An Inch

Story

by Shawna Craig

My face betrays me, openly reveals confusion as I scan the Lucknow train station trying to figure out the next logical move. Dodge checkmate. A fleeting delusion of confidence causes me to smile at Rebekah, my confidante. She gifts my obvious condition with words.

“Our train has arrived in Lucknow three hours late. This affords us roughly three hours to reflect on our assumption that connecting trains are possible in India!”

I scowl. Will these dry gems be appreciated when we reminisce?

Infants to the relentless marvels and frustrations of India, we are equally naïve when it comes to our intra-navigation situation. Motionless, we are brief statues set against transient life, intricate cacophony. Conical terra cotta mugs filled to the brim with aromatic chai are bought, drank, and smashed on the train tracks. I have deemed myself well read on the concept of impermanence. Maybe I over-think isolated acts?

Countless methodologies for clearing the lungs unmistakably announce morning. The train exhales while the day’s first audible toddler clad in squeak-shoes sprints several yards ahead of her parents. One of her shoes is broken; her resulting rhythm is ‘squeak, pause, squeak, pause, squeak, pause.’ Immediately flanking her, a crowd assembles – they encircle an open-air water faucet. I am transfixed by these roaming sights, sounds, and questions.

I am picturing myself delineating each component, picking up and categorising the intangible with imaginary hands.

Rebekah, with her infinite travelling intuition, decides we will ‘simply’ take another train. A badly executed dance on the platform follows:

“Stop!"
“No, wait.”
“That train is definitely full.”
”What do you think?”
“Yeah, I think it’s a decent suggestion, but the Station Master said platform 8, and this is 6.”
“So what, this one is moving now!”
“Decide!”
“You decide!”
“Sure?”
“Jump!”

Bumbling and tripping, finally, we board. Fellow passengers take an immediate interest. We are elated by genuine contact in lieu of habitually commerce-based interactions. Dutifully, we shed our frustrations and accept our circumstances.

While no consensus is reached on what the average velocity of this, our new reality, may be, rudimentary mathematics point to35 km/hr. Indeed, our newly appointed train to Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh is of the milk-run persuasion. Rebekah utters her second of many future gems.

“Street cars in Toronto move faster than this…at rush hour”!

I sigh, and think ‘thank you journal.’ For the next four months I will transcribe the sweet nothings of experiential learning, in real time.

I am scanning the interior of the train: mildly chaotic, but still, a comfortable atmosphere. Children preside over the three-tiered bunk beds–evidently we sit upon both a seat and jungle gym. Slow, rhythmic lurching on the rails makes it feel like a county fair ride that has far surpassed its 2 ½ minute retching threshold. But, just around the corner from my seat, the open-air doors offer an experience unlike any of my train travel to date. Here, lies the trade-off: personal security for the affluence of intrepid movement. The out-of-doors. This is literal. This is the absence of re-circulated air. This is me falling in love! Here, the end of my trip will be punctuated by my physical transference from train to ground, not by my first breath of real air in 10 hours.

My face to the wind…

Sample scenery from first door-leaning exercise: Dhobi-wallahs laundering clothes at the banks of waterways, rigorously beating each article then setting the fabrics out to dry in beautiful, impermanent patchworks of colour. Agricultural fields and rice paddies dominate endless stretches of land. A handful of labourers distributed sparsely over the land provide little evidence of India’s true population. .. Pulling myself back from the rushing wind, I scribble ‘rural-urban phenomenon,’ ‘most artistic laundry display,’ and ‘reclamation of one’s inner-child’ into my mental notebook.

The open-air sojourn is revitalising. My body relaxes and I smirk as we decelerate, to answer yet another delivery call:

Enter [stage right]: Group of six boys, aged 12-14.
The boys have just finished their Tuesday classes. It is 4:30 p.m. All wear blue blazers and trousers, with white collared shirts. Their ties are loosened around their necks, indicating that professionalism has ceased for the day. Five of them sit opposite Rebekah. The youngest, Faisal Khan, sits to our left. He promptly introduces himself.

Clearly the class-clown of his entourage, Faisal immediately strikes up a lively conversation with me, pertaining to family life and the WWF (The boy is 12; he is not referring to the World Wildlife Fund)!

It’s not long before I begin to sense the conversation turning from these innocent topics to more romantic ones. I make a weak attempt to integrate the other five boys into a different conversation. The shy boys fidget, politely refusing my bait. Rebekah proves little assistance. She laughs, making a somewhat idle contribution when Faisal finally declares: “Just one kiss, I’m a good student!”

Innumerable stops are my saving social grace. Within ten minutes I am bidding farewell to the boys as the train drops them off in their town. I have lasting proof of the interaction - a future relic, I am certain. His autograph sits proudly in the back of my journal.

Hours are passing in fifteen-minute chunks. The participants of conversation change. A human tide? As I reveal Canada’s general attitude toward the holy cow, I am met with “Wait, you put cows in a pen…they do not roam free?” Our customs toward this holy animal are making people laugh in bewilderment. Laugh is an understatement – they are howling. This group parts at the next stop, so I pull out Paulo Coello’s “The Alchemist.” Of the many sheltered experiences offered in India for people like me, the foreigner’s pop library is one, and has encouraged this read. My current state of mind inclines me to derive profound meaning from this novel, and I am happy to indulge.

The patience of the day is waning with the insistence of dusk.

Another halt, and momentary blindness--acute sensory deprivation. Mere inches from the iron bars of the train window, country stops remain nameless and unannounced. Instead we are gifted with an auditory feast: the ubiquitous moo of a cow, people singing, the clanging of kitchenware, crescendos and decrescendos of cicadas.

I have considered a uniform physical landscape. But every country seems to have its mountains, its burnt fields accented by sparse trees, its pedestrian walkways, its geometrically lined meadows, its expressways. Consider a uniform auditory landscape – what does it sound like?

Nine p.m. Dinner was a lost cause to me several hours ago. But, out come the elaborate Tiffin canisters. I am so jealous! Everyone’s packed food puts my train food to shame. It is confirmed: train food is always a bad call, regardless of geography.

We are stretching. We are shifting from one tired bum cheek to the other. Sweat has been pooling in undesirable places. I am cursing gravity…but we are stopping and everyone is moving about. Are we there?

Varanasi: 300 kilometres, and ten hours to show for it. If this were an essay, I would have three pages of references. But we haven’t a single deadline.

Habits weigh heavily. Shake them, and you are nimble.

Diwali is in full swing, and I have no idea what awaits us. I anticipate animation.
Leaving my baggage behind, I will explore resonance.