The guide took a hold of my forearm
and helped me on board the watercraft. “Boat” is too generous a word for what
looked like a shack in a shantytown of Delhi, yet we were setting sail for a
trip down the Ganges. I was looking forward to respite from the cacophony and
malodor India can embody; whenever I feel intense sensory over load I find a way
to see the stars. Stretching awkwardly atop the blankets that would later be
used to make our tent I didn’t think much of the young man and his elder captain
that were our guides. He seemed like many young Indian workers, happy,
curious, and overly gracious.
As it turned out there wasn’t quite
enough wind to sail so our industrious leaders began rowing. Feeling uneasy being
so closely attended to, I aimed to take part in this endeavor. Unsurprisingly,
the guides insisted otherwise. I imagine they felt pride in providing such a
service, but I pushed back passing it off as a photo op and then kept rowing. Without
a common language, we began to open up by smiling, nodding, and pointing. As he
was peeling away his layers of professionalism and guardedness, I was imagining
his life on the river and what it must be like to have so many travelers on his
boat but not getting to travel him self.
His sun worn skin and smiling eyes told
stories of the people he rowed. He showed me a several pictures and letters he
had received from previous passengers. The inability to communicate verbally
set my imagination free; what he couldn’t tell me with words, I fantasized
through make believe having his life. How special it must be to give people this
rare experience in India, the part of the world that is his own. Did he think
about those he rowed? Was he ever jealous of his visitors? It is that last
question I know he would answer with a nonverbal smile. Someone with a smile
and a laugh like his has a heart full of gratitude. How serene to have a life
sharing the beauty and gentleness of the Ganges with his guests.
