Robert E. Bixler
Hamida Hamida whirls into the kitchen where I am quietly drinking butter tea. She is a woman of boundless energy as she goes about her daily chores. She moves like a humming bird dashing from task to task, pausing for a moment, and then dashing on continuously talking and singing quietly to herself. Periodically, she turns to me and says "Eat! Eat!" or "Drink! Drink!" and then smiles at me. I comply with another sip of butter tea. With that she dashes from the room to her world of endless activity. I have known Hamida since my first year in Ladakh when she and her husband Rashid agreed to take in one of their son's friends from America. Little did they suspect that this friend was over 60 years old, nor that their son was suffering from a severe bout with kidney stones and would be hospitalized within three hours abandoning me to the care of this bewildered couple. We have often laughed together remembering this strange introduction. But Hamida was up to such a challenge. It did not bother her a bit that she spoke no English and I no Ladakhi. Hamida can issue orders that are understood regardless of your language. Her gentle, loving , cheery but commanding presence transcended language, and her persistence ensured that you would eventually follow her direction. When Hamida said, "Eat!", you ate. The kitchen is Hamida's joyous kingdom and she rules it with great passion and pride. She is the Ladakhi Julia Child with performances every bit as entertaining as Julia's and they are live and in person! She dances around her kitchen as if she is on a grand stage. Utensils fly off the wall. Vegetables steam in the ever present pressure cooker with its rhythmic hissing. Suddenly, Hamida is standing stirring the meat at stove. Then she is down on the floor making chapatti, with the slap, slap, slap as her hands flip the dough back and forth. Then she is in front of you with more butter tea, or milk, or hot water, or Indian chai, or biscuits, or Ladakhi almonds, or . . . . . . The single bulb suspended from the kitchen ceiling dims creating a dark shadowy realm, but Hamida is not deterred. With a Ladakhi command and a quick gesture she sends Rashid off to get the propane lantern. Soon her stage fills with light once again and her performance continues as grand as ever. But you are not just an audience for her, you are also part of great theater. She teaches about Ladakhi cooking: she demonstrates, you sample; you taste and most of all you enjoy the enchantment of her performance. She makes sure the plates are full and no matter how full YOU are, she entices you into just a little bit more. You see Hamida shows her love through her cooking, and she has a lot of love to share! A favorite memory that reflects this expression of her love concerns a time when I became very sick while staying with Rashid and Hamida. I had been traveling to remote villages and staying with families eating and drinking their food. I returned to the Giri farm desperately sick, so sick that the doctor had to be brought to the village to see me. Now Hamida was very unhappy because they had worked so hard to keep me well. She did not want me to stay in anyone else's home because they would just make me sick. Well, the doctor came and gave me medication and told me not to eat anything for a day and then only eat lightly. As the doctor was leaving, in swept Hamida with a huge tray filled with food and drinks. After three years of spending time together Hamida knows my plea, "I only eat little, little!" She laughs each time I say it and gives me more. "Just a little" is her reply as she beams from ear to ear. Oh so much love to share! "Just a little bit more." At dinner one night, Hamida was clearing the dishes while Rashid and I were visiting. I noticed that she placed my cup on the floor and went on to clear the table. Then while the visit continued out of the corner of my eye I noticed slowly, slowly, a cup was levitating from the shadows of the table. Slowly it crept along the top of the table until it rested in front of me filled with butter tea. I looked over at Hamida. With a twinkle of delight she just smiled. "Just a little bit more." Hamida has learned some English over these past years and this year for the first time we were able to have a conversation over the telephone. What a wonderful sense of accomplishment. We were both so excited to tell the disbelieving family about her success. On my last morning in Leh this trip, Hamida was up early to ensure that I had breakfast before my 6:30 am departure. She had tea and hot water and coffee ready for me and was making chapatti. She served me two soft boiled eggs. Since my time before departure was short, I was certain that I was safe from the abundant expression of her love. Oh how I continue to underestimate her ability to overcome any challenge. As I finished my eggs, she immediately whipped up two more fried eggs, butter tea, four chapattis, peanut butter, jelly, biscuits, Ladakhi almonds, and dried apricots. I said to Rashid, "I think Hamida would have me miss my plane. He smiled and nodded. Hamida looked at me with sadness in her eyes. "Please stay. Just a little bit more." ATM I have just arrived in Leh, altitude 11,000 ft +, at 7:30 am. I have already been up 4 hours and will be here for only two days so after a 2 hour rest I am headed to meet with the principals of two schools and the children who are sponsored by the Ladakhi Children's Schooling Project, a foundation that my partner and I have created . I know in advance that the foundation will owe additional money because of changes in the annual fees so I ask my host and dear friend Rashid if we can stop at the ATM. Now there are only 3 ATMs in Leh and a trip to the ATM always involves lines and a long wait. If there are no lines or short lines, then you know there is no money. Rashid knows of an ATM that is away from downtown and thus does not have so much competition for limited ATM funds. So off we go. We arrive to find a short line. We are in luck. Well, not exactly. There is no money in the bank and people are lined up in the hope that someone will come and refill the machine sometime soon. Our time is more limited so off we go to the second ATM. Alas it is out of service and has no line. (a very bad sign). So we head off to our last hope, the J&K ATM. As we pull up, the line looks manageable. I jump out while Rashid parks the car. Now Rashid is a much more confident driver since he got his first car two years ago, but his skills do not necessarily match his confidence. His sharp turns and near misses take my breath away. When in his rush to get a parking place he crashed into a wall, he simply pulled the fender off from rubbing the rear wheel and continued driving. Problem solved! So it was easier on me if I left the car while he parked. Anyway, I stay in line and then start asking, "Is the machine giving money?" "Maybe", is the reply. I get in line. "Maybe" is good enough for me. People come onto the line and leave the line continuously. Finally someone comes out of the ATM and says the machine has broken down. More people leave the line. Now this is bad luck for some but good luck for me. Suddenly I am among the first in line. Now some of you skeptical westerners think that this is foolishness standing at the front of the line at a broken down ATM. But look how much progress I made in such a short time. Everything must be seen in perspective. ATMs in India, as in many countries, are in an enclosed room that limits entrance to one person at a time. However, in Ladakh everything is a community effort. So there are five or six people in the closet space of the ATM at any given time. And it is a team effort. The machine is broken down, but this does not discourage Ladakhis. They are very positive people. "Try pushing this button!", one calls out. There is a collective sigh when the suggestion fails. "Try this!", "Try that!". On and on it goes, one futile attempt after another. Each attempt is relayed to the line outside. Still no money and they too sigh. We are in this together. Unexpectedly we hear a voice on the back side of the wall behind the ATM. There is great excitement. Everyone starts talking to the machine and it starts talking back. This is wonderful!! You can talk to the ATM and it will answer you. We need this in the USA. We ask what he is doing and how he is doing and he asks us to help him. Isn't this great! He says try this and we do and then try that and we do that. We are helping the ATM recover. This is a wonderful partnership between man and machine. Suddenly we hear a door slam and there is silence. What can this mean? The ATM is no longer talking. We return to trying different strategies on our side, many of which we have tried before and each time relaying the news of failure out to the waiting line. The line has grown. It appears that this is pay day for the military and it seems that everyone in uniform in Ladakh has come to the bank. We have officers and enlisted standing side by side with us in our cause. Our numbers are growing; this can only be a good sign. How can so many people be denied! Shortly the machine starts talking to us again. It gives us hope. The machine says it will only be a short wait now. We relay the information outside. Smiles break out on the faces along the line. (Ladakhi people don't shout "Hurray!") People start chattering and quietly laughing. The machine says now try it again. And we all wait to see what will happen. The first man in line enters his information. He misses as he enters his pin number the first time. Try it again the others urge. Now in this crowded room I look up at a sign that says keep your identity secret for security purposes. We can all see each other's numbers and even know when they have miss entered. This is a team effort here. No one is going to say: "Would you please look away while I enter my number?" Why would he do that? We're a team. The second time he enters the information we hear a familiar hum and soon the machine spits out money. We pat him on the back and do a Ladakhi quiet "Hurrah", a heartfelt appreciation without the western volume. He is our hero. It was as if he had scored a touchdown. He got the machine to give money. Having been successful this time he put his card back again. It is like Ladakhi "instant replay." I think he took out his entire months wages. Maybe two. (I was glad I was at the beginning of the line.) As he left the ATM, people greeted him with pride. Our hero! Now the pace picked up speed. More attempts, more suggestions, more success. We have done it. I entered my code with the encouragement of the others and got my money. What a thrill. And so I did it again and got more money. I felt like I didn't want to stop. It was exhilarating! I have never felt this way at any ATM ever. I left the ATM passing through the crowd, proud to be a part of this effort of collaboration, and I assured the people in the long winding line that yes, the machine was giving money, and happily went on my way. Robert E Bixler is a free-lance photographer based in Denver, Colorado and the President of the Ladakhi Children's Schooling Project, based in Leh, Ladakh, India. (www.lcspi.org). He retired after forty years of government-related work in community development and health promotion. He now applies principles learned through that experience to his work in rural education and Tibetan refugee development in India.
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