Indian Generosity: An Excerpt from TRANSFORMED BY INDIA
‘I had only met Jumma briefly the year before, while Helene knew neither of them before that night. Yet, for us, this kind couple was willing to undergo the supreme sacrifice and give us the most precious thing in their lives: their beloved son.’
The following is an excerpt from Stephen P. Huyler’s book Transformed By India: A Life (Pippa Rann Books, 2024). Huyler invites the reader to join him as he navigates this remarkable nation. The chapters revolve around tributes to the individuals he has known from maharajahs to musicians, Dalits to Brahmins, politicians to potters. Tying all the many stories together is the innate strength and creative capacity for improvement expressed everywhere in the subcontinent.
Not infrequently, Indian generosity overcomes me. A profound illustration unfolded in 1980. I had invited my father and mother to join my wife and me in India to celebrate Dad’s sixtieth birthday. Helene and I flew to Orissa a week ahead of their arrival. Anand, my rickshaw-wala assistant, had written that he had married and that his wife, Jumma, had given birth to a son: an answer to heartfelt prayers.
To honor this occasion, we purchased simple gifts in London that we thought they would like: jeans and a T-shirt for him, some costume jewelry for her, and an inexpensive outfit for the baby. When we arrived in their city of Bhubaneshwar, Anand and Jumma invited us for dinner. They were both scheduled caste—historically, they might have been referred to as “untouchables”, and eating with them in their home was a valuable statement of acknowledgment. Their dwelling in Bhubaneshwar’s slum was pitifully small: a mud-walled thatched hut about six by ten feet and not high enough inside for me to stand. A single oil lamp was the only illumination. Jumma had prepared a mouth-watering meal of several courses for us. After dinner had been served on the dirt floor on borrowed dishes, we gave Jumma our gifts. When she saw what we had brought, she screamed piercingly, violently pounded her head against the ground, and tore out her hair in bloody tufts. We were shocked and didn’t know what to do. The surrounding villagers rushed in while Anand tried to comfort her. We couldn’t understand what had happened. Half an hour later, when Jumma finally calmed down, Anand explained that she had just lost inconceivable “face”. On seeing our gifts, this poor woman believed that Anand and she could never repay us. When we explained that the gifts were inexpensive, she was mollified to a degree.
As we talked later in the evening, and Jumma proudly showed off her son, she asked us questions through Anand. Jumma spoke neither English nor the local language of Oriya. She wanted to know how many children we had. When we said that we had none, she asked how many years we had been married. Our answer of seven years caused her to believe that we were infertile. Although she knew about birth control, she could not understand the concept of choosing childlessness. After private discussion, our two impoverished friends then offered us the ultimate gift: their firstborn son. They both adored this child, but, as Jumma said, it was clear that they could have another child while we would die in old age without the pleasure of a family.
What does one say in the face of such startling openheartedness? After forty-five minutes of awkwardly delicate explanations, we finally convinced them that we both were fertile but had chosen not to have children. Nevertheless, we were dumbfounded. We knew they recognized that we could provide a fine future for their child, and yet we witnessed firsthand how vital he was to their existence. We live in a society where personal possessions and family are jealously guarded. I had only met Jumma briefly the year before, while Helene knew neither of them before that night. Yet, for us, this kind couple was willing to undergo the supreme sacrifice and give us the most precious thing in their lives: their beloved son. As long as we live, this experience will remain for us the absolute pinnacle of unselfishness.
Indian hospitality is endearing and sometimes disarming, particularly when offered by a family that lives in evident poverty. How can I, whose dress and demeanor indicate relative wealth, accept charity from someone who has so little?
Throughout India, I have been invited into homes for meals or tea. At each level and religion of those societies, it is considered an honor and a duty to care for guests and welcome strangers. Indian hospitality is endearing and sometimes disarming, particularly when offered by a family that lives in evident poverty. How can I, whose dress and demeanor indicate relative wealth, accept charity from someone who has so little? And yet it would be a deep insult to refuse these proffered gifts. My rejection would dishonor the family and injure their pride. Hundreds of times, I have sat on the floor of tiny one-roomed huts packed with their many inhabitants while women prepared for me beverages and food. Usually, the food is offered to me alone: many Indian subcultures consider it disrespectful to eat with a guest. I worry that by feeding me, family members might go without sustenance. What can I do?
If overnighting with someone, I usually bring them a gift. But I have learned to be wary of giving too freely. It may undermine a community’s or family’s self-pride, and among children, can encourage begging. I prefer to find an elder to give sweets for later sharing with the young or a teacher to give pens to hand out in class.
Many Indians highly value the praise of foreigners, particularly after centuries of condescension during British rule. I try to interact with all I meet, showing proper respect for elders, appropriate deference to women, and playfulness with children. All Indian families adore their children and are grateful for compliments about them, except in those subcultures where customs mandate that praise of a child might draw bad luck (termed as “the evil eye.”) All homes, however small, include objects or aspects precious to their inhabitants. I always take particular care to notice and compliment them.
Years ago, I invented a method to prevent unduly draining my hosts’ resources. On my way into a remote village, I prepare first by shopping in an urban vegetable market, bartering for a broad selection of fresh vegetables and fruit that might not be available in remote communities. Upon receiving an invitation into the home of some stranger to share in a meal, a common occurrence, I inform them that I would be honored to accept, but unfortunately, I’m carrying fresh food that must be cooked. Otherwise, it will go bad. In this way, I can give to the family while still allowing them to provide hospitality. I can eat of their thoughtful and often delicious preparations without endangering their wellbeing, and accept their warm generosity without harming their dignity. Nevertheless, despite all my efforts, I always feel humbled by their gifts to me.
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Dr Stephen P. Huyler is the author of Transformed by India: A Life, a memoir of his life - which has been dedicated to exploring, preserving, and celebrating India’s rich artistic and cultural heritage, much of which is disappearing. An art historian, cultural anthropologist, photographer, and author, his six earlier books provide unbeatable coverage of India’s sacred arts and crafts. He has been the Curator or Exhibitor at major exhibitions in at least 25 globally important museums.
