The LONG night train (Part 2)

The station is nearly deserted and still open to the elements. I’m enchanted as I registered no significant changes to the platform that I’ve stepped onto as a small child in my mother’s arms; as a youngster being playfully chased by an older sister, and a half-dozen times as an young and full-grown adult traveling mostly alone. Intuitively I knew this would be the last time I’d trace these steps, yet the intuition was supplemented by a profound gut feeling that I was here for a very particular purpose, one that would serve others as much as it would serve me.

An uncontrollable serge of emotions swept over me as I stepped onto the platform. I slipped on my sunglasses to cover my tear-filled eyes then wiped them with the tips of my gloves. I was having difficulty focusing on the here and now while the foggy image from the past sharpened into view. There before me was my 14-year-old sister with long brown hair parted down the middle 70s-style with her long bangs tuck behind her ears revealing her freckled face. With a parental expression she smiles and motions for me to follow her down the very wide concrete steps to the tunnel, which leads to the interior of the station. I remember the sleeveless turquoise and brown print dress she’s wearing. I turned to look behind me in hopes of seeing my 11-year-old-slender-self in a black and white dress with a wide collar, white knee socks and black paten leather flats and a 35mm camera hanging from my neck. Instead I saw my mother, 15 years younger than she is now, waving at someone on the train as it pulled away from the station. The memories of this tiny place, a mere dot on a map of the planet, are powerful and so readily available, which explains the emotions flooding over me. I remember this scene as if it were yesterday. This is the day my mum came to the station with me to prolong our parting. She’s waving goodbye as I returned London and then onto Gatwick Airport for the flight to San Francisco, leaving her in Ramsgate to care for an aging mother. Yet from where I stand today I can see the tears in my mother’s eyes that weren’t visible from a departing train. I’ve always admired my mother for her tremendous strength, which is just as apparent today as then. Yet as I stand here for what seems like an eternity allowing the precious memories to come, I too am attempting to conceal the trepidation for what lies before me. In the words of Raymond Lindquist, “courage is the power to let go of the familiar.” I've never felt more certain that I am my mother’s daughter.

I came to the bulky cherry wood double doors with small square-paned windows that led to the interior of the station. I grasped one of the chilly pole handle and pulled it toward me; the doors were as stiff and heavy as I remembered. I walked briskly at first and then slowed wanting to savor each of the lovely memories that have been awakened by my arrival. I looked down at the shinning hardwood floor and could see the reflection of my present self. I scanned the interior of the station, my mind recording more characteristics of the station that have gone unchanged, like the ticket agent windows with rod-iron bars from decades ago. I stopped at the thick old wooden doors made even thicker by the many coats of paint and took a deep breath. I was afraid that once I stepped out of the station the precious memories would cease. I reminded myself of the beauty of the present moment even though I was a bit frightened by the uncertainty it would bring. The door creaked as I pushed it open reentering the sunny crisp day still in its childhood. I did my best to collect myself rolling my shoulders and straighten my posture and it seemed to do the trick.

The station was built in a semi-circle with a one-way driveway directing all buses, taxis and private cars in the same direction as if to handle the same traffic of a big-city station. There’s a long line of small economy cars turned taxis parked curb-side of the inner circle just waiting for fares. It’s so deserted and quiet I thought I might have overlooked a British holiday, but it’s simply the characteristics of a remote suburban town far from the city in the middle of the work-day and week. Most of the drivers are napping or reading the newspaper. I tapped on the window of the first taxi in the line. The driver quickly closed his newspaper, straightened his posture and gestured eagerly for me to get in. I maneuvered my body just right so I wouldn’t have to remove my backpack to get in the small car for hire. The driver was in his mid-sixties, slender with wild thinning silver hair and smelt of clove-like cigarettes. Before he had time to ask, I gave him the address and he replied, “Cheers love.”

As we pulled away from the station the reminiscent tears began again. The drive to the familiar road was shorter than I remember but it gave the driver time enough to comment that I was American and ask what brought me to his small coastal town. I kept my reply brief, “My grandparents are laid to rest here and I spent some time here during their lives and wanted to visit again, seizing the opportunity on my way to India.” I managed to say all that while holding back the unexplainable tears. Before I knew it we were about to turn onto the end of the road where my grandparents spent the last years of their lives, and where, at the other end, their ashes rest. I positioned myself to be able see what use to be my grandparents’ house from the car window, knowing it to be the first house on the block.

Several of the houses on Church Road were reduced to rubble by Hitler’s bombs during WWII, but when the war ended and the rebuilding began a miss-calculation left a small plot of land on the west side of the last house built. My grandfather bought the house because of that extra bit of land and turned it into a garden. I remember that garden fondly with the several colors of sweet pea vines growing up the red brick privacy wall. Spring flowers typical of an English garden grew all around the perimeter of the grassy center, left for lounging. The house got the attention of all that passed by after my mother painted both the front door and the gate to the garden bright red. The memory of my grandmother standing at the front door whether to greet me as I arrived or wave to me as I departed will remain in my heart and mind forever.

“Here we are Love,” the driver announced, but I was disoriented because someone dropped a house on my grandfather’s garden. My heart sunk deep as I swallowed my disappointment. I too can be reluctant to embrace change, especially when it rushes at me like a rabid dog, as it is at this moment. I paid the driver, got out of the car and I stood frozen in front of the house my grandparents, and then mother, took care of with such reverence. Today it stands neglected begging for the love and attention it once knew.

The LONG night train to Varanasi

I continued to gaze out the dirty window. My viewed impeded by condensation but as the train gathered speed the fog cleared bringing unfamiliar scenery into focus. I had no idea why the train was mostly empty but I was grateful to have some personal space, a commodity we in the West take for granted. I took my new cell phone out of my pocket and stared at it as I calculated the time difference, which deduced that those I might want to call were most likely fast asleep in the middle of their night. The excitement of this new experience was still serving as adrenaline yet I could feel a wave of exhaustion settling in after completing the dash from new to old Delhi train stations.

The train rocking side to side was an invitation to drift into my memory remembering the many train journeys I’ve taken over the coarse of my life. The film in my mind went back as far as the trains I took in Germany as a toddler and a pre-teen, as well as those in England as a young adult, which I anticipated with great joy, even more than the most popular Disneyland ride. I’m certain this nineteen-hour night-train will undoubtedly play a vital role in this half-century spiritual quest. But another more recent railed journey, which also left a modern city center to journey to a more historical one, is begging for reminiscent review.

Only four short weeks ago I boarded a shiny fresh coach at Victoria Station to travel to the coastal white-cliffs town of Ramsgate where my grandparents spent the last chapters of their simple but precious lives. When I arrived in London I had no intention, not even an inkling to go to Ramsgate. I purposely chose London because it’s familiar to me and would serve to break the jet lag brought on by traveling halfway across the world. Also, I was a bit concern that I might not get another opportunity to visit this ancient land from which a precious part of my heritage originates.

I stepped into the pristine railcar and went straight for the four-top or cluster of four seats with a table in the middle that would serve as my lunch table and desk to write during the two-and-half-hour journey. The train hummed as it built up speed as if to say, braggingly, that it was new. Only half a dozen passengers shared this car with me. Shortly after leaving the station I saw the refreshment cart being pushed through the automatic doors between the cars. The trolley attendant, a round cheerful lady in her early sixties, gray wavy hair wearing a deep-blue apron to match the décor, stopped next to me and asked, “Anything from the trolley Love?” I laughed to myself remembering that Harry Potter was asked the same thing on his first train journey to Hogwarts. Seated across from Ron and he replied, “We’ll take the lot!” meaning every sweet on the cart. Still laughing, I replied, “I’ll just have tea, please.” She put a triangle-shaped tea bag in a PG Tips recyclable paper cup and filled it with piping hot water. I have been familiar with PG Tips tea all my conscious life thanks to a British mum who taught me how to properly brew a good cup of tea. A function she might have learned from her Irish father who had traveled to India several decades before me. This was another of the sentimental memory clues that continually and superbly appear along the journey of my life as if God herself is placing them before me to remind me of my connection with those I love. She stopped pouring to ask, “You take milk in your tea Love?” “Yes, thank you.” I replied. My mum has always called people “Love,” it’s an English thing I surmise, as well as another memory clue. It’s at these times that I miss my mum the most as she’s my favorite person to create new memories with. She and I have had great times reminiscing the joys, beauties and comedic mishaps of our adventures together. I’m sure it’s from her that I get my child-like wonderment about the world and the adventures of living. It’s her that I think of when I see beauty in life, like a rainbow, because with her it’s never ‘just another rainbow’, it’s that particular rainbow as if there has been no other before it and no other like will come again. I enjoyed the tea with my sack-lunch of chicken watercress sandwich and salt & vinegar crisps that I purchased the day before.

I finished my lunch and opened my laptop to write and at the same time I felt myself being swept away by the romance of the moment, the train rolling smoothly over the tracks, the sun of the new day shining softly into the window across the isle and the satisfaction of having everything I need to let the words flow from my heart, down my arms and off my fingers tips onto to keyboard. At times the words would hide from me and to find them I only had to look out at the cottages, gardens and green pastures gently sloping past the window and there arranged among the scenery was the perfect phrase.

Two hours passed quickly and we would soon reach Ramsgate. I tucked my tools away and gave my attention to the passing stations, some the train would stop and others it would merely stroll through. I began to get a sense of how close we were to the little costal town that holds so many ethereal memories stored deeply in my heart. It’s been nearly two decade since I’ve visited this seacoast town and I’m secretly hoping that I’ve traveled far enough down these tracks, laid so long ago, to make the world stand still and if not still, somehow untouched like passing through C.S. Lewis’ wardrobe.

I knew we were close as we passed through the small town of Broadstairs, where my sister was born more than half a century ago. Just then a disembodied voice over the PA system echoed, “Next station, Ramsgate.” The rolling became a soft rock as the train slowed to the last stop. I felt the butterflies begin to swirl. I ask myself, “Why are you anxious?” I waited but no answer came.

The sun is deceivingly bright and to naïve travelers would give the impression that it was warmer here than in London. I remembered that a winter Ramsgate breeze isn’t all that kind to exposed skin; I dug into my pocket for my gloves. I stood at the automated doors as the train came to a full stop. I pressed the release and the shiny stainless doors disappeared into the walls of the train.