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.

Night train to Varanasi

Nasir and his uncle discussed what to do and the next moment I was running up an escalator behind Nasir. He said, “Come Trassee!” He gained a good ten-feet in front of me, my wheeled-bag flapping like a tethered bird trying to escape its trainer. “Nasir, will I make my train?” I yelled. But he didn’t hear me. Then I began to laugh and invite what this new experience was bringing. Then I knew deep in my heart that I’d be on this train when it pulled away from station. I wasn’t sure how, but certainty flowed in and though each of my billions cells. Then I felt an energy boost as though an injection of something powerful was released and I picked up the pace. I ran with confidence, conviction and most of all trust, that all would be well and that this event is a very important part of my journey. As I followed Nasir down the many tunnels that connected the new and old parts of this city, my consciousness struggled, without success, to recall a time when I had this much energy. At fifty-one years old I was hurtling stairs with a heavy pack on my back, weaving through what seemed like half of Mother India’s children. As I ran my mental hard drive continued its search and suddenly stopped abruptly on a memory file, almost thirty years old, complete with images of me running up and down the hilly terrain of Camp Pendleton. Another surge of adrenaline rushed in as I closed the distance between Nasir and me. I’m nearly giddy by the excitement of the chase. I wondered why I kept running when I knew with certainty I’d be on the train to Varanasi. But how did I know? Where was this feeling of confidence coming from? As I befriended it I realize it was a kin to the faith that told me that this journey was predetermined, maybe even written in Sanskrit on some ancient scrolls that says, “Tracy will walk the banks for the Ganges in this particular century, this decade, and this year, even on this particular day.”

Our bodies came to an abrupt stop as we slammed into the stainless steel ticket counter of the Metro station. The ticket agent was undisturbed by our sudden and almost aggressive appearance. His lack of reaction confirmed my suspicions that people often emerge abruptly because they’re all in a rush to get where they are going. Where is everyone going in such a hurry? Why don’t they just leave earlier? But it’s not that they’re in a hurry, it’s that there are just so many people, period. I’m coming from a country with a population of 309 million and recently arrived in a country with over one billion people in it and they are all competing for their space in line, for a seat on a train, for their turn to be heard.

I slipped a ten-rupee note through the opening in bottom of the thick Plexiglas. I took my change and thought, “I get change?” But I’ll compute the cost at some later date. Nasir pulled one of the tokens out of the palm of my hand and resumed his lead position. I went straight for the turnstiles and realized I’ve lost Nasir. I turned to find Nasir and instead came face to face with a tall skinny man in a drab khaki uniform and a black leather belt with several molded compartments holding enough unknown objects to make him look intimidating. He held out his arm to stop me from entering the Metro. I followed the sharp military crease up his long-sleeve and into his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. He was void of any real expression as I attempted to translate his blank face into instructions I could follow. I wanted to say, “Not now fella I got a train to catch.” He said something in Hindi while pointing to some where behind me just as I heard Nasir say, “Trassee, you must but your bag here.” I turned as he dropped my Osprey on the large conveyor belt of a dirty x-ray machine that looked like an O’Hara Airport reject from seventies. Nasir responded to the police on my behalf, probably saying something like, “Silly foreigner, she doesn’t know.” They laughed, I laughed, and we crab the bags and made a quick u-turn to the down-escalator to the platform below us. I’m relieved to find another constant anchoring the familiar with the unfamiliar. These mechanical steps looked just like those leading to the platform at the Powell Street BART Station. I was amazed to see that a particular universal decorum was practiced by commuters all over the world as those choosing to ride stood to the right descended slowly to the platform, while Nasir and I, along with a few others, took to the left as we flew down the moving stairs, skipping every other one.

I realized I was having a blast, even though I was quickly becoming drenched in sweat from wearing more clothes than needed for an unplanned workout. The likeness of this system with those in San Francisco, New York and London gave me a cultural-constant and comfort as time slowed the faster I moved. It was happening in slow motion in my head, while my body was getting another infusion of adrenaline. I saw Nasir almost take out a couple of commuters with my bag that slapped both sides of the escalator walls. The loud thud, was just what I needed to get my mind and body on the same speed. I laughed with relief that I didn’t have the usual breakable souvenirs in my bag that I’ve collected on previous foreign holidays as a tourist. Instead it’s filled with a sleeping bag, a zipper-hooded fleece, a headlamp; not for coal mining but finding the toilet when the lights go out, which I’ve been told happens often. It hits me like the train I’m running to catch and I stumble to a full stop and I say outloud, “Oh my god, I’m not a tourist here! And if I’m not a tourist, then what am I?” Nasir turns to ensure his charge is still keeping up, instead he’s sees that I have stopped. “Come on Trassee, you must run!” I re-position my grasp on the present moment and begin to make a mental list of the inquiries I’m shelving for a less-dramatic moments.

A polished silver train approached from deep inside the tunnel. I followed closely behind Nasir as this would be the wrong time to get separated. The train came to a sudden stop, making the passengers sway back and forth. The train was packed full of working-class Indians that all wore western clothes. I looked at Nasir with a “you really think they’re going to let us on?” expression. The doors open and he took a tight grip around my forearm and pushed me into the crowd of exiting passengers in a country where personal space was non-existent. This slender handsome salmon was determined to make it up and over the waterfall with his charge. The doors closed behind us and I looked for a place to hold on but there was none. I chuckled, realizing it’ll be impossible for me to fall over I couldn’t even see my feet. Heeding the warnings over the loudspeaker in both Hindi and English to beware of pickpockets, I placed one hand on my waist where my money-belt was concealed under three layers of clothing. I gripped Nasir’s sleeve silently saying thank you for going to great lengths to get me on a train, that he wished I wouldn't take for one or two more days. He smiled big, which I took as confirmation that I was forgiven for not fulfilling his wish.

I was tempted to look at my watch but I made a pact with myself that I would just move toward my train and once on the train I could check the time. This would a demonstration of faith, which I knew from previous experience caused very powerful results. For right now the lighted kiosk above the doors got my focus. Nasir confirmed with a nearby passenger that Old Delhi train station would be the next stop. Nasir grabbed my forearm again and looked at me intently as if to say, “Get ready!” I knew that another race was just outside these doors, but other that, I was clueless. The doors opened; last in, first to be pushed out! The shove was just what we needed to establish the momentum to run up the escalator stairs. If I said “Excuse me!” once I said it a hundred times, but I might as well have been saying, “Please stay where you are. I want to increase this game’s difficulty!” I’m sure I left some bruises in my wake.

I watched Nasir move in and out of the ground noticing his inexhaustible effort to get me to the train. It would have been so easy for him to say, “Oh well Tracy, you’ll have to go another day” once he realized the mistake that was made. It’s as if it was his mistake and he wasn’t going to let this karma come back around.

We must be very close because the western clothing has changed to the traditional wardrobe of India. Colorful sarrees and Punjabi suits worn by the women eclipsed the men in drab-colored shirts and trousers. We stood on the stairs above a platform when Nasir yelled the name of my train into the crowd. An available coolie responded with the platform number, which was where we stood, and he snatched my bag from Nasir’s grip as if it was a empty straw basket. Nasir stood on the threshold that he couldn’t cross without a platform ticket. The hand-off was instantaneous. I was now following the coolie down more stairs that led to my waiting train. Was it waiting for me, because the usual platform campers had all disappeared? Once I reached the flat surface I turned around to look at Nasir, telling him “Good bye” with my eyes. It’s not appropriate for men and women to exchange even platonic affection in public. I’ve never left a friend or loved one at the ‘curb’ without even a ceremonial embrace until now. Nasir shouted from the top of the stairs, “Bye Trassee. Don’t pay him more than 65 rupees!” Not the usual good-bye I’ve come accustom to, but nothing is as I’m accustom to.

My coolie took off like a bull-legged pack-mule who had been slapped on the hide quarters. He must have been very aware that the train would pull out at any minute. Watching him run with such exaggerated bows in his legs reminded me of mixer blades doing more folding than whipping.

Still running, I managed to pull my ticket free from my fanny-pack to confirm the coach number. It seemed as if two hours had passed with all the excitement, but it’s not possible because my train is still here and I was told from a reliable source that originating trains always leave on time. Holding to my agreement, I resisted the urge to look at my watch reminding myself, “No you don’t! This is a journey of trust!” I looked for my coolie who I lost track of when running while extrapolating information from my eTicket. I looked for my bag, which is the only familiar thing I could lock onto in these extremely unfamiliar surroundings. I looked behind me doubting that I passed him, but sure enough he was coming up behind me panting, his leathery skin drenched in sweat. My blue Osprey was still mysteriously perched on his head as he ran. Both of us in our fifties; mine were early and his were probably late. We might be in the same place but our cultures put us very in different worlds. His skin is dark and wrinkled by the both the closeness of the sun and his arduous occupation. He looked so small in the distance. Then I realized it wasn’t the distance but his height, or lack there of, that made him seem so small. I stood taller than him even with my bag on his head. I let him catch up to me to ask him which was my train since there were trains on both sides of the tracks. He must have understood enough English because he pointed to the right with his free hand while the other kept my bag balanced on his head with the help of a loosely draped red turban.

My attention was captured by the painted ‘B2’ in on the dingy grey-blue coach. I’ve surely run the entire length of the train. I looked behind me and couldn’t see the end of the train and then glanced up the track in front of me and there were only two other coaches and the engine. If I had more time to inspect the train I would have been concerned that it looked as though it’s been in service since Gandhi was alive. I remember landing at the Delhi Airport and as our pristine plane taxied to the gate I looked out the window at the passing train. I was shocked to see people riding on the top, which I thought was a thing of the past. I was about to learn that the many documentaries on India I watched to prepare for this trip weren’t as out-dated as I thought.

I turned to my coolie and pointed to the coach number. He nodded and said, ‘Achcha!’ Then he asked me something in Hindi as we stood in front of the passenger list pasted to the side of the coach. Before I could remove the folded wet document that once was my ticket, he was pointing to my name on the list. I was shocked. "How does he know my name?" He took my surprise as acknowledgement and disappeared into the coach with my bag still on his head. I followed him through a narrow door that led to the berth compartments. We shuffled and shifted to get our luggage-clad bodies down the small passageway trying not to step on the feet of the seated passengers. I was too deep in cerebral relief to be inside the train, in what I assumed was less than twenty-five minutes, to notice that my presence was stopping numerous conversations as if E. F. Hutton had just boarded. “I’m on the upper berth,” I said loudly, as a clean-shaven tall India man with a gentle face and immaculate haircut stood and lifted my bag the distance between the tiny coolie and the upper berth. My bag now looks like a beached whale on the narrow bunk. The coolie was relieved to be rid of the heavy load and was now looking to be paid. I replayed Nasir’s advice not to give him more than 65 rupees when I looked into the sunken eyes of this exhausted dark-skinned man. He watched intently as I counted the ‘ready cash’ concealed in the back zipper pouch of my fanny-pack. Rupees still looking a bit like Monopoly money to me yet it’s helpful that the notes are different sizes. I pulled out one of the larger bills and expected it for its denomination. I handed him the 100-rupee note wishing I could ask him why he chose such a laborious occupation. I would soon learn the vast difference between my choices and his.

I assumed he was pausing to see if I expected change, but really he was wanted more. I stood up to adjust my bag and couldn’t help but notice that he was still standing there. Before I could say anything to him another passenger in my compartment said something to the coolie and he scoffed and left. As he was leaving I said “Namaste”, hoping that he would realize that I was grateful. I climbed onto the ladder to my berth and stared at my bag wondering how I was going to sleep through the night with this bag taking up a third of my bunk. The man who help lift my bag from the porter said in very clear English asked, “Where’s your chain and lock?” I choose to spare him the boring story of my unsuccessful search in the Chandigarh marketplace for those necessary items. “I don’t have a chain and lock yet.” So instead of him removing my bag from the berth he reached up and pushed it into a vertical angle at the head of the bunk. Part of it rested on the rack that’s for small pieces of over-head luggage such as briefcases. At least it was taking up less of sleeping space. I nodded and said, “I’ll manage. I’m just glad to be aboard. I just ran from New Delhi station where I thought this train left from.” He said, “Well ma’am you’re lucky because this train always leaves on time, but not tonight.”

I scratched my hand on my watch as I peeled off my jacket. I looked at the time. It was 6:10 pm. I smiled to myself and felt sure that I was meant to be on this train. I sat on the lower berth trying to remember if I have ever sweated to this degree. At that moment I felt sure I had triumphed over at least one aspect of menopause; hot flashes. I smiled as I slowed my breathing, which began to cool my body. The air-conditioning, I’m told, would only be turned on once the train had left the station and then it would take a few minutes before we would actually feel it. The car was hot and steamy partly from the passengers who boarded early but they seemed unbothered by the heat but then again they hadn’t just run a marathon. I gazed out the foggy dirty window thinking about how proud I was of myself. I was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps nearly 30 years ago and all through boot camp and four years of active duty I was never required to do what I had just pulled off. I basically completed a 10k obstacles course through the Indian transportation system with a fifteen-pound pack on my back, in jeans, long sleeve shirt and jacket in trekking shoes. The train sped up, but for me everything seemed to slow as I considered all that I have already conquered. I continued to look out the window as the train pulled away from Old Delhi on its way to the even older city of Varanasi where so many new experiences await me.

Who Can You Love?

Was I feeling the results of the age-old caste system? Sonali’s parents were the domestic employees of my gracious hosts. Yet, what I was hearing was a warning not to blur the lines of the neatly ordered boundaries of ‘her place’, ‘their place’ and ‘my place’; everyone, neatly in their ‘place’. I was in shock! I’m attempting to process what I was taught was unconscionable. My hosts, I thought, were as Western as me. I’m so very new to this culture and yet I think this is my first exposure to the centuries-old caste system that until now, I’ve only ever read about. I had to read about it because no here was talking about except to say it "no longer exists." Really?

What I’m hearing is, “It’s not acceptable to love who you love.” I thought my nationality would prevent me, even protect me from having such a hurtful and personal experience. The closest I’ve even come to this is when I was dating an Africa American man in the 1980s. Whenever we were out in public we could pretty much guarantee to get subtle or contemptuous glances of disapproval. It’s evident that this learning curve is not a curve at all; it’s a 180-degree slant that requires a rope to keep me from freefalling into the abyss between the cultural divide.

As I waited for our sodas and fries, the last twenty-nine days of my life is flashing before my eyes. The memory of me sitting with my sister and mother in the café of the Long Beach Airport before my flight to New York too ignorant and innocent to know what I was in store for; the walk around Time Square on a drizzly night, starbursts glisten romantically off the Christmas decorations; a glimpse of myself in the train from London to White Cliffs of Dover and then walking past the house my grandparents once occupied; laying roses where their ashes are interned in a churchyard that’s could aptly be used for a period-film; the evening I stood in the pouring rain waiting at the bus stop across the street from my impromptu home in Battersea; the plane landing in New Delhi and the broken down plane that took me to Kathmandu; the dip in a Nepali river with a playful elephant named after the goddess who fulfills wishes. It’s all so vivid and yet distant. Was it really me who had those experiences or am I remembering a movie about a woman who lost her mind during her first year of menopause?

I have absolutely no idea what the future holds for me. This is both a curse and a blessing, as it gives me nothing to dwell on. It invites me to stay present, for this is the only moment that I can join forces with; this now is the only opportunity I have to choose who I am. I cannot know what anything will be ‘like’ for nothing is ‘like’ anything anymore. It is only in the present where I have a steady grounding. If I can just stay present and let go of wanting this time, this experience, or these people to be like any other I’ve know before, I’ll be alright; I’ll be guided, directed and protected by the simplicity of now.

Before me is my first ‘night train’ and those nineteen hours will give me plenty of time to pray and to create something that looks like a plan. But right now I’ll just regroup and chill. I can’t unleash my emotions on this unsuspecting Wimpy’s counter person or Nasir, who, could hoping to get some sort of mystery commodity from me.

I was given a receipt and picked a table far from any of the other patrons. The table was dirty, the walls were dirty, and the floor, I won’t even go there. Now I missed my mother’s standard of clean in addition to missing her lighthearted repartee. I sat across from Nasir on a sloped-formed bench, disconnected from the surroundings and looked straight into Nasir’s eyes and said to him, “Okay Nasir, who are you really and what do you want from me?” He stammered a bit and then began to tell me his true intention. It was as if the soda was laced with truth serum. In a nutshell, according to this credible source, the whole of India is on commission. Nasir gets a percentage of what I buy from the pashmina dealer, he gets a portion of whatever my travel costs came to had I arranged trips or tours from a number of travel agents he is ‘in relationship’ with, and he’ll return to collect his commission on my cell phone purchase because he brought me; a customer that they would otherwise not had.

I sat with this for a while and then asked, “What’s wrong with this? It occurs for me to be an honest way to make a living as you help Westerners maneuver around a society and culture that can take a lifetime to understand?” Nasir explained to be a professional “Guide” he must fill out an application and pay the local government, and possibly the police, what could be an excessive fee. Most of the very young men, like him, don’t have nearly the amount of rupees to pay the costly fee, so they operate unofficially without the necessary documentation and identification card, hoping to avoid being discovered by police, which would surely take him to jail, possibly beat him severely and release him only after he paid a hefty fine that would only make it as far as the pocket of his captor. Unofficial guides like Nasir only deal with small time shops like the mobile phone dealer he took me to. Most of the retailers Nasir and his counterparts have ‘arrangements’ with are small and hard to locate with limited inventory, which most foreigners would not normally patronize.

So now I’ve got it, I can begin to understand what Nasir is up to. I can’t fault him because if I did I would have to fault myself for so much. These two beautiful human being found each other in this complicated world and is simply trying to work out this life we’ve both been given.

I looked at my watch and it’s 4:30 and I tell Nasir that I want to go now to be early for this long train journey ahead of me. Without a fuss he agrees. We stop by the travel shop to collect my luggage and he easily flags down a rickshaw. On the way to the New Delhi train station Nasir asks, “Trassee, are you angry with me? Do you not like me now?” I start to respond but he interrupts, “Trassee, I want you to be my friend. It’s okay, yes?” he asks while looking at me with his big brown puppy dog eyes. “Yes Nasir, we are friends. I appreciate your honesty and I have no problem with what you do. You must earn a living somehow.”

We arrived at the station and one of his friends which he called 'uncle,' but no relation, came from a large group of men standing on a concrete rise at the entrance of the station. It reminded me of the group of day-workers you can find at parking lot entrance of a Southern California Home Depot in the morning. These men also want to make money, but they must do so by deflecting foreigners from the train station ticket agent to a travel agency for a commission. Nasir told his friend nicely to back-off. I already got a ticket online before leaving Chandigarh. The three of us walked into the station. My train number wasn't displayed on the kiosk as yet, so I had no idea what platform I need to go to board my train. So we stood waiting at a stand that makes fresh squeezed orange juice with an old bulky hand-grinder. Nasir's uncle offered me a glass that was already poured so I choose to accept it without the slightest glance at the rarely-cleaned-machine that produced it. We took some pictures and I my excitement began to turn to concern since the train was due to leave in less than 30 minutes and still my train number hasn't shown up on the board. “Trassee, show me your ticket.” Nasir demanded nicely. I removed my ticket from my fanny pack and he unfolded it and watched them snatch the ticket back and forth examining it. I listened, not able to understand because they spoke in Hindi. Yet concern sounds the same in any language.

This is when I noticed Nasir’s uncle had two thumbs on his right hand! One that looked like every other thumb and a smaller thumb growing from it. It even hand a nail that I assumed would need clipping and filing. The six digits mesmerized me when Nasir said calmly, “Trassee, your train leaves from Old Delhi station and we are at New Delhi station.” I yelled out, “WHAT?”

Looking for a CONSTANT

Nasir told the rickshaw driver to make a series of turns down some narrow thoroughfares that certainly couldn’t be called streets. I thought about what his address might look like and how impossible it would have been for me to find it. I also knew I would never find my way out of this maze without a guide. I consulted my intuition to see if it was okay to enter and since I didn’t have any negative readings I got out of the three-wheeled sardine-can that held the three of us and with my luggage. Nasir paid our dark-skin scruffy driver and took my luggage up a flight of tight and steep stairs that made more than three turns. “How does anyone get furniture up these stairs?” I wondered. We stepped through a narrow doorway that put us all in a three-by-four, what I’d call an entryway. The luggage went ‘thud’ and the guys had their shoes off within seconds, me, well I had to unlace while standing. “Thankfully I had enough sense to prepare my body for this adventure. I relied partly on core strength and partly the support of a bit of wall that framed the makeshift patio. The opening that made this ‘room’ a veranda was filled with a symmetrical heavy fencing, which I assume was there to keep out the monkey troops that roam most cities in India.

The guys disappeared into, what I call an apartment, leaving me on the veranda. At that moment I experienced the difference between Western and Eastern chivalry. I use to love it when men, even male family members, would wait for me. Once my shoes were off I moved into, what one with a Western upbringing might call the ‘front room’. It occurs to me, in this early stage of my journey that I’ve become grounded by the familiarities of my life. Now I’m looking--no searching for a constant, something that is the same in both worlds, but I’m becoming unfastened. I realize that I’m more comfortable when an object or space carries the familiar tag or nomenclature that’s embedded in my memory. With no other plan, and frankly an uncertainty of how to deal with such a new and strange dilemma, I’ll keep tagging things, spaces and experiences to something similar, but I know I’ll have to come up with a more dependable strategy soon.

As I surveyed the small ten by eight foot room I attempted to suppress my surprised expression at the sparseness of the space. There was only a thin rug covering the stone floor and a mattress in the corner, also thin, made for two tiny people with no bed linen and a small color TV perched on smaller table. The only decoration is a poster taped to the wall advertising travel to Kashmir. I realized, I was right, no furniture because nothing could fit up those stairs. I would later come to learn that this is simply how many Indian families live.

Nasir’s mother came to greet me with some prodding from Nasir. We didn’t shake hands, as hers were wet from preparing food I assumed; yet it’s my culture that shakes hands when we meet someone new. I said, “Namaste” but later learned I should have said "Assalaamu 'alaykum" since they are Muslim. I forgot her name almost as soon as it was spoken, because, If I don’t write names down with both the correct and phonetic spelling they fall to either side of my enormous cultural learning curve. She’s modest and doesn’t make eye contact and has pulled her colorful print saree up over her long jet-black hair that is pulled back in a thick braid. She’s younger than me, but I only know this because Nasir told me that he’s twenty-five and she had him when she was quite young. She looks so much older than me as the years of her life haven’t been as gentle to her as mine have been to me. She’s shy, average height with a Buddha-like roundness with very dark skin. Her dark eyes held a friendly jealously, free from hatred or anger. At that moment, I knew with certainty that my prayers tonight would be filled with gratitude for a life of irrefutable choices and opportunities.

I was invited to sit, as the two young men sat cross-legged (lotus) on the thin rug. But nature was calling. I wondered if I should ask to use the restroom or hold it. I did a quick inventory of my blatted and knew I couldn’t hold it so I said quietly to Nasir, “I need to go to the rest…I mean toilet.” knowing that the English spoken here comes from many years of British rule, so I better say ‘toilet’ before this American wets herself. His mother, who speaks no English motioned to the facilities, which in my opinion was the real meaning of a ‘water closet’ because it was wet from ceiling to floor. I had to remove my socks and roll up my jeans and slip a large pair of shower shoes on, which by the looks of them are used by everyone in the family and quite possibly the neighbors too. The pennies were beginning to drop. I remembered the bathroom in my hotel room, which had toilet, sink and shower all together, and no toilet paper holder. I wondered, “Where’s the shower stall?” This room was so strange that I didn’t sleep under the blanket, because I knew the it had been used by lots of guests and I wasn’t adding my name to that list. I didn’t shower, because I remained perplexed as to why there was not a separate shower stall, which seemed like a good excuse to keep my clothes on, in a hotel that was managed and occupied by only men, even while in my own room. I thought I watched enough movies, travel videos and documentaries on India to prepare for the cultural differences. I realized that it wouldn’t matter how many I watched, nothing would have prepared me for the actual experience of being here. I was standing in a brick three-by-three room in one inch of water, digging deep in my pockets hoping to find some tissue, which just wasn’t there. I ‘shook off’ as if I had male parts and let my underwear and my jeans absorb the rest.

Nasir, motioned for me to sit on the small thin mattress with him. He had already opened his laptop and his pictures of Kasmir. I have rarely seen images as beautiful as these, except on the Nature Channel. There were many young 20-something blond fair-skinned Westerners in the photos, but Nasir wasn’t in any of them. I became even more suspicion. After all, I was still sorting the Nasir puzzle pieces out and I had barely started to turn over the straight edged pieces to create the border of who he might be and what motivates him.

Nasir’s younger sister came from a room in the rear of the apartment to greet me, followed by a very small woman, also in a saree, less than four feet tall, who shyly emerged from behind his slender teenage sister. Once the saree slipped off her head and exposed her face I could see that she too is a mature woman yet someone forgot to tell her body this fact. It was obvious by their calm demeanor that they have meet several Westerners before, even in this very same apartment. I’m thinking that his home must serve as Nasir’s net as he fishes fervently for a visa to the United States.

The two ladies left and reemerged with a plastic tablecloth to cover the carpet and to create our dining area. The sister just sat across and observed me while not so politely staring. The food, in the same pots it was cooked in, was placed in the center of the ‘table’. We were all given stainless steel bowl-type plates. The young men dug in without saying so much as ‘Grace’ and piled their plates high with rice, watery yellow dal and curry-colored mixed vegetables. All the food was piping hot so I felt it should be safe, because it would be a grave insult to not eat. I said a quick prayer of thanksgiving and protection while the tiny woman piled food on my plate. I smiled and put my hand up hoping I was making the international symbol for, “That’s plenty, thank you!” I knew I wasn’t going to eat a lot since I was cautioned to do what I could to not have a bowel movement on the train, since the bathrooms were quite disgusting and a place that no one wants to spend that much time.

Nasir and his friend were eating as if it was their last meal and the girls were yet to start. I was witnessing a micro-male-dominance in this little apartment of two rooms and toilet that housed six people, sometimes more when relatives come to visit. I was grateful that his mother gave me a spoon to eat with, while the guys made eating with their hands a cultural art form. The food was too hot to put in my mouth, which causes me to be even more amazed to learn that Nasir’s mouth can not only stretch to fit the best part of his fist, but is also lined with asbestos.

I mixed and moved the food around the plate to cool it and I only ate half of the serving I was given. I felt bad to leave food on my plate, especially because this is one of the countries my mother would reference when trying to persuade me to eat all my food when I was a child. As soon as Nasir was convinced I was done he gave my plate to his mother who scraped the uneaten food into one of the pots. “Good,” I thought, “it won’t go the waste.”

I think we all learn exit clues in school, at least I did. When I was a teaching assistant in college I remember how these clues so efficiently took the place of clock-watching. Here was my opportunity to use this skill in India. I was a bit anxious thinking about all I wanted to accomplish before boarding the first night that would take me to even more unfamiliar place. I rose to my feet and said, “Thank you for everything.” to everyone in the small room. Nasir looked up at me confused. But he got it! He realized that I was not staying a few days or even one more day in Delhi. I was ready to go and my body language surely communicated that I was not open to any discussion about staying. I took two steps and went into the little entryway to put my shoes on.

I sat down on a stackable hard-plastic green armchair to lace my shoes. Since I arrived in Southeast Asia, I’ve been making mental notes of those things that I recognize from my world and the chair I’m sitting gets added to the list. Many times before coming to India, I sat in this type of molded chairs. My left-brain began to access all the memories of Forth of July celebrations, weddings and garden parties of which the hosts used these chairs. I want to be present for every moment but right now my brain is running a picture show. At some level of my consciousness is attempting to locate constants, those connections that will help me keep my wits about me as I travel this exotic land and drastically different culture.

Nasir had my Osprey in his hands and I opened the door to a man in his late eighties who’s as tall as me. He wore a Western jacket over traditional men’s long tunic and cotton pajama-type trousers. He has a peaceful dark face that is missing Nasir’s unspoken expression of wanting. This is Nasir’s great grandfather coming in as I’m going out. He’s charming; this is obviously where Nasir getting his training. He spoke some English leftover from working with the British for the many years when they ruled this nation. I fantasized that this gentleman might have met my grandfather when he was here decades ago. Might this man be one of the reasons my British grandfather loved India so much? My grandfather meet Lawrence of Arabia in this o’ so small world, isn’t it also possible that he meet Nasir’s great grandfather? I laughed at myself for being so anxious to leave just moments ago and now I’m wishing I had more time to stay and hear his stories of the India my grandfather came to love. I said my ‘goodbyes’ and went down the steep narrow stairs and walked out to a main road with Nasir. He flagged down a touk-touk, which isn’t hard when you have a Westerner with you.

Nasir’s friend went in another direction as we made our way to Connaught Place to buy a prepaid cell phone. Nasir must have had the rickshaw driver stop on the far side of the outer circle of this very large shopping center, because we walked and walked. We stopped at Nasir’s ‘friend’s travel office’ and dropped off my large bag. I laughingly thought to myself, ‘how convenient that we need to come back here to get my bags.’ The travel agent was trying to sell me a package to Kashmir as we walked away. “When you come back, I show you pictures of where you must go!” he yelled as we disappeared around the corner of the building. We passed several modern and clean mobile phone stores, named Airtel, Aircel, Tata Communications and Reliance without even a glance. I asked Nasir, “Why don’t we go into anyone of these stores?” “No Trassee,” he responded without turning around. “Those not where we go.” He kept walking with me trailing behind him with a loaded pack on my back. We came to a small dingy shop with dirty yellow walls, the size of a long and very narrow hallway. We stepped in and I had to remove my backpack to maneuver enough space to move from left to right. I had made a copy of my passport and visa beforehand and the only thing left to do is quickly complete the application. Once all the paperwork was stabled together the storeowner produced a Nokia box obviously containing a new cell phone. He punched a Subscriber Identity Module (SIM) out of a heavy piece of plastic the size of a credit card, opened the back of the phone, slipped the SIM card in the vacant slot, replaced the battery, turned it on and handed it to Nasir. I gave him the equivalent of $35 in rupees and we walked out of the dirty store joining the rest of the hurried shoppers. I wondered, “Did I just get a legitimate cell phone from a not-so-legit shopkeeper?” But my new cell phone and I had yet to make contact. My mental breadcrumbs were telling me we were on the way back to the travel agent’s shop, because we are stepping over the same open holes dug for the on-going construction, according to Nasir. But it looked to me like the workers had walked of the job months ago with no intention of returning because the holes are beginning to fill with trash. So much trash that I thought it would take months to fill with that much trash. What I’m about to learn, with great disappointment, is that the streets of India also serve a trash receptacles.

Nasir is moving fast with a clear intention to insure I make my train, but I’m missing something. “Nasir, can I have my phone please?” I said as a statement more than a question. He laughed and finished programming something into it and handed it to me. “What’s my phone number? How much talk time do I have? How do I put more time on it?” I flooded him with American questions about my new Indian cell phone. “You have 150 rupees to make calls. I saved your SIM number in your contacts.” He has obviously done this drill before.

I wanted to stop for a few minutes and collect myself. So much has happened in one day and it’s only 3:00 in the afternoon. I’m starting to forget if I got off the train from Chandijarh this morning or yesterday morning. No, it was this morning. We walked by a Wimpy’s, a fast food burger place from the United Kingdom, and I walked in without saying anything to my young friend. Nasir turned and followed me in. “Trassee, what are you doing?” he asked. “Nasir, my mother and I stop in a fast food place for a soda and fries in the middle of a long day of shopping or running errands to restore some energy.” I explained. I realized immediately that he had no clue what I had just rambled in English too fast for him to understand, but he acted like he was completely up to speed. I was glad because I was in no mood to explain. I ordered a couple of sodas and an order of fries as I held back the tears. I am missing my mom so much now that I have brought her so vividly into this present moment.

These are the times when I think I am completely out of my mind. What am I doing here? I know even less about his country than I thought I did and I have no plan. I can here my mother warning me, “Tracy, you can’t just go off half cocked! You need a plan!” I think my dear mother was made more confident about me coming to India because I have a home base, somewhere to call ‘home’ and return to, somewhere I can regroup in the safety of a family who welcomes me. But what she’ll learn soon enough, is that I have no intention to make that place my ‘home base.’ The only thing that would draw me back is the loving energy of Sonali and the balance of my belongings, stored ever so temporarily in a navy blue laundry bag that I was given after using the French dry cleaning and laundry pick up and delivery services when I was a yuppie in San Francisco. More in a tall paper shopping bag and the thin cloth-zipper bag that once held a new hand-woven rug I bought in Istanbul. The rug is history but the container, as it turns out, is much more useful for this particular journey. Returning at the end of the day was such loving experience. As I passed the front of the house and turn the corner of the street, where the ‘servants’ entrance’ was, Sonali would be there waiting for me. She’d see me, light up with a smile and run into my arms. We walk the fifteen feet or so into the house and she would gift me a piece of candy. We would talk as much as our limited knowledge of each other’s languages would allow. She’d show me her school work and I would encourage her to go study. She’s says good night with “Tomorrow, see you. Bye, bye.”

I wonder now, if I’m just so needy that I’m fooling myself that she was genuinely pleased to see me return? Was it something about me that inspired her to run into my arms and hug me, with what I know was authentic affection? What confuses me is the memory of being admonished by my gracious hostess, when she discovered that Sonali and I had become friends and that we had been spending time together. “Tracy, where will this relationship go?” she interrogated in such a soft and gentle tone. She was very convincing, so much so that for a minute I too began to wonder where a friendship between an American woman in her 50s and a 10 years old Indian girl could go? But then something stung in my mind, like a brain-freeze from eating ice cream too fast. My consciousness was being pricked to consider if there was a price to pay for loving someone. Would this little girl have to pay a price for loving me, or at the very least being affectionate to me? Hell no! The pain we experience in life isn't from receiving love, even if it's brief, but from it being withheld! Where will it 'go'? Where all expressed love goes; in the ether! I think it's what's present when we feel peaceful or like smiling for no reason.