seduction of the whistle

Occaisonally the train stops. Another wave of passengrs cramming to get int he door. Few disembark. It just keeps getting more crowded. The horn blows, distant so many cars ahead and the bright lights of the station fades. Leaving us rumbling in the dark.
The disabled remain disabled. so many. Coming from a priviledged land where medical care is widely available. Some spend their lives sweeping floors of trains, sweeping the debris and sandy dust from around our feet as passengers push past. Some are business men, some simply stick out their hand.

I could travel like this for days, watching my thoughts take form. Shapping them into coherent maps, letting htem go in the rush of the wind.
We must be nearing Delhi (Delli) now. The passing lights show shops and wallahs, buildings are one story taller. I am saddened that the hours somehow pass so quickly though I never close my eyes. I am seduced by the ambiguity of the day.

On the tracks women bundle children. men stand over the edge of the tracks to relieve themselves, others lit from the glow of their mobile phones. Picking their way across the tracks passengers begin exiting the musky cabin. The whistle hurries people aboard. We have not yet arrived, yet I am perfectly content ot be here. Surely I will know when we get there, I believe it is the end of the line. I will wait for a coolie to find me as the rush subsides and he will somehow lift up my bundles of sarees and effortless walk the stairs across the bridge and down to the main road while I scurry behind.

We are nearing the shanties by the tracks, small fires by the doors. Silhoutes of laundry hanging from rooftops, faceless bodies behind thread bare sheets of cloth and rusted tin. ladders leading to one room homes. Aluminum cups and plates stacked next to the bare mattress. Flourescent light spills into the night. I have arrived in Delhi.
I need to bring groups here. Stay up to date with my new tours at http://www,stressescapetours.com

the tracks

We are only 5 1/2 hours into our journey from Ajmer to Delhi. The bench we sit on was built for three across, there are five on my bench, 6 across from me. Feet dangle above. The air is stale, smelling of bodies. Warm even with the fans whirling above. Nights cool air reaches in from the tracks. I've closed the metal slates to keep the wind from my nursed cold.

I have gotten used to the stares. Those around m, if they speal any english, have exhausted the little they know and have moved on to naps or convresations. Occasionally I seem them glaning my way. Eyes not quick enough to avoid my sudden glance. You can tell when someone is talking about you,even in another language. And you can feel the stares. The man above me, when not dozing seems to find my gazing out the window or writing or reading very curious, just as I am entranced by the everyday inIndia-a woman selling laudry soap onthe side of a road, anolder felow reading the newspaper....I can watch for long minutes.

Today, in the 21st century most men, especially inthe towns and cities dress in Western wear. Button downs, slacks socks and a pair of loafers or sandals. So sometimes I am caught off gaurd when they find me so fascinating to watch. But of course I am odd, women's schooling is minimal, their place in the home.

I cover myself with a wonderful wool blanket woven somewhere deep in the Thar desert near Jaipur with tribal symbols decorating it's face. It keeps me warm while alos keeping me hidden. A woman traveling alone is always a curiosity. But I have found respect throught this journey. I had prepared for the worst, but wearing the salawr suit and my short hair and darkskin leave me less than desireable.

I try shifting positions when a leg or foot falls asleep. Balancing overstuffed bags, tucked into the few inches besides the window allows the luxury of leaning. Or at least it gives the illusion of a little more space, always welcome onlongtrips by plane, bus or train.

I am so grateful to have tasted India so long ago. Newcomers are still mesmerized, days are easier, not quite so chaotic, it is a little cleaner. And with this come changes, plastic cups ratehr than the clay cups that would disinegrate under foot. No longre do wallahs climb aboard at one station plying the teaming seats of weary passengers with ground nuts or poua. The goverment has installed their own vendors serving airplane style container of veg burgers onwhite bread. Grateful for the ease, saddened by the loss.

Dark. everyone is so dark. With deep penetrating eyes. Once in a bit you catch the eye of someone with the eyes of a cat. it takes your breath away, man, woman, child against the high cheek bonesand milk chocolate flesh. I become the voyer, hoping for another glance my way.

My body has begun to cramp. Seven hours have passesd. I've stood only once. I am parched. It would be so lovely if at the end of this journey there would be shops offering massage like in Thailand. All I will be lucky to get is a hassel free rickshaw to my hotel, hopefully they changed the sheets and there is a sink.

masala

I had told Martin I would not need to return toIndia after this visit. I had tired of the throngs of people and noisy horns, but actually I was simply tired.

I easily loose myself in the maze of everyday. it is what brings me back time and time again. Yes, it is true India gets under your skin and when it begins itching. When it does you itch incessantly until you are raw and crying out for relief. Once the wound heals, you are once again lulled into its rythmic heart beat and you fall in love all over again.

As with any first love, it remains buried in the folds of your soul. To be able to linger in it's embrace again and again is the greatest gift of all.

For days, no,it has been years, I have hadnothing to write. Nothing to saybar a complaint or whine. India reached inside and with it's complex breath allowed me to remember.

India is like a great masala. Black pepper, cumin, tumeric, ginger, salt, corriander, common spice drawer ingredients, taste almost offensive to the tongue. To take a bit of pepper on your tongue would be wretched. But fry them together with a dollop ghee, add fresh peas and califlower, let it simmer a moment. The aroma is tantilizing. Spoon this over a plate of rice or scoop it up witha piece of chappati and WOW-the dish is amazing. Of course a good plate of rice is alwasy yummy, especially with a big pat of butter. But this, as is India, thrown together with just the right quantities and the world expands before your very eyes.

Singing

I heard a voice which I barely recognized. It was the song of my heart and my deepest soul.and as the days drifted past along the quiet edges of the lake, the song became louder.Once I accepted that my foolish notion of volunteering was indeed foolish, I placed myself into a jewellery making class to justify my time here. The class offered me a view to an inner circle of Pushkar, in fact maybe it was then that I began to emerge from my cocoon. I learned patience as tens of minutes would pass while harry, my teacher, chatted with whoever decided to drop by to say hello. I learned how to make rings and set stones, how to mold a piece of silver intoa work of art. This time forced me to be present. A melted pendant blantantly reminding me to stay present for the present.I came to India arrogant once again The white woman from America thinking she could make a diffrence. India doesn't need me. Oh, it desperately needs a better socialsystem, health care, clean water, jobs. But the systems have been put in place and have been working for centuries. Regardless of how I or anyone in the West may percieve this 'way' is entirely none of India's concern. I came wanting to find my heart. To hear it sing again. And as I always tell my companions whojoin me on my trips to Thailand, you may come for one thing, but the place, the place will know what you need and offer iot to you if you are willing to recieve.

And so the cycle continues to spin.

Unlike most movies

Unlike movies, most books I read I need not read again. Once the last page has been turned, I eagerly skip to the nearest bookstore for a quick exchange, a new fix of anothers adventure. I have found several though that warrent the dogearred pages and the cumbersome wioeght of excess luggage. I savor each page. Rereading sentences twice or thrice to taste the salt on my lips or feel the weakening agony of loss. Thi s seems enough to satiate a hunger that has quickened since my arrival.










Yes I am hungry again Hungry to taste all the world has to offer.

I laugh outloud to anything written by Iriving. Kingslover reaches into the very corners of my heart tearing it open. I discovered Shreve on this journey as well as Amy Tan. Anita's (Shreve) titles alone tantilize me: The Weight of Water and Strange Fits of Passion. Tan managed to put into verse moments of my life as she dictated a story by a woman who had meant to lead a tour through China and Burma, but dies just a few days before departure.

For so long I felt I no longer held a voice. My heart had dried. My soul felt crumbled, thrown into a corner and forgotten. I came to India to retrieve what was lost. Lost somewhere between then and there.

I took my time. Sometimes impatient, as you know I am, with the reluctance my mind had to the new journey. Expectations continued to fall around me. I became invisible behind my veil. Faded into my own skin. Days would pass in shadow, always on the periphery. Refusing or denying myself access to step in. For days I followed the lives of Gemma or Michael or Maureen, not leaving time for the dust to settle one page. I saw others. I heard themspeak of their badges of travel. Sometrying to out do the other, but most seasoned enough to just have the need to be acknowledged. That's what we all need isn't it, to be acknowledged. The few I would make eye contact with seemed to say exactly what I needed to hear at the time (I know I am sounding a bit like a recluse, I promise I have not gone mad). Those first days in Pushkar I felt like a ghost, appearing in only a few chosen dreams. During this time I must have stopped long enough for the dust to settle around me.

One day, and I struggle to remember just when it was, but one day I looked up and I saw. Plies of dust, of sandy crests had fallen from the crusty shell I had spent years building. It had dropped to the earth and the gentle desert breeze was blowing it away. Leaving me deliciously vulnerable and more alive than I had remembered possible.

Om Nama Shiva

Each morning I would have a milk coffee at my hotel, the Hotel Krishna, sitting in a wicker chair watching the sun come through the Persian arches of the compund. The streets would still be waking, the saddhus on their curbs, the cows chewing rubbish, shopkeepers slowly raising their metal doors for another day of work. I would stop by the gate that I remember distinictively from 17 years past and buy flowers for my morning ritual at the lakes edge. Removing my shoes (no foot wear allowed 40 steps from the ghats), I would catch myself smiling at the early morning pilgrims gathered for prayer.

Each day I would sit on the crusty shelf above the lake and send each of you blessings. So grateful that I have you in my life. The pigeons would coo, the cows bellow, monkeys galloping past. Giant carp or catfish gulping the freshly released flowers that I had just sent of in blessing. And as the sun began to peak above the spire of the temple that had sheltered me from the blaze, I would gather myself up, shake the pepples from my feet and begin the delightful practice of watching the ghats fill with the colors of Indian people. Brahmins offereing pujas to many, water being carried fromthe lake to a temple for further worhsip. The town beat to the constant hum of gongs and drums that never cease. Om Nama Shiva, Om Nama Shiva whispered fromthe lips of

meditative priests sitting with ease in lotus position for hours.

I learned from a Brahmin while watching the sunset a little about the Hindu religion. Ganesha is always given a prayer first ,no mater what other God you may be seeking help from. Shiva, the destroyer and apparently the creator seems to

be the most widely worshipped God. The linga sitting on corners of the ghats, and in many temples. It was Shiva's birthday a few days ago arousing more saddhus and pilgrims than pervious days. His temples covered with marigolds, rose petals and the special leaf he so enjoys. Om Nama Shiva Om Nama Shiva.......and the chanting continues into the night.