It was not by intent that my cousin and I ended up in what
is termed “general class” seating on the train going to and from Agra a few
weeks ago. She had already made some
courageous moves – flying alone halfway across the world for the first time out
of the country…to India – and I wanted to make this train journey as
stress-free as possible.
But alas, slippery details slipped from my mind, and having
forgotten to tell her to bring her passport along to the tourist ticket office,
I was only allowed to purchase those tickets that I try hard not to – in the
cars where tickets are not checked, anyone from beggar to eunuch is allowed to
get on to do what they can to make some money, and climate control is
non-existent. I enjoy my relatively sparsely
seated “Three-tiered AC” car, and look forward to train rides as a time to read
and relax. Well, I thought to myself, she’ll
get the real experience now…and I will too.
Yet again, India blessed me that day, in spite of my
hesitancy. I loved how when we got on
the train, early in the morning, the lights were not yet turned on, and
undaunted passengers filed in, using their mobile phone flashlights to find
their seats. The persistence of the
people I live among is as inspiring as it is exasperating.
I loved how the man who was sitting next to me got up from
the seat he had paid for and gave it for a short while to a mother holding her
child who had not, and then made sure we got off at the correct Agra stop, just
because when faced with the choice of whether to help or not, it’s always better
to help.
But the highlight of my day – on par with the Taj Mahal itself
– was the ride home that night, as a microcosm of the country formed around us
in our compartment. There was the older-younger
duo of businessmen, Delhi-ites working on their phones and laptops, chatting
back and forth about whatever project they were working on while a chai seller
sang buy every 5 minutes, and a hot, noxious smell drifted through the windows
whenever the brakes were employed.
There was a gypsy-ish woman, who shamelessly demanded a
spot to sit while she unpacked her wares – handkerchiefs and socks of the best
quality, we were assured – draping them over her knee and that of the young
father sitting beside her as she prepared and counted. A man came on board at one point who looked
as though he wouldn’t have been able to scrape together the fee for a
ticket. She invited him to sit as well,
making sure he was comfortable. After a
bit she pulled out her wad of earnings – an impressive bundle. “I know you think this is from the past
week…but no!” she admonished. “It’s all
from today!” We, the microcosm, watched
as she counted and arranged her bills. We
asked questions of her, playfully interested in her quirkiness. After a while
she rose and, calling out in a loud voice, started her rounds. “Handkerchiefs,
socks! Good price! Good quality!...”
And so, as my interest in the businessmen’s chatter waned,
and as the gypsies made there way to other cars, I was left with the young
father and his family to observe.
A week earlier, another horrible account of the unspeakable
abuse of a woman at the mercy of a group of men had hit the press. These stories hit more than just the press –
they hit my soul, and probably those of many women, as the awful statistics and
descriptions are thrown into the air by the mouths of the concerned and outraged. This last one rocked me, as I had just the
week before finally addressed the fact that I was dealing with an immobilizing anger
towards a nebulous idea of “violent men in India”. My heart was hardening, and it was time to
open it to healing.
That case came to mind in its hideous juxtaposition as I
watched this gentle man before me. He
looked at his two daughters with delight, and interacted with his wife in what
seemed to me to be deep and respectful love.
I watched as he looked into her eyes when she spoke, wanting to understand
what she said. She snuggled close to him
to ward off the chill – safe and secure.
His attention broke off her only when it was grabbed by his adorable
girls, or to respectfully engage with my cousin and I, or others who happened
by.
As I watched this young father, I felt my heart expand, and
as it expanded, another layer of cold anger-fear melted, and I understood that
it had been intended for me to be in general class after all. How typical – I had been so worried about
this journey, when all the while it was exactly what I had needed.
Sometimes the closeness and chaos of “general class” –
whether it’s on the train, or in any other segment of life – feels like suffocation
to this western individualist. The endless
interest and involvement feels like meddling.
And sometimes, it all feels like some strange kind of love –
comforting, if overwhelming. Like the
sun when it’s a little too warm, but you turn your face to it in welcome
nonetheless.
