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?”