<p>In the mid-1990s, I worked in Assam, serving on a committee that required visits to forest areas in the autonomous district of Karbi Anglong. Our task was to supervise bamboo cultivation by Karbi tribal farmers supported by our company. One particularly hot day in May stands out in my memory.</p>.<p>We had to inspect one dozen farms that day and set out early for our work. By 12.30 pm, only half the work was done. We had to complete one more farm before taking a break. As our energy levels flagged, we arrived at the next farm in a jaded state.</p>.<p>The farm had a hut with bottle gourd creepers and a hedge of bushes, guarded by a bamboo gate. Our Assamese driver hailed the inmates, and instantly, a black Indie came charging from behind the hut, barking at us. An old woman, around 60, emerged with a careworn face, clad in traditional attire. A lad of about 16 followed her. The lad held out the promise of growing into a hardy youth. On seeing our driver, she knew who we were, and with one command, she silenced the dog, which was still barking. The boy, opening the gate, welcomed us. One by one we filed into the enclosure.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The hut exuded serenity, with three coconut palms, a jackfruit tree, and banana plants surrounding it. The hedged enclosure imparted a sense of aloofness to the entire premises from the rest of the farm. The bottle gourd creepers and the dangling bottle gourds, the wild flowers along the hedge and the country dog all lent a peculiar rural charm to the hut.</p>.<p class="bodytext">She asked us to sit on wooden benches and instructed something to the boy, her grandson. He went in and brought water for us to wash our hands and faces. The refreshing splash of water on our sun-tanned faces was a welcome relief. Some more instructions followed.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The boy then climbed a coconut palm and brought down tender coconuts, cutting them open with his sickle, called <span class="italic">dau </span>in Assamese. Tired and hungry as we were, we unabashedly relished the coconut water and kernel, followed by a feast of jackfruits and bananas. As we ate, the grandmother shared her plans for her grandson.</p>.<p class="bodytext">After a hearty meal, we thanked her and patted the boy on the back. By then, even the dog had realised we were not intruders, for it too began to wag its tail. Before sunset, our work was done.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The tribal woman’s kindness and hospitality left a lasting impression. If sensing the needs of others and addressing them is the hallmark of a cultured person, she was truly a cultured soul.</p>.<p class="bodytext">May her tribe increase!</p>
<p>In the mid-1990s, I worked in Assam, serving on a committee that required visits to forest areas in the autonomous district of Karbi Anglong. Our task was to supervise bamboo cultivation by Karbi tribal farmers supported by our company. One particularly hot day in May stands out in my memory.</p>.<p>We had to inspect one dozen farms that day and set out early for our work. By 12.30 pm, only half the work was done. We had to complete one more farm before taking a break. As our energy levels flagged, we arrived at the next farm in a jaded state.</p>.<p>The farm had a hut with bottle gourd creepers and a hedge of bushes, guarded by a bamboo gate. Our Assamese driver hailed the inmates, and instantly, a black Indie came charging from behind the hut, barking at us. An old woman, around 60, emerged with a careworn face, clad in traditional attire. A lad of about 16 followed her. The lad held out the promise of growing into a hardy youth. On seeing our driver, she knew who we were, and with one command, she silenced the dog, which was still barking. The boy, opening the gate, welcomed us. One by one we filed into the enclosure.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The hut exuded serenity, with three coconut palms, a jackfruit tree, and banana plants surrounding it. The hedged enclosure imparted a sense of aloofness to the entire premises from the rest of the farm. The bottle gourd creepers and the dangling bottle gourds, the wild flowers along the hedge and the country dog all lent a peculiar rural charm to the hut.</p>.<p class="bodytext">She asked us to sit on wooden benches and instructed something to the boy, her grandson. He went in and brought water for us to wash our hands and faces. The refreshing splash of water on our sun-tanned faces was a welcome relief. Some more instructions followed.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The boy then climbed a coconut palm and brought down tender coconuts, cutting them open with his sickle, called <span class="italic">dau </span>in Assamese. Tired and hungry as we were, we unabashedly relished the coconut water and kernel, followed by a feast of jackfruits and bananas. As we ate, the grandmother shared her plans for her grandson.</p>.<p class="bodytext">After a hearty meal, we thanked her and patted the boy on the back. By then, even the dog had realised we were not intruders, for it too began to wag its tail. Before sunset, our work was done.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The tribal woman’s kindness and hospitality left a lasting impression. If sensing the needs of others and addressing them is the hallmark of a cultured person, she was truly a cultured soul.</p>.<p class="bodytext">May her tribe increase!</p>
