The rhythms of life
By Soraya Keiser
In the golden light of the setting afternoon sun, Anjali squared up the red punching bag and slammed her gloved fist into its ribs. While she continued to perfect her hooks and jabs, I stood on the roof of Harsola’s government school, watching practice unfold beneath me.
To my left, younger students counted “one, two, three” while they punched left, right, back to center down the courtyard. To my right, younger boxers used practice mitts to throw punches against each other. The courtyard spoke in shuffling feet and grunts. Right below me, Anjali continued a steady routine of punches, her face steady with concentration.
Most people have rhythm in their life, so much so that it can be hard to pinpoint. I always write in my journal and read at least one chapter of my book before falling asleep. I order an iced chai latte from almost every coffee shop I enter. I put earrings on every day. And standing there on that roof watching Anjali continue through practice, I realized just how normal that moment was to her.
Twice a day, six days a week, Anjali boxes. She dreams of becoming a champion to help her family make more money and escape poverty. I stood on that roof in awe of Anjali’s determination and skill, but for her, that moment was nothing new.
The stories I ended up writing this month had a natural repetition to them. The whir of machines that clean and process rice 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The left-right-left of a boxing drill. The process of making brick after brick — molding, drying, baking, stacking. While I was writing them, I found myself drawn to these easy processes as a way for readers to become more immersed with the stories and the rhythms of my characters’ lives.
On our last day in Harsola, we attended part of a funeral celebration for a friend’s mother. A week previous, some members of our team witnessed a Hindu cremation ceremony — a time of mourning, devastation and ash. But this morning, it became a celebration. When we entered, the women invited us to sit down, and they soon began to clap and sing. Their shawls of pink and yellow and red and green swayed in the January chill as they stood up and began to dance.
It was like nothing I had seen at a funeral before, but for them it was a ritual, something that happens every time a loved one has lived a long life and died. As we got ready to leave, some of our group had shed a few tears. One of the women came up to me and reassured me that this was not something to be sad about. She kept repeating, “Happy, happy.” And then she spread her arms and said in a kind but matter-of-fact tone, “This is life.” I was so struck by her words. This is life. The mundane and sad and repetitive and beautiful parts of life.
What a privilege it is for me to see that, to catch a glimpse into peoples’ normal lives.