pottery coming soon.
This is Omji. I don’t have the words to describe him fully, but for 16 years he has been the High Secretary of the Maharaja I am living with… and apparently his wife is a strong political figure in this dusty, desert state of Rajasthan. I do know that anyone who has the suffix ‘ji’ at the end of their name somehow earned high respect in their lifetime. I heard in passing that even young men in leather jackets with tough exteriors from neighboring towns, hundreds of kilometers away, know exactly who he is and will rush to touch his feet if he’s passing through. We have become good friends and he teaches me Hindi by the fire every night. I guessed him to be in his seventies but hes really only 54. It’s common in India for people to look decades older than they really are, what with the extreme weather, malnutrition and lack of proper medical facilities in rural areas. His teeth are almost gone and I’ve never seen such cracked and brittle feet. He does everything painfully slow, but his mind is infinitely sharp. Sometimes he fools me, by walking all the way across the lawn to interrupt me while I’m counting papers to ask me ridiculous questions like how many times a day I brush my teeth? Or to break an hour long silence together simply to ask me if I like the singer Shakira? Nonetheless, I’m not sure I’ve ever adored someone so much (apart from my own grandparents). Everyday he holds my hands between his to tell me sternly that he will never forget me and that he will be very sad when I leave in a few weeks. I just told him I think he’s amazing and asked him if he knew that everybody he comes in contact with loves him. His reply, after his usual long pause before he ever says anything at all… - “Yes, because I was born under the moonlight.”
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