.

After running a couple of steps, Anand put down his luggage and shouted.

His father was overjoyed and jumped off the carriage shaft; the two embraced shyly.

The old man's smile was almost unparalleled, a hearty laugh that used his entire face, as if he had suddenly frozen in place while laughing heartily.

Anand stood beside his father, giving Ron a laugh twice as bright as ever—a laugh inherited from his father, and even more enthusiastic.

The atmosphere was quite touching, and Ron smiled happily.

“Ron Baba, this is my father, Kishan Harry. Father, this is mine.”

“Friend!” Ron interrupted him.

Anand paused for a moment, then grinned. "To my friends, I'm so happy to see you all together. I'm so happy."

Ron didn't want his identity as "Mr. Sue" to disrupt this rare moment of warmth.

He had no intention of displaying the so-called Brahmin caste; today he was simply Anand's friend, nothing more.

Ron shook hands with the old man, and they stared intently at each other.

Anand and his father share the same nearly round face and the same upturned, flat, round nose.

Anand's face was completely cheerful and frank, without a single wrinkle, while his father's face was deeply lined.

When his father wasn't smiling, a weary shadow covered his eyes, as if he had tightly closed a door in his heart, guarding those doors only with his eyes.

His face showed weariness, worry, and a hint of pride.

Ron was familiar with this expression; all farmers, Indian farmers everywhere, wore that tired, worried, and sad look.

For those who live off the land, the only thing they truly possess is the soil they have turned over and the seeds they have sown.

Most of the time, farmers can only rely on the whims of nature, using the fruits and flowers of the land to help them cope with the threats of hunger and disaster.

“My father is very accomplished.” Anand said with a broad smile, proudly putting his arm around his father’s shoulder.

"what?"

"He supports his large family by farming and doesn't need any extra help. Yeah, he doesn't want my money."

His father rattled off a long string of words, but Ron didn't quite understand them. It was a variant of Marathi, and he could only understand snippets, so Anand was there to translate.

"My father was the best farmer in the village."

"Really? That's great. But why doesn't he use your money?"

“He’s not old yet, not at the point where he needs to use his children’s savings. He’s a proud man, always has been.”

Seemingly noticing the confusion in Ron's eyes, Kishan patted his large belly with a strong voice.

His eyes were bright and piercing when he spoke, and his head kept swaying from side to side.

"He asked where you were from, and you didn't look like a Marathi."

“Yes, I’m from the North,” Ron laughed.

“I told him.”

"Then why are you asking me such a pointless question?"

“I just didn’t want you to miss this great conversation.”

"Alright, let's not talk about catching up for now. But this road is too difficult to travel; how are we going to get to your village?"

Only a few people, including Anil, accompanied Ron; he didn't want to make a big fuss.

The wilderness paths are winding and treacherous, making them unsuitable for off-road vehicles.

“Ride in an oxcart!” Anand shouted.

"No way!"

“It’s true, Ron Baba. My father was also a skilled cattle herder, the best in the whole village.”

"you sure?"

"Come on, come on up, it'll only take a few minutes."

"Well, that's all we can do. But I've never ridden in an oxcart before."

The group loaded their luggage onto the oxcart, then climbed to the back of the flatbed. Kishan moved forward to make room.

Just then, in the tall, green cornfield beside them, the stalks parted, revealing four brown faces—the faces of young men.

They stared at Ron and his group, their eyes wide, their expressions a mixture of fear, horror, and delight.

These young men seemed to be villagers from the surrounding area. When Kishang shouted at them, they obediently stepped back.

He raised a long bamboo pole with a nail at one end and struck the ox's rump hard, then carried them on their way.

The ox, struck hard, jerked forward, then began to move slowly and heavily, thumping along.

The oxcart maintained a steady, but very slow, speed, making one nostalgic for the off-road vehicle from earlier.

Ron had never seen such a slow vehicle. If he got off the vehicle and walked at a moderate pace, he would probably be twice as fast as it.

The people who had just pushed aside the corn stalks and were staring at them were now crossing the farmland beside the path, eager to be the first to announce the arrival of the newcomers.

Every few dozen meters, someone would push aside the corn and stalks to reveal new faces.

All those faces showed expressions of surprise, their eyes wide with genuine delight, which was quite startling.

Ron doubted that even if a wild bear walked by and could speak human language, they probably wouldn't be that surprised.

“These people are really happy,” Anand chuckled. “There are very few outsiders in the village, let alone someone like you from a big city.”

Ron Baba, you're a really nice person. The people here will love you. You'll have a blast here, I'm not kidding.

People peeking out from the roadside bushes and shrubs stared at them with a mixture of curiosity and unease, occasionally letting out a cry of surprise.

Ron nodded and smiled at them, and they nodded back and then laughed.

They ran back, loudly announcing to their neighbors that it was amusing that a city dweller was slowly making his way to their village.

Ji Shang would occasionally whip the ox sharply to keep it from slowing down. Every few minutes, the bamboo pole would be raised and lowered, making a loud snapping sound.

Amidst the resounding blows, he used the nail at one end of the bamboo pole to relentlessly jab the cow's side.

Each stab pierced the thick cowhide, pulling up a small tuft of yellowish-brown hair.

Ron looked around, somewhat puzzled; they didn't seem to realize they were abusing cattle.

Back in Uttar Pradesh, there were people who were executed for slaughtering sick cows.

But there's no sense of constraint here; everyone feels at ease, and what you see is a completely idyllic pastoral scene.

Anand was talking to his father in a cryptic voice, occasionally glancing at Ron.

"What are you talking about?"

“Ron Baba, I’m saying you’re a good person. You’re generous in taking care of the slum dwellers and providing them with conveniences free of charge.”

"It's nothing," Ron waved his hand dismissively.

“My father wanted to know if we brought gifts for him and his family from Mumbai. I told him we did, and he wanted us to give the gifts to him right now, right here, and then continue on our way.”

"Now? On the way?"

“That’s right. He’s worried that once we get to Sande Village, you’ll be a good person and give all the gifts to other people, and he won’t get any.”

"Alright then." Ron chuckled; this father and son were quite amusing.

So they stopped the car, and under the deep blue sky, on the road between the undulating corn and millet fields, they spread out all the colors of India: yellow, red, peacock blue shirts, loincloths, saris, and so on.

Then they repackaged everything they were going to give to Anand's family: soap, sewing needles, incense, perfume, shampoo, massage oil, clothes, etc., into bulging bags.

These were all gifts that Anand had chosen on his behalf, and that Ron was preparing to give as gifts.

He didn't know what the people of Sander Village needed; at first, Ron even wanted to send some appliances.

Luckily, I listened to Anand's advice and only bought some small items like firewood, rice, oil, and salt; otherwise, those appliances would have just been gathering dust.

Kishang carefully stuffed the bulging bag of luggage onto the crossbeam behind him, then continued to whip the hardworking ox.

Finally, cheers erupted, and women and children shouted excitedly. Sander Village was just ahead.

(End of this chapter)