You're a superstar!

When I arrive in the village in the silver Mazda that is my chariot crowds of children gather and follow me through the little paths between rice fields. I feel like the pied piper, without a pipe. When the staff I am following stops, we are at the gathering place. The group I am meeting with rises, and presents me with wreaths and bouquets of gardenia and hibiscus flowers.
We sit and the group members introduce themselves and do a lesson. We talk about what they are learning, and how they apply it to their lives. I ask questions to see how much support they receive from their community and they fidget nervously, hoping that they give the right answers.
As we talk the children who followed me in crowd in around the group to listen. The women of the village come out on their porches to watch what is going on. Before long, the men have joined them, until the whole village is gathered in the courtyard to see the foreigner chatting with the boys group.
After the discussion there is a skit and though there are 100 people watching, the players face my direction and present the message of preventing early marriage to me. With beards attached to their faces with chewing gum the "men" try to be gruff. The "women" clad in their mothers sari's are delicate and submissive. At the end there is huge applause and the boys grin and bow.
We spend a few minutes practicing English, and I answer a questions about my self. Where do I live? How many brothers and sisters do I have? How did I learn Bangla? (Somewhere in the last 3 years I've outgrown the "are you married?" and "How old are you?" questions. Score a point for me!)
I rise to leave, trying to delicately handle the urgent "Please come again!"'s pressed on me from every side. Apparently one of the adult group members has prepared tea and we go in to the house and eat bananas, cookies and tea.
We try leaving again, and are successful this time, with merely a short stop at the home of a local journalist with whom the staff are on friendly terms.
We meander back through the rice paddies to the road with twice the entourage I had on arrival. I duck back into the car and they close the door behind me. I wave to the group members and their mothers. As we pull away the youngest children chase the car. Our elegant exit is marred by a big pothole and the children easily catch the car. Then we pass the hole and make our way to the next group.
"Didi," says the field manager, "you should have worn a sari, then the whole district would have come out to see you." "That's quite OK, we did fine without them."

If I come home thinking the world revolves around me, - its not really my fault!