Planes, Trains, and Rickshaw Drivers
It had come to the point where I honestly couldn't decipher whether what I was smelling was coming from my surroundings or from myself. With one arm holding the top railing, I let my body hang as I swayed in jarring rhythm to the abrupt motions of the metro, the various smells wafting in the same rhythm, to and fro against my once delicate nostrils. By now I was able to, for the most part, isolate each stench and make out their origin: curry, digested curry, mid-digestion curry, curry toxins excreting from perspiring glands (which, in this case, I assumed the culprit was my own airing armpit), and every so often a knock-off brand of highly potent men's cologne from the early 90's disguising three day old curry mixed with a complete lack of care for personal hygiene. These smells used to make me want to vomit (another common source) so much so that I spent my first month here breathing through my mouth, inevitably causing a layer of dirt to gather on my lips and tongue. For weeks, everything I ate tasted like muddy rain and old shoes. Now, after two very long months I had become immune. My pristine, North American senses had given up and resigned themselves to their third world inhabitants and the abuse it put upon them. I no longer reacted when children would point in shock at my gleaming white limbs and face, quickly reaching for their cameras to document this foreign creature before them, nor when women would glare at me with eyes that blatantly assured how easily they could kill me if the feeling ensued. I no longer worried when men, driving past in traffic, would stare so intently that their heads nearly rotated 360 degrees, while their rickshaws narrowly averted ramming an emaciated ox head on. My ears deafened, my leathered skin became accustomed to a layer of constant sweat, and I was finally able to enjoy eating anything and everything, regardless of the ever present fetor of sewage. (I actually think I may be the only female known in the history of the world to have gained weight while living in India. If you've ever tried gulab jamun you would understand). However, with taking on a nation's diet, you inevitably take on their potent repercussions. And so, at the end of a long day of bartering, unsuccessfully averting beggars, and of course sweating out half my bodyweight, I found myself surprisingly impressed with my own odour as I counted the stops until I would be set free from the overcrowded prison cell that was the New Delhi metro.
The train slowed to a stop and we all thoughtlessly shuffled closer to one another as more hoards of people and their smells boarded the train. Among this particular hoard, was a large, rather careworn and exasperated older woman. She staggered through the train car, panting desperately to catch her breath, and find a seat to collapse; the only one left now taken by another woman. I stood and watched in mild worry. This woman had a look about her, similar to the one I imagined my face bore a few days after arriving in India, having forgotten that water is an integral asset to one’s daily survival in this desert and nearly fainted on this very metro line. I worried she would fall victim to the same fate. The occupier of the last free seat was young, and obviously not overly concerned with her immediate surroundings given that this poor woman was nearly keeled over in her peripherals. It was time to step up to the plate. It wasn't that I felt I needed to be a hero, it was more a need to rectify myself from last week's horrific incident where I suddenly felt feministically entitled and forced an ancient man-- he was borderline grave walking-- out of a "women only" seat and then proceeded to sit myself. The second my youthfully padded derriere hit the seat I realized what an absolute twat I had just been. The old man muttered something profound about "the left hand cleansing the right" as I sunk deep into the now jaded seat, feeling the whole train car judge me in disgust, dooming me to Hell. This was my chance to redeem myself. Or at least make myself feel less like a terrible human being. So I turned to the oblivious young lady in the seat and kindly asked,
"Would you mind standing? I really think this woman needs to sit."
She gave me a look of vague confusion, but obeyed. I motioned the enervated, round woman to replace her seat, and without hesitation she did, exhaling a very large and grateful, thank you, then continued to thank me between breaths until said breathing regulated. I offered her my water and asked if she was ok. My job here was done. I had successfully redeemed myself. Allah would forgive my sins and I would no longer be plagued with guilt. But this was not the end. With the next stop, the seat beside the now calmed and composed woman opened. A girl went to sit and the woman immediately slammed her pudgy hand on the seat and firmly shouted, No! She looked to me, standing beside the closing doors and demanded,
"Sit! Sit, sit. Here, sit."
I did as I was told. Upon seeing her more closely, I observed her features; flawless but aged brown skin, long and well cared for black hair. You could tell by her eyes, and the vague outline of her jaw and cheekbones, that she was once specifically and incredibly beautiful. She was still beautiful, in a humble I've had children, lived a full life, and ate my share of gulab jamun kind of way-- the latter part being fully relatable. But there was something about her, something else, that interested me; made me want to know her. I rarely cared to make conversation with strangers, mostly because nothing they had to say remotely entertained me, and therefore the act felt too effortful for potentially no personal gain.
She smiled at me, thanked me again, and asked how long I had been living in Delhi. I laughed at the thought that I apparently looked seasoned enough now to be considered a local and oddly smiled at the idea.
Our conversation, unlike most I've shared with strangers, surpassed small talk almost completely. Within a mere few stops, it seemed we knew each other. We suddenly became old friends, catching up. I knew that she had two grown children, a son and a daughter. I knew that she was a doctor, Dr. Mara. I knew that her father had always expected the absolute best from her; to be top of the class, better than the rest. I knew that she found this to be far too much pressure, and so when raising her own children, instead, she taught them to strive to be above average and to do so in as many things as possible. In her eyes, it is one thing to be the best in one specific area, but to be good in many, well that's when you have the world at your feet. As we continued to share our lives with one another, for the first time in months, I found myself grateful for the tediously long journey homeward. It was when we began to discuss her love life that I prayed our train would never stop.
Arranged marriages, to my surprise, were still very common over here. What surprised me even more was that, for the most part, girls preferred them. Dr. Mara's thirty-two year marriage was not arranged. When she spoke of her husband, the eye surgeon, a childlike giddiness spread across her face, while mine mirrored hers in fascination; as if we were two school girls swapping tales of the boys that carried our books home, or left us hidden love notes to find upon returning from recess.
"We hated each other." She began. "Granted, my being one of the few females in our university class, my popularity was less than great to begin with. He was stubborn and hot headed, and I was overconfident and on a mission to prove my worth. The combination was catastrophic. I remember a time when we were forced to share a cadaver. We fought so much that one of us actually put a piece of red tape down the centre of the body to ensure the other didn't cross over their designated work zone. We were never good at sharing. We still aren't." She laughed.
"But somewhere between cadaver threats and competitive grades we became best friends. Never lovers. I never saw him that way. Even though he is so good looking. Was. He was very handsome. Tall and strong and very handsome." She smiled. "He used to be."
I laughed at her correction and tried to imagine what Mr. Dr. Mara looked like now, the two of them together, old, worn, and comfortable.
Dr. Mara continued, "We remained the best of friends for years. We were inseparable, and happy to be so. It wasn't until my parents began considering potential marriage prospects for me that things changed. You see, in India, or at least in my day, married women could not have male friends. The moment you became someone's wife, you were not to be seen alone with any man who wasn't your husband, thus any male friendship, no matter how close, ceased to exist. When he heard of my parents plans, he became silent. I did not hear from him for days. And when I finally did he said exactly this, 'You are my closest friend. You have always been my friend and nothing more, and that was good. But now I have been forced to see my life without you and I cannot do it. I know in my heart that I cannot live without you. So maybe instead, marry me?' "
She spoke, and I could imagine him saying these very words to her decades prior, stated so matter of fact and to the point, but founded by love and adoration.
"And now," She continued, "from that day on, whenever we fought-- and we fought a lot, over the silliest of things-- whenever we would get angry and argue, one of us would stop and say, OK let's just be friends. No fights, we are friends. And whatever it was that came between us as husband and wife no longer existed in our friendship. We would just sit, watch a movie, have food, or just be. You have to stay friends. In order to last, you must remain friends first." Her eyebrows dipped and her lips softened into a cheeky grin. "And allow him to win every once in a while."
The train had become three times as packed by now, but I had not noticed nor cared.
"He still waits for me." Dr. Mara added quietly, her tanned face now subtly blushing pink. "Every day, at my station, he is there. Waiting to escort me home."
My stop was approaching. I wanted so desperately to stay on the train. To watch it pull into her station and see Dr. Mara waiting patiently for his wife. I wanted to watch them walk, two friends side by side, along the same red, dusty path towards their home. As I stood, readying myself to push through the obstacle of overcrowded passengers, she held my hand and wished me luck.
"I hope you find your friend."
Looking back, I don't know if she actually said those words, or if I had just wished that she had. Regardless, I now looked forward to days far into the future when I'll be seated on a train spouting to some wild and impressionable young adult about the love of my life while the sweet aroma of curried cow manure wafts through the opening doors of a passing metro car.