I had a tent in India, on the outskirts of Saora tribe village. February just began, a short winter changed to summer, which will be interrupted only by the rainy season in August.

In Andhra Pradesh, tribes are mixed, uncivilized Saora living in the same territory as Jatapu, forced to use their surnames. For the inhabitants of cities they are the lowest caste. Social workers read lectures, teach the right traditions, "train savages". All fields and hills around - someone's property, most of the harvest goes to owner. Only one girl in our village knows English, Hindi does not know anybody. Sign language is commonly understood.

    Saora have their own religion, and Catholicism, and Hinduism. Rituals to defeat evil spirits, cellphone to call a friend. No internet, water from the pump, electricity not stable. For breakfast, lunch and dinner - rice with curry. Killing cows and eating beef is hiding from strangers. They make beds and brooms themselves, but everything else buying in the store. Traditional clothes are sari and pants-skirts for men, but young people wear jeans and T-shirts with prints.

    Shaman is singing, and there is time to think. About city life, about Saora's life, about myself. Then shaman awakes from trance. A huge curved knife cuts off cock’s head. The blood stains the altar and flows through the field. Beans will grow better. The harvest will be greater. Life will be better.