Sister

By Madi Kremer

We walked up the stairs as we had done the days before, but this time it was dark and cold under the foggy Haryana sky. We expected to be led into the room where we had seen extra cots, but instead followed Krishan into the main bedroom where he and his wife usually slept. The neatly-made bed was covered with the warmest blankets they owned.

“Welcome, my sisters.”

Here we were. Foreigners in a new land, invited to stay with a family we had only met five days before. I didn't realize that this new place, house and family would truly start to feel like home. 

A relationship that first started over a shared love for milk and a similar family farming lifestyle soon led to a bond that felt familiar, but in an entirely new way. 

Working back home, I've spent many hours talking to farmers about their lives.

This was no different. At times I was marveled by how connected we felt. The only thing holding us back from sharing the details of our lives was the language barrier. Pictures and an interpreter couldn't begin to explain the details we wanted to share with one another. 

Our milkman of Titram. I couldn't help but appreciate the intimacy present within Krishan’s business. He was a trusted friend who valued his customers and producers, willing to take a loss to his business if it meant others had milk in their cups. His character was shown by reserving an old friend's house for the last stop of the day to share company and stories while seated around the fire and swiveling hookah. 

With each encounter the smiles became wider and the hugs longer. Chai was sipped. Carrot fudge that “matched my hair” was passed around the table with laughter. 

Real connections emerged when we began experiencing their lives. Attempting to milk the family buffalo proved to be a humbling experience, but one that brought friendship. To attempt to be of help, I carried a stack of grasses that would soon be shredded to feed the livestock. The pain was worth the laughter that emerged from the men the next day when Krishan presented the video of me to his friends. 

The morning after our overnight stay, I found myself at the house without my team, which could have incited fear but instead felt like an opportunity for connection. Unable to verbally communicate with each other, Krishan's wife invited me into the kitchen and began making me chai that warmed my hands and soul. While squatted low to the ground, she began to make the breakfast batch of roti over the stovetop.

As I closely observed and sat with my camera, she placed a plate on top of my knee and motioned with her hands for me to eat. I shook my head out of politeness and tried to insist that she eat it herself. She nodded her head in a motherly fashion and grabbed the plate, holding it out in front of her. The look in her eyes communicated a care beyond friendly hospitality. 

In that small, cold kitchen we shared a moment I will never forget. Without words, a relationship was formed.

As we said our final goodbyes, the tears flowed accompanied by memories of our time and hopes that our paths would cross again. 

“I wish you all the happiness in the world,” Krishan told us. “I wish we stay connected forever. I hope my sisters never face sadness. And if God ever gives you sadness, I hope he gives it to me first.”