Atithi Devabhava

The evening descended gently over the small bazaar of Salipur, wrapping it in a tired, dusty calm. Shops began pulling down their tin shutters with familiar clanks, kerosene lamps flickered awake, and the smell of fried snacks mingled with that of damp earth. A few villagers lingered near the bus stand, though everyone knew the last bus to Bhubaneswar had left long ago.

Near the closed ticket counter stood an elderly American couple, visibly confused and exhausted. The man—tall, white-haired, with a walking stick—looked at the faded signboard again and again as if it might suddenly change its meaning. His wife, shorter, frail, with a floral scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, clutched her handbag nervously.


“Are you sure this is Salipur?” she asked, her voice edged with panic. “Yes, Martha. This is Salipur,” replied Edward Collins, sighing. “And there’s no bus tonight. That fellow just told me.” “But how can there be no bus?” she whispered. “We were supposed to be back in Bhubaneswar before dark.”

Edward rubbed his temples. “India doesn’t always work on schedules, my dear.” They exchanged helpless looks. A few steps away, under a banyan tree, Saraswati Devi, an old tea-seller, was rinsing glasses in a bucket. Her back was bent with age, her grey hair tied into a small knot, and her face bore deep lines carved by years of heat, hardship, and patience. She had been watching the foreigners for some time. “They look lost,” she muttered to herself.

 She walked up to a nearby shopkeeper. “Who are they?” “Foreigners,” he replied. “Americans, I think. They came from Bhubaneswar in the afternoon. Missed the return bus.” Saraswati frowned. “Then where will they stay?” “There’s no lodge here,” another man said. “Maybe they’ll have to sit here till morning.” She looked again at the old couple—their tired faces, their uneasy glances, the way Martha clutched Edward’s arm like a frightened child. Something stirred inside her. She stepped forward hesitantly. “Madam… sir…” she said in broken Hindi mixed with gestures. “Problem?”

 Edward smiled politely but looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” A small crowd gathered. Someone translated in halting English, “Bus… no bus… night… stay problem.” Martha’s eyes widened. “Oh God.” Saraswati listened carefully. Though she did not know English, she understood distress. She straightened herself and said firmly, “They can come to my house.” The men looked at her in surprise. “Are you sure, Sara Aai? They are foreigners.” “So what?” she snapped. “They are old.” Someone translated her words.

Edward looked deeply moved. “That’s very kind,” he said slowly. “We don’t want to trouble anyone.” Saraswati waved her hand dismissively. “Come. Come.” Her house lay at the edge of the village—a small mud-walled structure with a tiled roof, a single bulb glowing weakly inside. She led them in, offering them a wooden cot and some water. “You rest,” she gestured. In the kitchen, she lit the stove. Tonight, she decided, she would cook properly. She slaughtered a country chicken, cleaned it carefully, and cooked it with onions, garlic, turmeric, and mustard oil. She kneaded dough and rolled out rotis with practiced hands. The aroma filled the house. Edward inhaled deeply. “Smells… amazing.”
 Martha smiled for the first time that evening. They sat cross-legged on a mat as Saraswati served them. She watched with curiosity as they ate, laughing and talking animatedly. She wished her grandson Rakesh were home. “If Rakesh were here,” she thought, “he would talk to them. He knows English. He studies in Cuttack.”


Their laughter grew louder. Their voices flowed freely. Saraswati’s curiosity gnawed at her. In the corner lay Rakesh’s old tape-recorder. She hesitated, then switched it on quietly and placed it near the thin bamboo partition separating her room from theirs.

 “They are nice people,” she told herself. “I just want to hear.” That night passed peacefully. At dawn, Edward and Martha packed their bags. They touched Saraswati’s feet awkwardly. “Thank you,” Edward said, placing some notes in her hand. She pushed his hand away gently but firmly. “No. Atithi Devabhava.” Martha’s eyes filled with tears. They left.

The following Saturday, Rakesh returned. His grandmother welcomed him with pride and excitement. “Rakesh,” she said eagerly, “foreigners stayed here. Such loving people.” He smiled. “Really?” “Yes. Listen.” She handed him the tape-recorder. Rakesh pressed play. Laughter crackled, then Edward’s voice—clear, mocking. “These people are unbelievably gullible.” Martha laughed. “Did you see that woman? Thinks we’re gods just because we’re white.” “They worship stones and monkeys,” Edward said. “No wonder they live like this.” Martha chimed in, “Crude food, filthy houses… and yet they smile as if it’s all divine.” Rakesh froze. “They call this culture?” Edward continued. “Primitive.”

The tape stopped. Saraswati looked at her grandson’s pale face. “What did they say?” Rakesh swallowed hard. “Aai… they were laughing at us.” Her hands trembled. “At us?” “At our gods… our lives… you.” A single tear rolled down Saraswati’s wrinkled cheek. She wiped it slowly. “Still,” she whispered, “they were guests.” The tape-recorder lay silent. Outside, the tea kettle boiled again. Life went on. But something inside her had quietly broken—and yet, just as quietly, remained dignified.