The Sleepless Village

The burden of a hard night's sleep and the blessing of hospitality

Their home was pieced together by mud, bamboo, and tin. Chickens circled the property, proving to be insufficient security personnel, totally oblivious to the presence of foreign invaders. Priya showed us the room they’d prepared, just large enough to hold a plywood bed frame. A small table stood to the side holding a notebook as thin as the foam we would sleep on. A thick brown quilt was rolled up like a jumbo Ho-Ho† at the foot of the bed. Two pillows made of torn cloth scraps waited to cradle the heads of the most fortunate among us.

“I’m sorry. It’s so small. It’s all we have.”

I thanked her, knowing her family of five adults would share a small room tonight. At least we had the benefit of three bodies still in the growing stage. The littlest one, just past her first birthday, would sleep in a portable cot at the foot of the bed. It just barely squeezed between the frame and the wood plank passing as a door. My husband and I would share the full-size bed with our 9 year old daughter and 6 year old son. By morning, we would be well acquainted with their bony elbows, poky knees, and chilly toes.

We took the trip a week before Christmas on the way to hold a festive program in another village. We hoped the experience would give the kids some perspective before grandparents flooded our living room with Christmas boxes, burying the Christmas tree and overshadowing the centrally placed Nativity scene.

After 7 months of lockdown during the pandemic, we were anxious to reunite with a family who had been a central part of our ministry. Financial struggle drove them back to their village 6 hours from the city. Mukti opened a jewelry shop and contributed to life on his father’s farm. Priya called often, but I missed her hugs and the way we she looked down at her sneakers when I asked, “How are you doing?”

The evening passed with steaming mugs of chai, crispy biscuits, and lively chatter. Our son, aptly named Shepherd, walked a goat on a rope, force-feeding it grass and bamboo. He squealed as he scared pigeons out of the wooden box hollowed out to house them. Priya’s dad, said, “Can we keep him?”

The ground around their dwelling was uneven, and the little one enjoyed throwing herself down its steep dips. The first few hours, I chased her with wipes, obsessively cleaning her face and hands like a pageant mom. I gave up once her last pair of clean clothes was soiled.

While our hosts butchered a chicken in the darkness, she became restless. I fed her digestive biscuits and warm milk in a vain attempt to put her to bed without dinner. She wailed and clawed at my face, aware that my breast-offering was nothing but a bribe. Please go to sleep was my selfish prayer. I’d plumbed my last well of energy keeping her from danger.

“Is nani¹ sick?” Mukti asked. I smiled weakly, assuring him we were all doing just fine.

He ushered me to a plate of rice and stir-fried vegetables, an elaborate token of friendship. It’s all we have. I was too grateful to receive it. I quickly scooped up the bounty, unwittingly signaling a desire for more. I cringed as Priya piled one — no, two! — extra heaps per polite custom. My stomach knocked at the button on my jeans, pleading for mercy.

Lulled by the sounds of a jungle at rest, we bid goodnight to our hosts. My husband and two bigger kids lined up at the head of the bed like a row of Jenga blocks. I lay at their feet, parallel to the baby rustling in the travel cot below. She quieted down after several minutes demanding a vacancy that didn’t exist. I folded my arms under my head, prayed for rest to come, and sorted through conflicting emotions of contentment and dismay. Consciousness collapsed though I remained partially alert. I could take a kick to the face any moment.

The battle for blanket and pillows ensued. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth. The baby ended up on top of me, cluster feeding until morning. My back and hips demanded a different position, but I was stuck. All night, at least one person was awake, attempting to find comfort to no avail. In the morning, my older daughter confessed that she tried sleeping with her head on the side table.

At 3:30, I heard metal dishes clank and steel utensils scrape cast iron pans. Water splashed and hot oil clattered. Aama² coughed and cleared her throat as she cooked over the fire she made. I groaned before I realized she was making breakfast for us. I was humbled but sore, struggling to stretch my way into good spirits.

An hour later, a sliver of sunlight crawled past the thin cotton curtain separating us from the waking world. My husband sat up and said, “Enough of that. Let’s get up,” He pushed each drooling Jenga block off the mat. The eyes staring back at us were puffy and dotted with confusion.

Shepherd joined Aama in the closet-kitchen though there was no room for him. She said, “Thanks for helping me, babu.³” She asked what all the crying was for but didn’t complain about being jolted awake. My weariness melted away as I stirred a spoonful of sugar into piping hot tea. We got to the bottom of our cups, and the kids asked for seconds. “It’s all we have,” Aama said. She offered to go to town to get more leaves as it were no trouble at all.

There was just enough light for the next step on the walk we took to divert the whines for more chai, more chai. Reaching a clearing, we caught the sun illuminating snowy peaks. The mountains loomed over us. We were statuettes in standing ovation, thankful to be awake to such a sight. Amazed by the God who brought us here, joined our worlds with wonderful people, and got us through the night.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Sleepless."

1. Nani means ‘baby girl’ or ‘little girl’

2. Aama is a respectful term for ‘mother’ or adult woman.

3. Babu means ‘baby boy’ or ‘little boy’