First Time On This Shore

She sang a love story that echoed through time.
“Andro verdan drukos nane.” In the caravan there is no floor…

Indeed it felt that way as we raced down the winding streets of Belgrade in a rickety old Soviet-style bus. We dodged potholes and stray cats as we went, all of them nearly forced us over the edge of the shoulder and into the Danube.

How long had she been following the river? A hundred years? A thousand? I watched the Romani girl somehow maintain her balance well enough to sing and dance to the sound of her brother’s accordion.

“Man pirani shukar nane.” I have no sweet lover…
It was the song of her people, I thought to myself. The Romani, endlessly segregated and rejected wherever they settled. I often saw them wandering the beaches in groups. Mothers bundled children in shawls around their waists and moved slowly, fathers smoked cigarettes and skipped rocks while they held pace. How long had they been following the Danube? Did it flow from the Indus? Did it flow out from the Hindu Kush and through the desert? How did they end up on a bus with me? And had I blinked? I must have because the girl was right next to me, singing in a near whisper.

“Loli phabay prechinava, hop hop hop. jekh pash tuke, jekh pash mange, hop hop hop.” I will cut this red apple. Half for you, half for me…

She spun like a pinwheel. Her dress was an ancient patchwork, a thousand colours fluttering endlessly through space. She littered the ground with flower petals that rained down from the wreath that sat atop her deep black hair. Her vibrant beauty was a stark contrast to the endless grey blur of the apartment blocks that raced by in the window. For an instant she became the embodiment of solidarity and it became apparent to me there was beauty in this. From so close I could smell the faint traces of cardamom and sage on her skin.

As I watched her I thought to myself, ‘I will share an apple with you, I will be your lover. Sing me your story and walk me down the river.’