flipflops in the desert

The other day was my birthday, yet I was afforded no leeway in my routine endeavors, for which I often toe the line of treading lightly. It was a hazy, yellow day and the winter sun cast seemingly premature shadows, as it was still around noon. Steep, barren ridges strung with 18th century forts and their crumbling walls encircled the small village plateau of Raghunathgarh, perched above a sweeping desert wash. Fences fashioned from thorny acacia-tree branches demarked one plot from another, contrasting the sand, forming a checkerboard pattern visible from above.

Regarding the women I patiently awaited, they wore red saris customary of the region, except for the child, and were returning with a wood harvest. At the sight of my camera, the eldest woman was enraged, spitting as she screamed at me in Hindi, unleashing her wrath with fierce slashes of her index finger through the air. Her response was disproportionately passionate for the occasion, but my defeat was uncontested and I quickly retreated, taking an alternate path back to the village. The road, my exit, was getting close, but the shrill pitch of her continued ranting was disconcerting. Villagers were appearing in every direction, and the woman came into view, running towards me, now waving a stick, which appeared substantial.

Moments later I was surrounded by over two dozen villagers of all ages, and I was overcome by lucid visions of a slow death by stoning in Raghunathgarh, on my birthday no less. Truthfully, I had taken a few photographs from afar, but was confident they didn’t see me, so I produced my second camera as evidence of my innocence, which successfully diffused the tension. The screaming continued, only now it was directed back at the old woman, who was seen to have wrongly accused me of a crime so heinous as to promptly summon the attention of this entire village. It was my break, and I discretely peeled off to refuge, feeling timid, but a bit clever…