Beyond Words

By Anna Kapsner

The children outside Sapna’s house pause their game of street soccer to peer through the gate at the strange American visitors Jan. 11. They shouted and waved. | Photo by Anna Kapsner

A woman posed at the tomb while her friend took her photo, smiling gently. Her friend grinned and yelled something at her from behind the camera, and the woman’s laugh burst out, transforming her. She became loud and joyful and genuine, throwing her head back and clapping her hands. Click. 

A boy on a bicycle wove between his friends playing cricket, unaware of another boy sneaking up behind him with a plastic bat. Whack. Click. The ball shot past the batter’s head as the pitcher laughed, ignoring the one-bounce rule. Though I did not speak Hindi, I was pretty sure I had just learned how to say “asshole.” Click.

Kiran, a dancer at the Titram Cultural Festival, stood on the side while her coach and another dancer performed. While the other girls whispered and giggled, her eyes followed every stomp and twist as she mouthed the words of the song. Watching her, I was 14 again, waiting for my turn while my friends danced, my fingers crossed so tightly they turned white. Click.

I came to Haryana without knowing the language and was foolishly surprised when my own language failed to express what I was seeing. Photos got closer than words, but even that was not enough. The third night in Haryana, I called my brother and told him I was not sure I could do this because no one would understand the stories I was trying to tell.

I was wrong.

I understood Parmila perfectly well as she pushed me into the middle of the room to dance, and she understood as I pulled her with me, telling her we would dance together or not at all.

Neham, Sapna’s daughter, understood her strange new friends liked writing, so she sat knee-to-knee with Talia, my borrowed notebook in her hand, scribbling spirals intently on the page. 

A girl at the goodbye party saw me struggling with my shawl and helped me tie it. Ash’s mother and I shared victory cheers during the Titram games. Anita yelled at her grandson as he sprinted away, a box of matches in his little-kid fist, then rolled her eyes at me and smiled. Balbir put his hand on my head in blessing and called me daughter. 

I stumbled through dances and laughed until my face hurt. I shared meals and chai in quiet rooms, each of us absorbed in our food. I agreed with Balbir when he said music was a gift from god, though he is Hindu and I am Christian. 

I learned that no matter where I go in the world, some things will always be the same. There will always be joy, and good food, and sore bodies after long days. There will always be knowing smiles between women and children who just want me to play with them. There may not always be men getting knocked off of motorcycles by cows, but there will always be moments when perfect strangers look at each other as if to say, “Did you see that too?” 

I learned that even without words, we can understand each other.