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.

India Gate Pictures

New Delhi Nasir Part 2

I can still hear Nasir instructions to “walk straight about two kilometers on this road” and my brain registers the small number two. “Okay, how far can two kilometers be?” I think back to the lack of a surprised on Nasir’s face that this Westerner wanted to walk the distance. With 40-plus years of being in the world of feet, yards and mile measurement my brain simply won’t think in terms of meters, so I’m left to my own ignorance and begin a walk the distance. I think back to the decade or so that my family lived in West Germany, when we would purposely set out to do just that, walk, even in the cold and sometimes in the rain. Just walk, for no other reason than to simply walk, which is easy to do when you’re a healthy youngster calculating nothing except for how many more days you have until you have to go back to school.

I didn’t mind so much then but it’s different today. I’ve been walking for some time up and down the raised sidewalks, which I can only assume are constructed to keep people out of the watery streets during the monsoons. I’m thinking many things while walking as I make the naïve assumption that it’s going to be easy to keep my fitness program up with lots of walking and stepping up and down from sidewalks to streets. I’m about to be faced with some amazing truths about a journey that requires both a strong body and even stronger mind.

It’s my first time in Delhi so I don’t know how much attention I should get from taxi, touk touk or bike rickshaw drivers, but now I’m begging for the attention. I must have walked a half-mile and I have yet to see the India Gate, which is an memorial arch as prominent as the Arc de Triomphe and larger than the one in New York City’s Washington Square. A touk touk (motorize rickshaw) driver looking for tourists, like the fisherman scans the water seeking his catch, sees me and jettisons his little yellow and green chariot towards me. He outlines the parked cars as he keeps pace with me an with a strong voice carrying over the honking horns he asks, “Ma’am, where you go? You want to see India Gate?” I respond only in my mind, still guarded from a new culture I’ll soon have to embrace, “Oh yes, I want very much to rest this heavy load in the sallow vinyl sofa-seat of your rickshaw.” I brought all my valuables with me heeding the advice of an Arabic Sage who says, “Love Allah, but tie your camel.” The hotel clerk only gave me a heavy padlock with one key on a chain, certain that they held its clone. I’ve got laptop and all my valuable electronics packed into the small backpack. It may be small but it’s heavy and I would welcome some relief.

I motion for the driver to draw near so I can learn what it will cost to travel in the comfort and style of this motorcycle turned mini taxi. We agree that he would take me to the India Gate and back to the hotel for seventy rupees, which seems very fair to this tired, visually stimulated and excited voyager. We make our way to the arch, which I’m get several glimpses of as we motor up the very broad, modern and busy boulevard. I learned quickly that my driver speaks enough English for us to communicate. Raj, a name as common as Robert in the States, is married with one child and has completed his undergraduate studies, which he explains is of little value in India. A person must have a Masters or Doctorate to get the highly desired posts. Raj parks with the other rickshaw drivers on hire and instructs me to take my time. “Take lots of photos and I will be here waiting when you return.” His assertion is reassuring and I want so much to trust my blessed chauffeur. I haven’t given him any rupees as yet, which adds to my confidence that he’ll be there when I return. I use the crosswalk to negotiate the busy boulevard. While I wait for signal to change I think about Raj’s lovely demeanor, which gives begins to build the emotional evidence that this journey is right for me. As I cross the street to this powerful structure that honors the memory of 90,000 soldiers who lost their lives fighting for the British, the very people that would oppress them. I declare that this too is my threshold, my door and my gate to India.

I’m the warrior battling my ego and any leftover experiences that need to be forgiven. I walk around the powerful terracotta structure, a symbol of honor and in some respects; forgiveness. I can see a light in the Amar Jawan Jyoti, the flame of the immortal warrior under the arch and it reflections in the eyes of those around me. I am confident that I am exactly where I must be.

I walk looking up at the tall structure unaware of the many eyes on me until a tall Indian man in his 20s asks if he could have his picture taken with me. It was obvious to me that he assumed I would agree because his friend had ready composed the shot from ten feet away. The young man thanked me with a huge smile, rejoined his friend and they walked away with such excitement you’d think he just took a picture with world-famous Cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar.

I took my time walking gently with reverence around the monument breathing in this new culture and its people. For the first time in my life I felt oddly alone in a vast crowd. I was such a minority--this strange fair-skinned woman with short grey hair in a sea of dark-skinned women with long dark black tresses—and the curiosity about me could have killed a tiger.

I said a silent farewell to the gate and returned to the dirt-parking lot with more than twenty rickshaws and drivers who all looked like Raj. Yet, as soon as he spotted his Westerner in her jeans and bright t-shirt he began to wave. I got back into my tiny chariot and we returned to my hotel in enough time to catch my train to Chardigarh.

I folded my wings for nine days in Panchkula with my gracious hosts making all the social, emotional and verbal mistakes I could before being divinely pushed out of the nest.

Knowing I had a familiar face to welcome me back to Delhi gave me a sense of confidence. Nasir crabbing me and my luggage and cut a sharp but narrow path through the crowd of both tight and loosely wrapped turbans of the men in the train station, all whom desperately want me as their customer or victim of their scheme. We were walking so fast I thought we committed some crime and attempting to leave the scene without being detected. More drivers aggressively approached but my tall slender friend deflected them as if he was Neo in the Matrix and they were Agents.

As I follow him I realized that he obviously received my Facebook email telling him I was returning to Delhi. He’s still in front of me and begins his interrogation. It takes a certain awareness of the Indian male culture to not be provoked by this kind of cross-examination. I had to realize that Nasir isn’t aware that he is behaving inappropriate according to my culture. He says, “Trassee, why you not give me your train number and train name? I ask for it on Facebook but you no reply? You know how long I wait for you? I come to station at eleven o’clock and you not come for one o’clock!” I say nothing until his questions ease and then begin with an apology and explain, “I didn’t get online again after I emailed you. I didn’t expect or ask you to meet my train.” Without knowing that I was quickly opening a can of worms that would never go back to their dark resting place, he overpoweringly asked, “Why you not think I come to see you?” I said, “Nasir, let’s leave it.” He taught me about the importance of leaving a topic during my last visit. I said, “I’m here now and I know to give you the train name and number for the next time. But I was certain that there wouldn’t be a next time. He wasn’t ready to leave it as he pulled out a small white ticket that had been stamped with a time that he would have to leave the platform of get a huge fine. He explained to me that Indians not holding a train ticket are not allowed in the station and the only way to enter was to pay a small fee for a kind of ‘platform pass’. Had the police checked his the time on his pass and discover that it had expired he would have to pay a hefty fine of 100 to 200 rupees. Now that has pleaded his case he was ready to leave it.

He told me, versus inviting me, that I was to have lunch with his family. He had called his mother and told her to prepare lunch for us and his other friend, which had been with us the entire time but I just thought he was simply someone walking in the same direction remaining in our non-existent personal space. He hired a motor rickshaw and literally threw my bag into the small space behind the back seat and the three of us squeezed in. His friend was more out than in and on his cell phone throughout the entire twenty-minute journey. I swear only Indians are able to carry on phone conversations on the boisterously loud streets. My Western ears aren’t able to differentiate the multitudes of sounds from a caller’s voice to have a coherent phone conversation but I’m thinking that when I have a cell phone I may have to adapt the necessary talent within my ears.

Nasir asked me how long I would be in Delhi and seemed excited to get to know his American friend more. I was tried to conceal my excitement about the next leg of my journey. ‘I need to be back at the station at five o’clock to get the night train to Varanasi” I told him with an instructional tone. I was happy that my first journey outside the safety and comfort of my ‘home base’ was going to be the most spiritual city in India. Nasir was disappointed and changed the subject as he asked, “Trassee, when will you go to Kashmir with me?” Not wanting to offend my gracious host, I just patted him on the arm and said “Later, after I’ve seen more of India.” He seemed to be satisfied and said, “When we go to my house I show you picture of Kashmir.” I nodded in agreement.

I asked him if he knew of a place that would give me a ‘pre-paid’ cell phone. He said, “Yes, I take you for that after we have lunch.” He then laced his fingers in mine and looked at me romantically and said, “Trassee, did you miss me?” I pulled away quickly and said, “Nasir, friends only, no romance, okay?” He looked away and with the most insincere pout, “I have emotions of love for you.” I now know I about to get a hefty cultural lesson. He continued his subtle innuendos so I laid down the law by saying, “I don’t come here for romance! We can only ever be friends and if you can’t handle that I’ll have to turn around and find my own way back to the train station.” He said, “Okay, okay, Trassee, but you not feel love for me?” He’s so not getting the point. I ask him, remembering the gigolos I meet in Kathmandu, “Nasir are you a gigolo?” He sincerely didn’t know what I was asking so I said, “Do you think I come here, lonely and looking for young men to have sex with?” I continued my own interrogation, “Is that what you’re hoping for; to find an older foreign woman to hook up with and get a visa to America?” He laughed and said, “Why not? No, I joke. You want only friend, then we be friends only. Tell me truth Trassee, you didn’t think of me once when you leave Delhi?” I looked at him as if a very angry mother, “Nasir, leave it!” We did.

I’m relived that I’ll leave this evening after this conversation but I’m slightly concerned that he’ll won’t get me back to the train station in time since he’s suggested I stay one or two days with him and his family. I will eat lunch, see the pictures of Kashmir and insist that he get me to the shopping area for a cell phone and back to the station to catch my train.

New Delhi Nasir

The train eased into the New Delhi station assisted by my own ease and I ‘got down’, which is what the Indians refer to when one disembarks, with confidence that I am guided, directed and protected. I pitched my bag down the two-foot drop onto the platform. I paused on the platform to get my bearings looking for a coolie (porter) to carry my luggage up the many stairs and over the catwalks to exit the station. As I stand there I feel the breeze created by what seems like an entire Indian population rushing by and with my left hand I spin the ring on my right ring finger that says, “Expect Miracles.” I take a deep breath and locate a coolie by the common uniform of red shirt, dirty white pants or a male sarong type-diaper and loosely wrapped turban. I ask the coolie who appears many years older than myself, yet is five times stronger, “How much?” He replies with the obvious ‘tourist price’ of “60 rupees.” Most ‘service providers’ in India automatically double or triple their price when they see the fair skin of a Westerner. I want to tell him “I might have just stepped off this train but it certainly isn’t my first.” but I resist knowing he wouldn’t understand. After about three weeks in the country I began to ask for the, “Indian price!” before they have time to answer, which often avoids the sometimes-stressful ‘bartering dance.’ Not this time, instead I reply, “30” and he says “No.” I walk toward the stairs knowing I have no intention of carry my bag up and over the catwalks, which are in most station and move passenger traffic up and over the many platforms. New Delhi station is huge which is another reason I wish not to carry my bags. But alas he yells at me as though I’m deaf, “50,” and without turning, still heading for the stairs with my Osprey rolling behind me, I yell back “I pay 40,” using the economical English, leaving out the extraneous words we Americans use when speaking. I must get right to the point when speaking to an Indian with a limited English vocabulary. He does the India head bob which indicates we have reached an agreement. But I’m not done yet; I have to close the deal tightly before I allow him to put my luggage on his head. I tell him, “40 rupees, no more when you get outside the station, tikay?” (Hindi for ‘okay’). He responds with, “Okay.” I watch him heave my heavy-to-me Osprey atop his head thinking that his turban might actually help him balance the load. It’s a shorter distance for him, as he stands no more than 5’4”. I’ve seen coolies balance two to three suitcases on their heads, and a handle bag on each shoulder while briskly leading his temporary employer out of the station to waiting transportation. I’m still in awe of their unassuming strength. This is where it’s obvious that life in India is hard on so many, especially to the lower casts/class.

I reached the exterior of the station and realize I’m over-dressed for the warmer Delhi weather. I’ve got my day bag packed heavy with books and laptop, which prevents me from taking off my warm black vest. I put my favorite golf hat on and like flies to a bowl of sweet milk the touk-touk drivers descend, all yelling at the same time, “Auto Rickshaw ma’am? Where you go ma’am? You need guest house ma’am?” I’m laughing to myself because they aren’t giving me a chance to respond. All of a sudden I hear the familiar voice of my Kashmirian friend, Nasir, “Traussee!” I look up and see him penetrating the crowd of touk-touk drivers. He reached to the center of this mob and grabs the handle of my Osprey with one hand and my sleeve with the other and said, “Come, Traussee.” He intentionally reached for my sleeve versus my hand, as the only public display of affection you see in this country is between the men, who walk while holding hands or arm and arm around each other. This behavior makes it easy for the homosexual boys and men to blend in while showing affectionate to one another in public.

I meet Nasir on my first official day in India. I had a few hours to spare before my first experience on an Indian train that would take me to Chandigarh so I took a taxi from my Palace Hotel, which should have received a hefty fine for putting “palace” in the name of this hotel. I can only assume that they name hotels using 'palace' or 'mansion' to get more guests, in any case, that’s how I came to stay there. I am as green as a chickpea, which as you know, don’t come from chicks. But I am more aware now that I have duped by this one; okay twice. The Green Mansion in Chitwan, Nepal was the first. Yet I won’t count that as a dupe since I hold a mansion-sized affection for the place, the people and my extraordinary experiences in the Chitwan National Park.

It must have been obvious to the desk clerk that I was fresh Western meat as he phoned an auto taxi driver for me. What I know now, is that he and this taxi driver are in business together and share in what money they make on me. Auto taxis are simply cars and is what this naïve newcomers used to get me to Connaught Circle, also known as Rajiv Chowk, so that I could go to McDonald’s for breakfast. I was unsure where to get stomach-safe foods, so I picked the familiar so that I wouldn’t arrive at the home of Puneet and Anu with the runs or something worse. The taxi driver let me know immediately that he too had duped me when he said, “Ma’am, you pay an auto rickskaw forty rupees to take you back to the hotel.” I stood there in a daze and motioned for him wait to explain to me why he just charged me 120 rupees. I was still dazed when he left the scene, of what I thought was a moral crime. It was nine thirty in the morning on a weekday and McDonald’s India hadn’t opened yet. At every turn I’m reminded that, “I’m no longer in California.” Rickshaw drivers begin to circle this fresh new foreigner like vultures, as I look up to see a tall young Indian man coming closer as though he’s coming off the sunbeam from a sun that was slowly making its way to the highest point in the Delhi sky. “Hello, May I help you?” he asks with nearly prefect pronunciation. “Yes, I need a place to have breakfast and a cup of tea.” I replied. He attempts to take my bag and I pulled away motion that I’ve got it. “Come, I take you to a place.” he says, revealing his strong accent. We chatted about the usual information that most Indians want to know about me so that they can fit me neatly into a category. By the time we reached Baristas, an ill-equipped want-to-be-an-American coffee place, he knew where I was from, how much education I had, how big my family was and where in India I was going, and yet I knew only perfunctory details about my New Delhi ‘guide.’ We exchange emails as I questioned him about his family, education level, job and such over coffee and a muffin. My stomach was still requiring more food and planned to stop into McDonald’s later when I was sure it was open. I paid for Nasir’s coffee and my tea and muffin and we set out for a travel office to get a map of Delhi. Unbeknownst to me that this is the point when Nasir goes on the clock.

As for me, I just got on the Indian learning curve and will eventually catch on that pretty much all of India is on commission. Nasir, introduces me to the ‘head man’ at the travel office and we sit, he calls for a boy to bring us chai which is both a courtesy and what is used to keep me a person in place until they can be sold whatever the merchant is selling, in this case travel. As he’s telling me I should Kashmir and the Taj Mala his voice fades to white noise and my right-brain cautions, “Careful Tracy, you’re not here as a tourist.” And my left-brain chimes in and says, Yes, but It won’t hurt to see the sites in the area.” I drink my chai quickly and look at the map to see what’s close for me to see in the three hours I have left. I’m soon to discover that Nasir has a different plan. “Trassee, I want to show you my friend’s shop” he pleads. I follow him up some stairs into a small space where there are stacks for pashminas in plastic. The floor is covered with white muslin and there are four pairs of shoes in the entryway. I remove my shoes and crouch low so that my backpack and I clear the low doorframe. I am asked to sit and ‘take tea’ again! There’s a German couple-sitting lotus going through shawl after shawl covering the floor with beautiful fabrics and colors. Nasir takes a submissive posture and sits, allowing me to be the center of attention, second to the German tourists that is. I’m asked to remove my backpack and get comfortable. I refuse as I begin to pick up on Nasir’s agenda. Again, I finish my tea quickly and say my goodbyes. The proprietor says, “Look, look, looking is free.” I say ‘thank you” and put my shoes on and go down the stairs with Nasir following. I take out my map of Delhi and am determined to shake my new friend and go explore by myself. I ask Nasir to tell me where the India Gate is according to where I’m standing. He says, “Come, I show you.” But I insist on going alone. I have the business card of the hotel in my pocket and am confident I can make it back without incident. Nasir realizes that he must let this fish go. He removes his hook by telling me which way to walk and we said goodbye for now, knowing we would meet again on Facebook.

Leaving Chandijarh Part 3

I woke Thursday morning with the same suffocating fear that I went to bed with. According to my logical mind, my immediate future has never ever been so absolutely undefined. It’s just before 6:00 and I put off my mediation for the train. It’s my story that “I’m tired, as if I got no sleep at all.” I notice that I’m sticking to that “story” too. Anu, knocked at 6:30. I opened the door and Busanti was right behind her with “Chai, Ma’am.?” My hair was still wet from the cold shower, but I was clean for my journey.

Anu hovered, as if wanting a most coveted table in a fine restaurant, which I happen to occupy. This brings on even more anxiety. I wish she would leave me to my tasks but she must believe that her anxious presence will hurry me along. Puneet thinks I have to be at the airport for a flight. Not sure how he got that impression since Anu was aware of her employee printing out two train tickets for me. Nonetheless my hosts seem very eager for me to leave. Anu presents me with two tiny brass statues that were gifted to her by a dear friend and represent the Ying and Yang. She hopes they will give me peace on my journey. She says, “Feel free to pass them on to another for peace on their journey.” I accept them with an open heart and again feel so connected to her. I have experienced this open door to her heart only a few times and when I do it feels as though I’m held in the hands of the universe, warm and safe. But this door can close quickly without warning, and I’m afraid to linger for getting bloodied by the abrupt slam of the door.

Everyone is trying to take my still-open-luggage out to a waiting car. I’m pressured; glad I’m awake from my cold shower, which after telling my mother this story she voiced, “They could have turned off the hot to get you out quicker.” Finally with wet hair covered by a favorite cap, I climbed in the backseat of the car.

I took my middle seat for the four-hour journey to New Delhi. Sandeep, a professionally-dressed Hindu sits in the window seat to my right. He’s the Security Director for the Bank of India in Chandijarh and once we get talking about Varanasi, he took out his cell phone, texted my sister that “all is well” and then called his counter part in Varanasi to assist me in finding good accommodations and to “ensure that his new American friend has pleasant stay in Varanasi.” His colleague agrees without hesitation. It was as if his agreement was turning the knob on my heart rate to ‘LOW’. I say to myself in semi-prayer, “This is God, God is everywhere, God is everywhere I am. I am in complete care and safety with God.”

I open my spiral notebook that I use to record names of places I visit, delightful native foods I eat, as well as places I intend to visit; and the hard-to-remember names of those I meet, but for now it becomes my journal. Inspired my the reassurance that all is well by the kind soul to my right, I write this:

"Pushed out of the nest like a duckling whose mother knows it’s time for her youngster to fly. I only know where I’ll be for the next 48 hours, after that I have only my conviction that God walks with me. Trust will be my bed and faith my shower, and that tells me that God will make certain that my sleep is peaceful and my shower is warm. I am the tiger and the Universe my trainer. So many times I’ve asked my clients to jump through the ring of flames knowing that all will be fine, but until this moment I wasn’t sure what I was asking them to do. What I know now with certainty, is that a pedestal has been placed there for those living their dreams, yet many times we are distracted by the apparent danger of the flames. The Universe is a kind and loving trainer with a sharp prod to encourage us to jump. I am honored that it has faith in me that not only can I jump through those flames once, but many times over again."

The train is pulling into the New Delhi Train Station.

Leaving Chandigarh 12/10/09 Part 2

I attempted to inquiry without success what was happening to an all-Hindi workforce. I got that a catered dinner event was to take place tonight. Anu returned home shortly after me, to be as surprised as I, but with the advantage of having her inquiry answered completely. She discovered that Puneet could not secure an adequate venue to host twenty-or-so VIPs to commemorate his new post to an international business organization.

With the strained events of the day I missed lunch, wishing I had said, “yes” to Busanti’s request to pack me a lunch. Anu brought some food home and asked Busanti to prepare a quick meal. Anu whipped up a salad of chopped fruit and vegetables with lime juice, salt and pepper dressing. It was delicious. With the dinning area prepared for tonight’s event we chose not to disrupt the stage and eat in my room. We had a lovely chat about achieving harmony in ones life and the importance of taking care of oneself. She even expressed her concern if I could handle the journey I’ve embarked on, because my emotions indicated to her a frailty and lack of strength to continue. I assured her that I would be fine and that I’m a veteran of transforming fear into personal strength and courage. She presented me with two small metal statues that represent the Ying and Ying, which she too was gifted when setting out to return to India. Just after Puneet opened the door to say that guests were arriving that were asking for Anu. I said I’d just stay in the room and complete my preparations to leave. He would hear it, “No, you will come out enjoy the festivities too. You too are our guest and I want you to join the dinner.” Puneet’s demeanor was invitingly forceful, which was difficult to refuse. To honor their mostly Indian guests I thought it wise to dress in traditional Indian clothes of the Punjab state.

On my first official day in India, after returning from Nepal, I met Raj, a wonderful English-speaking tuk-tuk driver who took me to the India Gate, said that if I wore the traditional clothing of India I stand to be cheated and over-charged must less than if I only wore Western clothes. Doing this would give off the impression that I was a veteran and that I knew the customs of being a foreigner who has been in the country for a while. After checking in with my intuition I agreed to let him take me to a place that pre-made these garments, which he said, “the sales of these go to help disabled people in Delhi.” Now my intuition was saying, “get those clothes on quickly, it’s getting kind of deep!”.

I changed into the Punjabi I bought in Delhi, and emerged from my room. I didn’t know that the house could hold as many people. There was a mixture of mostly Indian entrepreneurs and business owners, some who had employees in the Finland, which explains why the Finish Embassy Director was in attendance. Gus, who’s here with his wife, is a handsome cleaned shaven young man with a shaved head that stands 6 feet tall. This profile causes his fair skin to stand out even more than mine. He wore a blue and white pinstriped with a white collar and a red tie with a deep navy blue blazer, which are the lightest and most cheerful colors in the room. All the other men from this region are in black, grey or brown with either off white (maybe due to the elements in the water that turns whites gray), even the women are were dark color, yet the richness of the fabric gives them a subtle shimmer over the men. Gus has completed one and half years of his three-year-post here in India. I am still naïve with only nine days under my belt, which is hardly enough to make any truly logical assessments, which made listening to Guus’ impressions of India stimulating and educational, especially when it comes to business matters. It was especially fascinating to witness an Indian business-owner plead his case with Guus regarding issues of taxation and lines of credit for an Indian owned company operating in Finland. The man was deeply concerned and maybe even a little bit annoyed about the doors he’s unable to open if the ownership of his company should become more than forty percent Indian owned. Interesting, is that this man laughed and smiled all through his passionate plea. I believe this is what Devdutt Pattanaik is addressing in his attempts to improve East and West business relations. I see how this behavior can bring about the opposite results, as I thought to myself, “He can’t be truly upset about this because he continues to laugh and smile,” as though it’s not really a problem to be solved but a topic of conversation, like the weather.

I asked Guus if he was familiar with TED.com or if he saw the India Devdutt Pattanaik_ talk about the business styles of the East and West and what can be done to bring more synergy between the two. Another Indian man in listening distance chimed in, happy he and I--this creature of everything opposite, shared something in common. At least that’s what his deeply relieved demeanor said to me. He expressed how much he liked it the presentations he’d seen on the site. Guus, to my surprised had no knowledge of TED.com. I promised Guus I would send him the link at the same time we were interrupted by our host in attempts to be sure all the power players had at least an introduction to one another.

I mingled a little and the varied conversations I had told me that Raj was right. These people thought I had been here for a long time. One Indian woman asked if I lived permanently Chandigarh! Another couple expressed their pleasure that I was wearing the garment correctly as “So many Westerners, just put it on not understanding how it is worn correctly.” I have to admit I was proud.

I was very near my room when I ended my last conversation and thought it was time to excuse myself to continue my efforts to ready myself for two long train trips. It was about 11:30 pm when I finished packing and eradicating items into three compact piles that will be left in my Panchkula-homebase. It was midnight when I started to feel my body drop off to sleep even with the very loud voices of those who still lingered just outside the bedroom door.

Leaving Chandigarh 12/10/09 Part 1

Okay, today it’s time to cut the crap! I’ve been blogging as a tourist, safely protected by the walls of what many would consider to be palaces, and yes that includes the Star’s humble and spacious Bronx apartment. I know now that I’ve been on “holiday” so far. I’ll pick up my description of London and Ramsgate, England and all the sites and experiences of Nepal at some later point. No more of the easy life, even in Southeast Asia. I, like the Buddha, have come to see that my work and experience lay on the other side of the palace walls.

Just yesterday, about 9:30 am I was having another pleasant ride to the office with my most recent of gracious hosts when she said, as if discussing the weather, “We’ve guests coming to stay that we are obligated to host because of who they are to us.” I didn’t ask. I know that the room I have been staying in is the only spare quarters in the house. We were both sitting in the backseat and in many ways ignoring the driver as if the car was on autopilot. I’ve yet to get comfortable with what I will refer to as a ‘colonialist’ attitude—ensuring everyone stay neatly within their caste. I knew immediately that I was getting a very gracious heave-ho. I’ve overstayed my welcome, for this phase anyway. She continued, “We thought you would be here for only a couple of days and now that we have others…” I interrupted, “I completely understand and I can make arrangements to leave within the next few days.” She cautioned me, while her hands did the universal sign for slowdown, not to be too hasty. “Let’s wait until Puneet tells me when the guests are coming. We should know something later today.”

I guessed that I had at least a couple of days to arrange, what exactly? I felt my temperature rise and knew not to show the wide array of emotions that were trying to surface. The displays of emotions (fear, tears, or upset of any kind) are seen as a sign of weakness in both mind and character in this country. And they certainly have absolutely no place in business! I’m glad I wasn’t hoping to recruit Puneet and Anu as coaching clients because I’d sealed a certain “no deal” the moment I shed tears of missing my mother and sister at the dining table on my second evening here. What I’ve learned in nine short days, is that if I can’t suppress my ‘public display of emotions’ I just shake my head and say while smiling, “I have allergies,” or do the universal hand signal for “I’m congested”, which will quickly put those around at ease.

I Skyped with mom for about 30 minutes, the first seven minutes where taken up with my emotional display of a tremendous wave of homesickness, coupled with fear, uncertainty and those emotions still indescribable to even me. Mum was encouraging, compassionate and more accepting of who I am and what I feel now than I ever knew her to be. I see her journey paralleling mine. Our conversation turned comfortingly generic and then it was time for her to find out who was voted off of So You Think You Can Dance. I asked her to Skype me once more before going to bed, which she did. We signed off in the usual fashion, in which I wait for her to hang up first, so I can enjoy a site for these sore eyes. I watched her image fade to the gray vacant Skype screen and just then Anu came into my little office space she has been allowing me to occupy and said, “if you could leave tomorrow that would be good?”

“Shit,” I have to plan my next designation, reference it with hotels or ashrams and book train tickets. All that on top of the errands I intended to run which included, exchange “Beginners Hindi” to a book shop (too small to call ‘store’) that’s open at the oddest hours (12:00 to 14:30 and reopens again at 17:30 to 22:00 or 23:00—whichever the bookseller fancies) as well as make time to go to the shoe store to get the last American currency changed into rupees and finally locate a cable or chain for my luggage to be secured on the train. Yes, a Shoe Store, which the three “Singhs” (my Seik lunch companions at the Chandigarh Subway) turned me on to the day before. There I was at the high-gloss white counter in the midst of a currency exchange while the woman beside me was purchasing a very trendy Western pump. I wondered how they knew the shoe merchant was moonlighting as a money-changer. We went outside, faced the shoe store and while one Singh pointing at the large glass storefront said, “See there, that will tell you that you can change money here.” I questioned, “See what?” as I looked behind a tall stack cardboard boxes full of new merchandise that was blocking an 8x11 sheet of paper taped to the window advertising that they also serve as a local Western Union office. I surely hope they weren’t expecting too much business from a sign that is 1/100th of the glass window it’s taped. Nonetheless, Indians are very enterprising and always looking for more way to generate income.

“Okay Tracy, assess the situation.” I’ve been on sensory overload for the past few days in attempting to get a most coveted data card to bring Wireless Internet freedom to my life and being cared and cooked for their servant, Busanti, a woman that has treated me as though I was terminally disabled and she’s trying to make my last days of life as pleasant and effortless as possible. But, at 16:30 I had two train vouchers in my hand and knew that I would arrive in Varanasi 8:50 India Standard Time (IST) Friday morning. No hotel reservations, just a full-page list of the many ashrams that the Mobera Systems ‘tech guy” printed out for me. After that I have no idea what the future holds. I put my backpack on and set out to complete my errands. I exchanged the book, exchanged money and went to three places that sold luggage that had no cables or chains. Another book vendor next to the Samsonite store said, “Go to Sector 19 to the hardware store by the post office.

I went to the main roads to hire a touk-touk (a nickname for the motorized rickshaw), to take me to Sector 19 to buy the chain and then ‘home’ in Sector 6 of Panchkula. I bartered with the driver to pay him half of what he quoted for the journey. Most Indians believe that Americans, even over most Westerners, are all wealthy. From my limited perspective of India, the poorest of Americans in fact have so very much more than even the Indian working class.

We arrived Sector 19 in the dark. My touk touk driver pulled to the left side of the curved road and pointed across a busy street that I had to cross to get to the dusty and dirty hardware stalls, each specializing in only one category of tools or equipment relating to plumbing, lumber and metal, which sold chains. I stepped into the staring Indians, greeting them with a friendly “Namaste”, which most respond to very favorably. I mean really could you reject a person if as they approached you they powerfully declared that the ‘God in them recognizes the God in you’? My fair Western skin is known to stop traffic, which also stopped all employees and customers to stop what they were doing and observe me. The metal chain merchant understood what I was looking for and pulled a few feet of chain from a spool under the counter and handed it to me. I put a two or three foot length in my grasp and pulled. Unable to break it, I still didn’t trust it to secure my unattended luggage. I handed one end to the young man behind that counter, motioning for him to pull on it. An older man, I assumed was the owner or manager said, “Strong, this will not break” and nodded for the young man to pull. Just then the chain snapped as we both regained our balance and laughed. All the seven or so men, including nearby voyeurs, laughed out loud. It was a very unifying moment. The owner instructed the young man, in Hindi, to fetch another strength, he resurfaced from the dust and darkness dragging a length of chain that could safely anchor a lengthy sailboat. I laughed, thinking how desperately I’ve been working to lighten my luggage and he brings me my weight a single length of chain. I thank them all and choose the leave this task for when I arrive in Delhi.

I returned to the house on the very dark streets of Sector 6, Panchkula. I couldn’t get anyone to answer the bell from the front of the house so I walked around to the back of the house. As my eyes focused with a new light source I saw Busanti’s 10-year-old daughter, Sonali, running towards me. I’ve befriended this amazing child; to my hosts’ disappointment because our friendship stands to blur the very defined social lines between employer and employee. She swung her arms around my neck in full embrace. I lifted her up knowing what she didn’t--that this in many ways is farewell embrace, possibly for be a long while. I was taken back to find a large truck parked at the gate, a fire burning in an oil drum to warm the many men working. I came through the back gates to see men setting up catering tables covered in very white linen, sparkling wine glasses, white plates and silverware. For a moment I thought my hosts were throwing a party to celebrate my leaving, but in an instant reminded myself that, ‘It’s not always about me.”

Day 5: Road to India - London, UK -Part 4

The freestanding transit booth is nothing but concrete and glass on the outside, yet the activity is inside with the two men in obvious important conversation among the piles of reports and schedules piled four to five inches tall. I waited patiently at the round stainless steel opening to allow my inquiry to travel inside a work place that must have been occupied by the men’s grandfathers. After all, in this country the highly sought after security of a government job will usually be inherited to the next generation.

There was a break in their cockney (the accent of native Londoner) and one of the men swilled around in his chair to see only my head and shoulders standing at high window that made this 5’8” woman feel like a child asking for sweets (candy) from an adult. Before I could speak he said, “Jolly good hat. Were’da get ‘it?” “In California”, I replied. “Yeah, it doosn’t louk like anythin’ ya’d get ‘ere.” he said. He was flirting with me? “Sweet!” and not like in candy. I was relieved to know that my journey dedicated to knowing and trusting God hasn’t left me androgynous. This bloke (informal way of referring to a man in the UK) wasn’t bad looking either. I shook my head and got present to my inquiry, even though I wanted to linger to hear more British flattery. “I need to get the train, I mean the Tube, to Victoria Station to pick up a 170 bus to Battersea.” I said. My inquiries were typically comprehensive so that my guide understands exactly where I’m trying to reach. The usual results have been to actually arrive at the point of my destination and not somewhere in the vicinity. He pointed me down the stairs, which would put me right on the platform for a Circle or District line to Victoria Station.

I guided the wheels of my backpack down the stairs making a considerable thump on each of the concrete steps—celebrating that it has wheels and I don’t have to actually carry something designed to be on my back. I can’t remember who was it that told me about backpacks with wheels a month or two before me departure. Simply another angel sent to me to ease what would turn out to be an emotionally heavy journey.

I was now outside, liberated from all the tunnels. I was breathing the fresh clean air of England. I was jumping for joy inside, but maintaining my composure for the only two people waiting with me, who I assumed were Brits by their fair hair and skin. I went to look at the enlarged map of the London Underground to get a sense of where I was. All I could see was a beloved memory of the picture a stranger took of mum and I together in front of a map just like it in the Piccadilly station more than 15 years ago. My eyes started to sweat as I wished she were with me now when I sensed I was blocking someone from seeing the whole map. I took a deep sniff to compose myself, I turned and move aside while excusing myself to find I was addressing a handsome young man of what I believed to be of Indian descent. He wore a pleasant smile and as I passed by him to stand near the tracks I caught a whiff of his cologne and before I knew it I was complimenting him on it. His smile got wider as he thanked me for noticing.

The Circle line pulled into the station and I choose the third car from the front. The seats were situated opposite of the HEX. These were one long upholstered bench on each side facing each other with the occasional bright yellow pole conveniently place so the each rider could hold on if need be. I thought how nice it would be to have upholstered seats on public transportation in San Francisco and New York City, but the contrast displays the civility and charm of the English culture. The higher quality interiors of these trains supposes an expectation of parents to more closely monitor their children’s behavior and for people to be respectful of these public transportation vehicles in general.

I know something about expectation; in my experience it’s fulfilled long before hopes or wishful thinking. I’ve notice that people show up generous and kind because I expect them to and life itself concurs in all the way I believe it will.

The train had more windows than walls affording me a nice view of the sunrise. The car had a continuous stream of advertisements posted just below ceiling level, yet sitting down I had intentionally look up to read them. The car was empty when I boarded, then a lady embarked and went to the farthest seat in the car. I went straight for the abandoned newspaper and turned to find my handsome young friend hoping on just as the doors shut behind him. He came over to me and motioned for permission to sit near me. He said, “You’re so friendly. It’s just that so few people at as approachable as you and I like to meet new people. I have friends in so many parts of the world.” We talked about Los Angeles and how much he’d like to pursue an acting career and to live there. His name is Zack, but spells it “Zed-a-kay”. He’s in London for just a few days to participate in the graduation ceremony of York University. He was awarded his Law Degree a couple of years ago but didn’t ‘walk’ to make it official. He giggled and said, “My diploma folder was empty.”

I asked why he was out and about so early and he explained that he just saw a friend off at Heathrow and that he has another friend to see off in a few hours, who is as unfamiliar with public transportation in London as I am. He’ll be returning ‘home’ tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t have to many classmates left in London as they’ve all splintered off after completing school and wondered if he could help me get reacquainted with London. I jumped at the opportunity to have a new friend show me around an old city. Since he lived in Battersea long ago we agreed to meet on the Battersea Bridge. A bridge I had no knowledge of but I took his word for its existence and agreed with a seize-the-day-attitude to meet at noon. The five hours between would give us time to do what we needed. It was essential that I get settled in my temporary digs and take a speed nap. Zac also told me to get off the train before it reached Victoria Station, “because it will be crowed with commuters that I’d have to compete with on the bus.” I thought, ‘thank god I ran into Zac to help make my journey a bit easier.” I would soon learn that following Zac’s so-called ‘more convenient route’ would actually take me thirty or more minutes out of my way.

I left Zac on the train as I disembarked at Clapham North Station to catch the 345 to the Battersea. I pulled my backpack out of tube station into the dimly lit morning. The sun was waking up so slowly. My mind was also waking slowly. I now had to think about which bus was going in which direction because American cars are operated on the left side and we drive on the right side, but in England that’s all reversed. So if you what to go North in England you stand at the bus stop on the South side of the road. It took me a few minutes and I said to myself, “Bullocks” (which is like saying the F-word in the States. It simply means, the balls of a bull, but it’s been given a highest x-rating for profanity in the UK), “I’ll just ask for directions again.”

When my friends in the states meet my mom, they always comment how much they like to hear her talk. She’s been in the US for at least 40 years and I tend to forget that she’s still carries a British accent. But if these Brits would hear her they’d say she sounds just as much like a Yank as I do. I also forget that most Brits like my American accent as much as I like their English accent, therefore, seldom do they complain when I ask directions. There just happy to her me say just about anything.

I was directed to the right bus stop to get to Battersea, however my gracious guide must have been too compassionate to ask me which Battersea I wanted. I was about to find out that there was Battersea Park Road, Battersea Bridge Road, Battersea High Street and Battersea Church Road. Why didn’t I just follow my original instructions and take the 170 from Victoria? I guess I needed to make this journey even more interesting? I got off on the first stop that had ‘Battersea’ in the name while desperately wishing for a cell phone. There were very few people on the road and they were obviously rushing off to work. They had that “Don’t stop me” expression on their faces. So I didn’t dare. I pulled my luggage Osprey down the cobbled-stone Battersea Church Road, which I thought was hopeful because any road in England with “church” in the name was a sure to have a church on it somewhere. I was wishing my Osprey would take flight and locate St. Mary’s steeple and return to me like a homing-pigeon to show me the way, but instead the weight of it just helped the wheels to lodge into the spaces between the cobblestone. My biceps were getting a workout. After walking, what seemed like a mile for this weary traveler, and not spotting a church I turned around and walked back to the Bridge Road.

I turned the corner and saw the street a Newsagent; a shop where one could buy just about any newspaper or magazine printed in the free world. They also sell sweets, but I was in more need of sleep, than sweets. I tapped on the door realizing that they hadn’t quite opened yet. An averagely attractive 20-something girl of Indian decent, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, opened the door. I asked for directions to St. Mary Church because Father Paul’s email response to Yvonne said, “Just ask anyone in Battersea where St. Mary’s is and they’ll know where to direct you.” Well I found the one person in Battersea that had no clue where the church was. I asked her if I could use their phone to call the church. With some hesitation she pulled her “mobile” out of a pocket as I extracted my printed-itinerary from a convenient exterior pocket of my travel purse. She dialed the number once and it didn’t go through and almost dismissed me after hitting the ‘end’ button on her phone. I asked her to please try again. She did and we got the double ring, a sign that that call was going through. She handed me the phone and I said, “Father Paul?” but it was still ringing, and then I heard a man’s voice say “ello”. The British tend to drop their H’s all together or at least make them so soft they become no existence. “Father Paul, it’s Tracy, I’m at….” I looked at the young lady to tell me, and she said the “Brigde Road.” I guessed that once in Battersea that one could drop the formal name of every street when referring to them. He said, “Simply go round the corner and walk south down the church road until you pass the church and Vicarage Crescent will be on your left.” I said okay, fearing that I had been on the right road already but didn’t go down far enough. I pulled the heavy, dead bird down the cobbled stones again but much farther than before. “Hallelujah” I can see the steeple of what I already know is a charming small church with creaking doors and worn wooden pews. I rounded the corner and passed St. Mary’s on my right and staying, as instructed, to the left side to find the Vicarage. I walked and walked some more, the sun was getting brighter and the temperature rises to make for a beautiful day for London Bridges.

I was getting a bit frustrated thirty minutes into my journey down the long winding road and decided to turn around and go back to the church to pray. I drug the wheels into the grassy courtyard and thought I was hearing the voice of God, saying “Tracy, I’m here.” I turned full-circle and saw a handsome English gent, early-forty’s with a premature receding hair-line, glasses, clean-shaven, wearing black trousers and shirt with a small bit of white on an all-black collar. Awe, my prayer was answered before my knees even reached the cold St. Mary’s grounds.

to be continued.....

Interesting tidbit: I'm listening to the soundtrack to Love Actually while writing this. Serendipitous, yes?

Day 5: Road to India - London, UK -Part 3

I needed to get to Victoria Station, the heart of London’s transportation system. Victoria supports England’s railroad system, the London Underground--referred to as the ‘Tube,’ a nickname it was given around the late 1800s due to its shape--and the coaches and buses servicing Greater London. I followed the signs for the Heathrow Express (HEX) that took me on a long walk through a series of well-lit clean white-tiled-walled tunnels with posters advertising a wide array of products I celebrate no longer needing, until I reached the HEX Ticket Agent. This agent replaced questions for a passionate desire to help me get to my destination. He even saved me some Pound Sterling (the official name for U.K. currency) by selling me a ‘Return’ (British term for Round Trip) for thirty-two pounds. Cool, or “brilliant” as the Brits say, I have my passage back to Heathrow when I leave for Southeast Asia.

I asked directions to the appropriate platform. On this journey I’m glad not to be a stereotypical male because I stop and ask directions a lot. I have learned that it’s better to stop three or even five people to ask or confirm directions than to carry my still-heavy worldly possessions a long way only to have to return. I have come to enjoy asking for help. It allows me to interact with the people that inhabit the part of the world I find myself in. Engaging them is to include them and to allow their journey and mine to become one, even if it’s for a brief moment in time.

“People enter our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime,” is a mantra I come to live by. The catch is for us is to be careful not to force a person to stay for a lifetime when they are only come for a season. When that’s a bit too philosophical for me I remember the chemical rush that our bodies get when we show kindness to each other. Serotonin; or happy-juice as I like to refer to it, is secreted from the hypothalamus when we help or when we witness someone being compassionate or kind to another. This happy juice also strengthens our immune system. This is evident in my health and energy level since I’ve been a journey-woman. It sure does help cure the jetlag. My sister would say, “it’s because of who you are, Tracy,” referring to my positive mental attitude that attracts like-minded and generous people who want to help me. I believe that’s partly the case, but I also believe that people are basically good and it’s natural for us to want to support our fellow human beings.

I reach the HEX about 06:00, which is waiting with doors open for its fortunate passengers. The HEX is a more dear (expensive) way to travel to and from Heathrow and those more knowledgeable and fungal passengers typically choose other modes, which do take longer. I realized this a bit late, but I’m happy to go this way because in a way my sister and my mother were my travel agents. While I was in New York City Yvonne goggled my London destination from their Beach House in Imperial Beach, California and looked at the necessary web pages together, but mom and Yvonne’s heads were clearer so I simply took notes and followed their instructions.

Mum and Yvonne had gone to the Beach House to spend precious time together after I left. I’m sure they needed some downtime considering how emotional it was for us to say ‘good-bye’. It’s always been a rare occasion to have Yvonne all to oneself. We have a small but large family, that for the most part is very close, something we all owe to Yvonne. She has a passionate desire to keep us all together and have us ‘get over’ our differences so we can get back to being together, especially to go on holiday together. That’s adventure nearly pales in comparison to the one I’m on.

There are fourteen of us to fit for the latest vacation tee shirt from one to seventy-three in age and from petite to triple X in size, that identifies us as the fun-loving-band-of-crazies that we truly are. We are a varied clan that can cut deep with disdain and yet will show up with titanium strength when we needed. I’ve been drawing from that strength for the last few days when the waves of culture shock swirled with the sands of loneliness find their way into the days and nights. (I’m in India as I write this.)

I stepped aboard the HEX, noticing I didn’t need to ‘mind the gap’ that is between most platforms and the trains in the UK. The stainless steel walls and doors are spotless and the seats are upholstered with deep-ocean blue high-quality fabric freckled with red flakes. They have high backs and might be too comfortable for the weary transcontinental travelers who need to disembark soon. But not me, I’m almost on the edge of my seat in anticipation of what I might see even though it’s still dark. There are several conspicuously placed LCD screens showing commercials to sell me more unnecessary products. The car was deserted with exception of me and a businessman in a wrinkled dark grey suit who sat across the isle one row back. I think we both wanted to enjoy some expanded personal space. I wondered if this was a maiden voyage across tracks that were laid a hundred years ago. I felt safe and still very energized. A state I tend to stay in until I reach my temporary resting place, at which time I sleep harder than Henry the Eighth after a huge meal, and yes, I probably do some real snoring.

I had to transfer to the Tube at Paddington Station which would take me to Victoria where I’ll needed to catch a 170 bus to Battersea, a suburb of London. The HEX train made another one of it’s stops and because I was still getting use to the accents of the ticket agents and announcers in the airport and train stations, I nearly missed my stop. I followed the exit signs to the London Underground, which is hard to miss once you’ve seen their logo. It’s a red donut with a horizontal cobalt blue stripe with UNDERGROUND written in white text over the circle. That striped changed from a teal the cobalt in 2007, but I’m not sure why. Yet, if you stand on any London street-corner and turn 360 degrees around and don’t see a sign to one of 270 tube stations then you just aren’t looking.

I pulled my luggage from the HEX train and this time I did ‘mind the gap’ heaving and swinging my luggage onto the platform. With a sigh of relief I paused and scan the area to get my bearings to see that I was in yet another maze of tunnels. I could hear Bob Parker saying, “Will it be tunnel number one, two or three?” Time to ask directions, again. The conductor pointed me down tunnel number two and at the end I came to a London Transport ticket stand with a lovely black woman behind the bullet proof Plexiglas. With no cue, due to the earliness of the hour, I stepped up to the window. I don’t know why, but I always feel the need to raise my voice so that the person behind that thick Plexiglas can hear me. Logic says they can hear a normal tone of voice but it plays a game with my left brain, which assumes that even my loud mouth can’t be heard through anything that thick. So I kind of yelled and either she heard me just fine or was just being polite to this Yank who has obviously traveled far. After all, I was in “the land of good manner.” Whichever she remained pleasant and sold me an Oyster Card, a hard plastic key card tucked inside a yellow and blue plastic holder supplied by Ikea, which is great product placement to something 3.4 million weekday riders carry in the pockets, purses or briefcases. The Oyster Card will allows passage on any one of the eleven lines and all Greater London buses. The pass was twenty-three pounds, which would be very heavy if I had to bring that many pounds of silver to buy it, but no fear since almost all currency is no longer backed by gold or silver. I’ve been using my debit card to purchase these tickets since I haven’t seen an ATM or “Cash Machines” yet.

I figured I’ll go to a Thomas Cook travel agency, which I hold a fond childhood memory of those rare occasions we’d return to England with my mum (Brit for Mom) to visit my grandparents. It’s interesting to observe the sentimental memories of long ago I have stored up and now find myself attempting to reconnect with them. Why am I inclined to go to a business with people behind the desks that have absolutely no connection to me other than the memory of following my mother into an all-red storefront with the white block THOMAS COOK lettering? Are other people as sentimental as I and choose a place to patronize based on a precious memory that lasted for a fraction of a moment? If they don’t, I might be the sappiest woman on the planet, but if they do then we are kindred spirits making our way through this beautiful life hoping from one sentimental cloud to another.

The nice lady directed me on to a station that had to be built around the time my grandfather was a boy. Actually the first section of the London Underground opened in 1863 and was the first system of its kind in the world and starting in 1890, England was the first to operate electric trains. Old maybe, but I loved it. I said, “Tracy, welcome to back to England!” It was cooler in England that NY, but I can’t say it was cold. As I was leaving the train I caught my reflection in the window to see that I was sporting a full-on Alfalfa so I put on my pink angora cap. I stepped to the ticket agent box to find out where I must go next. Again, if I got on the train going the wrong way it might be hours before I got the Battersea.

To be continued....

Day 5: Road to India, arriving UK - Part 2

November 17, 2009


My days are no longer marked by a beginnings or endings. I’m a time traveler now, jetting over time zones as my internal GPS downloads new geo-data. MY flight to London left LaGuardia at 2130 EST and landed Heathrow at 4:40 GMT, more than an hour early, leapfrogging me over five hours.

As the pilots began the descent the flight attendant passed out the customs forms. Groggy passengers dropped their tray tables, wiping sleep from their eyes to focus on the task at hand. Flight attendants serving coffee, tea and water, while another collects trash to ready the cabin for the next group of excited and exhausted passengers, if they’re anything like us.

I removed the hard copy of my itinerary from my travel purse, which I created just days before leaving. It’s pretty exciting to look at with its list of flight numbers, departure and arrival times, public transportation directions and as more addresses than I’ve had in the last 10 years. Yet the most usual is the address to my ‘home base’ in, which is a numbered sector within Panchkula, a subsidiary of the city state of Chandijarh (pronounced chan-di-gar).

The pilots set the transatlantic ship down easy and before I knew it I was stepping on to British soil. I began to feel a surge of energy as I stepped onto the concourse. I believe the chromosomes that held my British DNA were happy to breathe in the jolly ol’ air from an ancient land that I haven’t visited in over ten years.

I cued up (stood in line) for customs with Mooshi and her mother. The cue was very long and the non-British citizens were kept organized by the Disneyland-style-ropes. Mooshi and I continued our pop culture banter about our favorite TV shows. Her pre-med education doesn’t allow her to follow shows like Lost and Survivor, bit luckily she has a close friend that can find pretty much anything on the web. That’s when I learned about freetv.com and missedashow.net. I was so happy there was a way I could follow season six of So You Think You Can Dance and season one of Flashforward, a new program I discovered while surfing iTunes. Each episode is about $2.99 to download and since I’m being very frugal with my current funds, which are only meant to support me on this journey, I will refrain from incurring further download fees.

I handed Mooshi a small slip of paper with my name, URL to my Blog and my Skype name. I’m so grateful to Jim, a member of Riverside Community Center for Spiritual Living (RCCSL), who produced about a hundred of these little slips for the attendees of my farewell party. The rest I have been using to stay in touch with the amazing people I meet along my Road to India.

I was first to a customs counter and noticed Mooshi and her mother stepping to desks at opposite sides of me. I agent began to ask me a litany of questions, similar to those I answered to post my eHarmony profile. Is he hitting on me or does this country really need to know how I met (or in this case, not met yet), the people I’ll be staying with in London? “It’s a vicarage, not a terrorist cell, for All Saints’ sake!” I remember Pat Spencer, one of my mentors, working on her Ph.D. telling me that her dissertation was finished, not when she completed it, but when one of her advisors says, “Okay, you’re done.” Now, I know what she was referring to, because I had no idea how long the essay questions would last and if I was providing adequate answers. There I was in mid-answer to about the twentieth question and the agent’s stamped my passport and dismissed me.

I put my passport in my travel bag for safekeeping and turned around expecting to see Mooshi and her mother, but they vanished into one of the many corridors. Surely they had to make their way to the next gate for the continuation of their long journey to India for her sister’s wedding. I think she said they have four connections before reaching their home state in India, and I thought I had an intense itinerary. Their hectic journey is exactly what I believed I was avoiding by stopping in New York and London.

It’s obvious that I’m no longer in Kansas by the signage. “Water closet” is not where one fills an empty water bottle. That closest is more for making deposits than withdrawals. I followed the “Baggage Re-Claim” signs and when I reached the turn-style for my flight I saw only passengers with terribly wrinkled clothes impatiently peering down the beltway. As the silver slats expanded and retracted to make the continuous circle, I took the opportunity to chat up any human beings that are in earshot. After all there weren’t any trees around. Toria, my longtime friend and college roommate in San Francisco, would describe me as someone who, “Would talk to a tree, if it would only talk back.”

A lovely British couple who have been “on holiday” in Newport Beach, California, were my choice de jour. Americans go “on vacation” and the English go “on holiday”. I love the concept of taking a vacation from work and calling it a ‘holiday’. I wonder what they call an American legal holiday that gives us a single day off of work, a “vacation”?

The luggage eventually came and we said our farewells. I was off to follow to get a train to Victoria Station and they had a car service waiting for them. I silently hoped they would offer me a ride into London, yet had they; my first day in the U.K. might have been just okay.

Day 5: Road to India (Somewhere over the Atlantic) Part 1

November 16 & 17, 2009

I attempted to sleep once more but became alerted by the considerable fidgeting of seatmate to the left. I was present to my irritation several times during the whole ordeal and before I gave her the international “you’re disturbing me” expression complete with a deep sigh, I said yet another prayer. “God please forgive me for my unwillingness to embrace this moment. Please grace me with compassion and patience and help me to see what this telling me about myself. I trust that everything that shows up on this journey is for my expansion. I choose to fully embrace this moment. I pray that I will soften and be of service to this beautiful expression of God that has appeared to the left of me. Amen”

I completed my prayer and looked over at her with a “How can I help you?” expression to discover that she become trapped in her aisle seat. The opening had become too small for her frame, especially with the passenger seat in front of her fully reclined. She was sweating and only ensnared herself even worse by her intense struggle. It reminded me of a recent wildlife program, which showed the dramatic rescue of a helpless polar bear cub that had gotten snared by a trap. It too fought hard to free itself only to increase the chance for injury. “I must do something! I can’t let this innocent creature suffer for one more minute.”

Knowing that aisle seat armrests are suppose to lift up, I got on my knees in my seat and lean into her round mass to locate the release button to free her. She somehow realized I was attempting to her, yet she continued to struggle. The commotion finally alerted our cabin steward and he too attempted to release the armrest without success. He reached for her to take his hands so that he could free her, but she pulled away from him lifting her arms as if she was protecting herself from a blow. How is it that any transatlantic flight attendant is unaware of the cultures they serve? When he became frustrated by her refusal to accept his assistance, I said, “She can’t touch you! Her culture prohibits a woman being touched by any other male, like a husband or son. The man in front of her woke and straightened his chair as her mass exploded into the aisle. We had drawn many onlookersduring this melodrama, which all breathed a sign of relief as she was freed, much like I did as I saw the small cub running across the ice to its mother after being freed by a few brave human beings.

Buddha-lady went to the restroom and I took the opportunity too or I’d have to crawl over Mooshi, her mother and another passenger to exit right, if I should have to use the facilities later. While in the galley I asked to be moved to an open aisle seat to prevent another entrapment. The flight attendant said. “Look around, there are no aisle seats available.” I took the long way back to my seat in hopes of finding an open seat. I did. It was an aisle seat several rows in front of ours. I asked the handsome longhaired European man, who witnessed the recent commotion, if the seat next to was vacant. The tray table was down holding an uncollected dinner tray so I wasn’t sure. He looked at me with such disgust you’d think I asked him to hold a fresh bag of pooh. I told him it would be me sitting next to him since it would be difficult for me to get in and out of my seat should I need. He softened and agreed. I was thinking how nice it would be to sit next to such a hottie and what amazing conversation we might have. But before I could collect my belongings, the flight attendant was already moving Buddha-lady into the vacant seat I had found. He had come behind me to ensure that the armrest would release. So instead of my belongings, I picked up her shoes from the floor with my left hand (very important that left hand is used for unclean things in her region of the world) and brought them to her when she went into a series of bows as if she was having a “darshana” (Sanskrit for seeing an avatar or holy person). She thanked me, but Mister European-Calvin-Klein-model just glared at me as though I set him up. I went back to my seat and wondered what he might be resisting that the present of Buddha lady would assist him in letting go? Again, his journey!

I went back to my seat, now on the aisle and stretched out thinking I might be able to sleep now. No go. I sat up, pulled a little battery-operated pin light with a clip, pulled the Velcro loose on the seat back in front of me and clipped the light to illuminate my journal. The overhead reading lights are just too bright and would disturb my fellow passengers in their slumber. I wrote in my journal for a long time and then pulled out the laptop to work on a video of the little Jewish angel I saw yesterday in Lower Manhattan.

Before too long the flight attendants were making their way through the cabin with water. People stirred as blinds began to open. I was hoping for light, but it was still dark. We were landing early, about 4:40 am, so I should be ahead of the morning commuters.