samman
It was one of those days where everything slipped into place neat as the loose coins in a leather pocketbook. It is common and recommended to carry change in India. You never knew when you might want to barter for a scrambled egg and a cup of chai. Persons with stoves propped up on rocks sautéed eggs with a bit of ghee and layered the runny whites over pieces of toast.
The girl joined the throng, waiting in line for the bread and tea. Some squatted with their babies at their breasts. Others stood upright and swayed so their sarees whispered in the soft light. A sun that took its time to rise. Glass cups that warmed each palm. Little napkins to dust the crumbs and continue on your way. It was a discreet morning, one of nods and subtle gestures. One blink was an acknowledgment, greeting cards written by eyelashes.
The girl had set out early. She chose the car that was scheduled to leave the villa before daybreak. Her ride with four well-robed strangers was in the dark. Each wore sunglasses and carried large bags on a shoulder. Their hands glittered with jewels. You know money by how well-manicured a person appears. Their nails were immaculate: ruby red, auburn, twilight, and saffron. The girl sat on her hands in the backseat and was grateful she’d worn socks in her espadrilles.
Money may not purchase a better person, but it makes you feel better about yourself.
Especially if you’re worn out.
A road that bumped and trundled along, and the girl hit her head twice on the car ceiling. She had been stuffed in the backseat for this very reason. She was sure of it! Being the smallest person in their party and unwilling to entertain superficial conversation, she’d been happy with her seat until the bumps became a headache. She crunched down low and listened to the women in the front and middle rows speak.
It’s tragic, isn’t it?
But what can we do?
It’s the leadership.
The only safe place is your heart.
We must pray.
And they clasped their perfumed palms. The car smelt of roses; too many of them. The girl envisioned a great bouquet with pink and yellow roses. She used her index finger and thumb to peel off the petals and scatter them on the taxi’s floor. The women didn’t notice; they were too busy with their heads bowed to notice the girl's silent fury!
The five were dropped off at the Ganga at the base of Lakshman Jhula. The four women released their hands as they sautéed out of the vehicle. They gave the driver a handsome tip and continued their conversation on the side street. None of them mentioned or looked at the girl. The driver included. He collected her money with a wrinkled hand while looking at his phone.
The girl chose a path that seemed to weave downward toward the river's edge. She was to catch a boat that would take her across to the other side: Tapovan. It was easy, a young man with blond hair had told her. It will take you ten minutes. Eighty rupees, they may ask for one hundred.
He said this as he looked the girl up and down. She didn’t like being appraised in such a way and frowned at the boy. He didn’t notice.
Paradox is at the core of life: abandoning one part of ourselves to achieve abundance.
There were three little books the girl carried with her everywhere: her passport, journal, and a book of poems composed by Pablo Neruda. The poems were in Spanish. The girl did not understand their full meaning; however, the rhythm comforted her, and she reassured her spirit with the phrases.
As she walked the narrow path toward what felt like the direction she was meant to be headed, she watched the motorbikes careen past, so close that one grazed her elbow with its side mirror. Cows blocked the roads and were swatted by the ropes tied to their backs. They seemed utterly unperturbed by the mess and the noise! The girl pulled her scarf over her head and kept her chin down. This is how she avoided stepping in the manure, spit, chocolate bar wrappings, cigarette butts, condoms, and streaks of what looked to be semen on the street sides.
Oh, but she loved her darling India! Every trip was such a delight! A box of lokum, hazelnut, or raspberry. It was the girl's favorite.
And where was she headed at such a stark point of the day?
The boat had yet to arrive when she found the staircase that presented the bank of the Ganges. Four speedboats were on the other side. Empty. Six men worked the ferry system, three on each side. One to take the money, one to provide and collect the life jackets, and one to drive the boat. It was a simple operation. The man collecting the money sat at a brown desk with a matching chair in the sand between two large stones. He had dark sunglasses and denim jeans. He would be too hot later in the day.
The girl walked down the stairs and came upon the line for the egg toast and tea. She checked the color of the sky: it was still very early. Pearl grey. She had time for a hot beverage and a bit of protein. She got in line behind a woman with two girls and one bow waiting with her. The girl wore blue dresses with white aprons. Their hair was braided and set in two pigtails tied with little ribbons. One girl had orange and the other yellow. The boy was perhaps four years younger. He was dressed in dark pants and a smart jacket, his hair combed over to one side and combed with a little bit of wax to set it in place.
Each of the three smiled shyly at the girl. She returned their spirit. They wanted nothing and offered her everything. The girl received her breakfast and crouched with them on the stairs to eat. In silence, they watched the sunrise over the water.
My yolk is easy and my burden light, the girl thought to herself.
She loved so much and carried very little. She finished her tea and set the paper cup in the file of ashes. It would be burned at dusk with the other paper stuffs tossed in the circle.
Feeling much refreshed at having filled her body with life: substance, food! The girl walked all the way down to Ganga. She wiped her greasy fingertips on a spare napkin. The man at the wooden desk asked for one hundred rupees. She gave it to him without question or quarrel.
Ten minutes for boat. You wait, he said, tipping his head toward the sand.
The girl made her way toward the water. She took her sandals off and slipped her toes in the Ganges. The water was cool, not so cold. The hem of her skirt got wet. She squatted down and, wet her palms, and whispered the few lines of Neruda she knew by memory:
Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.
Translation:
Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
You look like a world in your posture of surrender.
Photo source.
