Linda: An Indian Moment,Feb. 20

Linda: An Indian Moment Feb. 20

We left Hampi with great reluctance. There are some times in life when one is truly and completely at peace and happy, where the constellation of the inner and outer life is in balance for the particular type of person you are. These few days in Hampi, as in the days backpacking in the high mountains and prairies of the West, were such idyllic days. I can’t quite think of the adjectives for this place. Not quite glorious, although the remnants of glory are there. Peaceful. Pure. Mysterious. Hidden. Magical. Appeasing. Healing. The wonder and beauty of absolute contentment. It is in the land. It is in the people. Everyone we met was met with the heart. Leaving the family where we stayed was like leaving my family, and even the rickshaw driver who had taken care of us for our time there left us with a heavy heart. Quiet people. Undemanding people. Generous people. Sincere people. For me, it was a Shangri La, whose surface we had just begun to explore. As far as “sites”, we did not even have enough “time” to see some of the ruins and natural features (waterfalls/cascades/the Monkey Temple) within a stone’s throw of our house. Though the town was small, we kept discovering little, hidden alleys with shops and restaurants with their people and their stories.
It was in the wee hours of the night that we stole away from this magical place. It was somehow fitting that we arrived and left here in darkness, as though this little jewel of existence was somewhere else, not quite in this world. Its world of light was separated from the everyday by the inward mystery of night and remains a world apart.

And so our journey continues. We slept on the train for little more than two hours that night, between 3:00-5:30 in the morning. Then, waiting, waiting at the train station for our next connection – our first dip into relative train “luxury” as we managed to finally get a ticket for the air conditioned compartment on the train. Same number of people in that small space, but … as it was getting warmer, air conditioning seemed a luxury. Alas, there was the proverbial “fly in the ointment”, as our tickets were waitlisted and not actual reservations for seats. Now, here in India, unlike the States, when one is waitlisted you still get on the train – especially when you are numbers 2 and 3 on the waitlist. It seems that people “always” don’t show and a place is guaranteed. This, of course, made me rather nervous, but, we were in India so I was going to proceed ala India. We got on the compartment on the train, confused as to how to proceed. Which seats are free? They seemed full to me – MORE than full! There seemed to be more than the requisite number of people, in fact, in the compartments we passed.
What to do? We were told to just sit anywhere and the conductor would take care of us. For someone on two hours of sleep, these were not very supportive instructions. So, I just looked at the group of people in the compartment, said we were waitlisted and had no idea what to do. India sprang into action.
We managed to book ourselves on a train compartment filled with young graduate students in mechanical engineering (20 men, 3 women) who were going for a week long seminar at a cutting edge nuclear power plant at the far end of the train line – significantly farther than we were going … which meant that every berth was taken and there had been no cancellations! But these were gentlemen. Without question or hesitation and before we really knew what was happening, our bags were stored and care was taken for our comfort. Two men gave up their berths so that we could sleep – the others had to cram uncomfortably on a lower berth while Eleanor slept above for hours, not only without complaint, but happily and joyously. Chivalry is not dead, and it was with great pleasure and humility that they could care for us in an unobtrusive and protective way.
For the next 24 hours, we had many, many interesting conversations with these young students – intelligent, engaging students from every corner of India. Conversation wove its way around popular music and film, to sports, life in their families and villages. Conversation quickly went into social issues, religion, the need for a guru, leading a simple life, remembering that “if you can choose the meal you get to eat and when, then you are rich.” A group of young men, struggling to keep what is Indian and yet still make it in this world. Family and marriage was also discussed, and they were extremely grateful and happy to see Eleanor and me traveling together. It was there first real example of an American family. There are so many misconceptions about American families and relationships due to the media and due to the tourists they see here. They don’t really see Western families here. They see older couples and young people (often acting like couples, but unmarried). It was a beautiful thing to share our family with them and to talk about the many, many real families that still fill our land, though one has to admit that our divorce rate is appalling. We spoke of arranged marriages and love marriages. (97% arranged marriages – which has its problems but usually works well. The premise is on mutual respect and generosity and duty, from whence love will come. It is about thinking of what you can give and not feelings, unless it is a genuine feeling.) These young men, filled with that irrepressible glow of the all-possible future, enjoying their youth and their education, but also very serious about their future responsibilities and their capacity to live up to an ideal. They represented the best of young people everywhere: serious, thinking, engaged, playful, eager, hopeful, idealistic, preparing.
Then, one student talked Eleanor into getting out her violin. And on we rumbled, clackety clack, the train rumbled through the countryside while Eleanor played. It was … quite a moment. The music comes, as it sometimes does, the seats and aisles filled, rumors floated down the cars, and others from adjoining cars came by, in and out, giving space to others, a respite during a long journey - into music. And with that, the violin gets passed and a student starts to play Indian music, violin pointed downward with the scroll resting on his foot that is crossed over the other knee. Eyes closed, silence, nodding heads, sighs of appreciation, applause. And so it continued – singing in various modalities, stories, cards, rest, sharing of food – that special magic of the train where lives are locked together in close quarters for a length of time. Where, sometimes, more is given and received than can sometimes happen in months of daily life. The magic of Hampi must have lingered on. I will never see any of these young men again, but their faces and their kindness, their joyful generosity and idealism, their ability to question their pre-conceived ideas and information, gladly shaping it to what they experienced, their willingness to ask piercing and penetrating questions in the quest to understand will remain fixed in my memory. They were … alive.
As with young people everywhere, the comraderie continued until the wee hours. At first, I tried to sleep and was wondering, when, oh when would everyone else decide to sleep. Eleanor told me later that a few men in the berth next to where I was would occasionally say, “Shhh! Auntie’s trying to sleep.” Irrepressible youth at its finest. Finally, I thought I must, like all that is positive, embrace it all. I stopped trying to think about “needing to sleep” and enjoyed the happiness that was flowing between all these young people.
Our stop was a tiny, tiny station and we were scheduled to arrive at 6:30 in the morning when it is still dark. Getting off at the right stop is a little tricky. The station’s signs are mainly in Hindi and the local script with some signs in English. Some stations are better than others with their signage, but one has to be alert and ready to go. Often, and especially at the small stations, the train only stops for a few minutes. It is best to be at the door with your bags before the train has come to a complete stop. If not, you could get stuck by the people getting on … and miss getting off the train altogether. Not that there are necessarily many people trying to get on (although there can be), but it is narrow spaces … and we have large suitcases – especially by Indian standards. Reading the signs at the train stations can be complicated by the fact that there may be another train between ours and the main platform where the signage is best. OR, the curtains or screen on the neighboring berth might be closed and you cannot see out one side. Or … the outside condensation on your window makes reading the signs whisking by difficult to impossible.
Not to worry, because Everyone else was concerned, too. The conductor (we actually DID get berths of our very own) and the steward kept us abreast as to which stops were coming up and how many more we could expect and the men who shared the berths on both sides all got up (even though they only went to sleep 3 hours earlier) to share the morning, watch for the stops, and carry our bags off the train. A heartful adieu in the early morning. A day I will never forget.