(This
story is a continuation of the post from last week, "this is india - part I".)
*****
The Rail Official instructs me to wait until he has finished confirming the seats of the rest of the passengers in the car.
As
he leaves my cabin, another man shuffles in backwards from behind him.
His shirt is ripped and slung low across his back to reveal a place in
the taut dark skin covering his back where a shoulder bone should be –
but is not. He waves something to get the attention of all the people
in the cabin in front of me, and from my seat I can see them all turn
their heads; They clean their fingernails, tend to children, look for
lost pens in their baggage, or just look out the window -- turning
their attention to anything but that which flags for it.
The
man shuffles backwards into my cabin and turns around. As an obvious
foreigner, I already know that I will be targeted as his ripest
prospect. Indeed as I have predicted, he, ignoring the rest in the
cabin, staggers straight to the white beacon of wealth.
“Didi……Didi…….Didi…….Didi….”
In
Bengali, he tells me the long sad story of his life. The only word I
know, “Didi,” I learned a the Mother Teresa House of the Destitute
where the inmates there also tugged on my clothing to ask for help,
addressing me either as a sibling or mistaking me for the nun that I am
not.
“Sister……Sister……Sister…….Sister….”
As he continues
his story, he throws his remaining arm to my observation and mercy. I
desperately want to clean my fingernails, tend to a child, look for a
lost pen, or stare out the window -- but I refuse my eyes this relief.
It
is my chief complaint of “my” country that the people refuse to look at
the ugly truths that stare at and ask recognition of them in the
staggering headlines of today’s news. Instead, distance and ignorance
are too conveniently allowed to pad the cushions of the couches of
comfort and conformity.
And although I’ve known this couch well, I’ve sold it right back to the devil.
“No thank you. I’ll stand. And I’ll stick to my soul.”
And it hurts. It hurts to look.
But I make myself do it.
I
look at the flesh on this man’s remaining arm, which like silly putty,
seems to have been twisted, pulled and remolded to the bone. I follow
its elongated length and observe how it abnormally narrows around the
wrist and then protrudes as a lump in the pad of his fist. And when I
am finished looking at the truth of his reality, I look directly into
his eyes and bow my most humble respect to the divine within him.
He pauses for a second. Perhaps caught off guard by the unusual recognition.
And then he continues again...
“Didi, please.”
In
Spanish or English I can easily explain that I prefer to give time and
not money, but my Bengali leaves my actions to speak. And I've
forgotten the pile of fruit I usually bring to meet such occasions.
“Sister, please.”
This
time I give up. Although this situation has happened a hundred times,
and I never become any more sure or unsure if it's the right thing to
do, I reach into my pocket and pull from it the change that he asks of
me. He motions with his limb to his shirt pocket, into which I drop the
coins.
“Thank you Sister.”
And he leaves.
And
in three minutes, another brother with a different deformed limb will
come. One shuffling. Another dragging. And then the next, crawling.
There’s always another. For this is India.
*****
The Rail
Officer waves to me and I follow his people-parting path. The isles are
slim and busy and after a modest game of Train Twister (right hand
holding onto blue seat, left foot over yellow suitcase) we finally
arrive at the third class A/C sleeper car. He pushes through the sealed
glass door, and in wave of cool breathable air, we enter another world
of India.
Newspapers written in English are shuffled as eyes
peek from behind smart spectacles for only momentary and disinterested
glimpses of the new visitor. Women with rings of gold around their
wrists, ankles, toes and ears encourage prized sons in pressed slacks
to eat another of the samosas that they’ve so diligently made and
delicately packaged for the trip away from home. Uncles discuss
politics together, fluently switching between Bengali and English to
better express their opinions or utilize Western business lingo. A
group of young boys dressed in designer jeans, each with his signature
version of long and colored hair, pass around an MP3 player and start
to sing, in unison, a song by an American boy band.
I take the seat indicated to me by the Rail Official and he tells me he’ll be back later to collect my “increase in fare.”
A
man sitting at the window across from me leans over, “Did you move up
to A/C too? You know they save these seats just for us, people like you
and me. They save entire cars for us. This is how they really make
their money. Hey. Where are you from? America? You’re so lucky you
speak English. You know you can travel anywhere in India speaking
English. I don’t speak Bengali. Or Hindi. Or Tamil. I only speak
English and the local language of my state, of which I’m sure you’ve
never heard. Did you know that India’s constitution recognizes 18 major
languages and then, on top of that, we have over another 1000 minor
languages and dialects?”
The jovial youths in the cabin adjacent
have put down the MP3 player and are now laughing loudly, exaggerating
the depth and volume of their voices and then emphasize their joking
and jestering by cussing in English...
“SHIT Man! Fucking cool!”
I sit stunned in shock of the worlds of class and caste separated by a single, sealed A/C door.
Where, I wonder, is India?
*****
A
cleanly pressed and richly dressed couple move into my cabin and sit
modestly next to each other. May is the month of marriages and even
louder than the dark henna tattooed up and down the new bride’s arms
are the fresh, careful and delicate mannerisms that the couple use to
address each other.
“Arranged Marriage,” has for me lost all
its (discovered ignorantly founded) stigma and what remains left is
only pure fascination and intrigue. For the first time, I am stoked to
be in a culture where it is not inappropriate to stare; Because I
cannot keep me eyes off the pair.
The bride rests her eyes on
the ground as she gracefully asks question after question of her new
husband. His responses are reserved, well thought out, and gentle. They
do not look each other in the eye when they speak to each other, but
they laugh or smile sweetly in unison at the end of each of his
conclusions. In between each of her questions and his answers, she
looks up at him with wide, interested eyes and bats her lashes like
I’ve only seen in Disney movies.
For hours I silently watch
them, wondering if perhaps this might actually be the first time, after
all the years, months, weeks and days of family chaperoned wedding
preliminaries and festivities, that they’ve had the chance to be alone
together?
And who trained this woman, I wonder? An army of
aunts, mothers and grandmas of a former era? For she is such a model of
courtesy, respect, modesty, and controlled femininity!
She looks up, bats her eyelashes, looks down, and asks another question.
He
makes the motion of scrubbing his hands (to remove the henna tattooed
on the tips of his fingers) and I can tell simply by the tone of her
voice that she gives him some kind of advice on the art (and removal
of) of which she (and all Indian women) is very experienced.
But he dismisses her advice.
She cocks her head for a brief moment and then tries to re-word and deliver her wisdom again with even greater grace.
But again, he, without looking at her and with a motion of his hand, waves the suggestion away.
And then I see it!
She does not look down. She does not laugh.
She turns her face the other direction, looks up to the right corner of the room…
And rolls her eyes.
And of this single glimpse I smile with the certainty, that this marriage of man and woman, will ultimately be, the same as any.
*****
(and 30 hours later…)
I have new friendships with every person in my cabin.
They
have asked me every question of my family, work, schooling, income and
country, and now have quite taken it upon themselves to be my personal
guardians.
Our train is due to arrive five hours late and so I
have already missed my connecting train ride and having no reservation
at any of the booked-up hotels would be at a loss, were it not for my
new friends who assure me that they’ve got a plan.
When the
train finally arrives, those in my cabin politely instruct me when to
sit and where to stand, and when they finally give me permission to get
off the train, like elephants, they form a protective circle around me
as they shuffle me off the train, across the platform, and into a
special room guarded by security.
The room, full of fans set to
their highest speed, has two bathrooms with showers and about 40
waiting chairs of which about a dozen are occupied with women and
children. It’s 1:00am and I have six hours to wait before my next train
departs. A Bollywood (India’s version of Hollywood) movie is on, which
from a single glance, I make out to be a version of Beauty and the
Beast (except, lacking a proper Beast costume, a man dressed like King
Kong has proved adequate enough). This place is perfect for my lounge
between destinations.
My new entourage smiles their approval of
my approval and because it’s how they’ve been taught to salute
westerners, they each proudly stick out an awkward hand to receive the
novel Western custom of handshaking. Although I infinitely prefer the
polite bow of Eastern salutations, I oblige and humbly stretch out,
along with my hand, my most sincere gratitude.
As I settle into
a seat to watch the movie, the children turn around and settle into
seats to watch me. Most Bollywood movies last about six hours (slight
exaggeration) and have an average of 11 different plotlines and themes
(no exaggeration). This one turns out to be a mixture of Beauty and the
Beast, The Nutcracker, Babes in Toyland, The Tortoise and the Hare,
Ghost and Anaconda. After the finale, where all the characters (except
for the Tortoise, of course) bust out in synchronized dancing, the
security guard turns off the television.
Following the example
of the rest of the women in the room, I lay out my shawl on the floor
and roll up a sweater into a pillow.
As I lay there on the
tile floor, thanking whatever deities may be for my ability to sleep on
hard floors both comfortably and soundly, I feel something inside of me
lift again right out of my body, and rise up to the ceiling.
Looking
down at the patchwork of vibrant saris and shades of deep and beautiful
skin tones spread out across the floor, there again, is that silly pale
patch with the tan-clad girl on it. But as I relax my perspective and
take one more step back, I see that, from a distance, her spot isn’t
really so odd at all. How she managed to, I’m not sure, but she has
indeed found even for herself, a place in this Quilt called India.
I
squint to see more closely and note that the satisfaction of her
success is marked by the slight but sure smirk of a smile across her
lips.
And I smile down upon her.
