I left Bangalore this morning. As our rickshaw careened through the streets a light rain started to fall. Everything seemed to glisten in the sunlight and the mist. As we stopped at a stoplight a couple on a motorcycle were waiting by our side. The man would reach back and gently touch his partner’s leg while trying to shield her as best he could from the rain. The woman would press her cheek to his back and plant a light kiss on his shoulder, leaving the imprints of her lips on his purple shirt. A child in a rickshaw to our right reached out to feel the rain on her small hand. All the while her mother was holding her at the waist to keep her in the car. The mother’s face smile was hidden by her hijab, but in her eyes the love for her child stretched for miles. There was so much love and tenderness and love at this one traffic stop in the rain in the middle of the city. It was almost like walking through your high school a few days before graduation. My Bangalore graduation glasses.
Once we reached the train station I bought a ticket for my ride. Sixty rupees for a one way ride to Mysore. Less than a beer and barely more than a dollar. I made my way down to Platform 10 where our train was boarding. I had no idea what car to hop on so I nervously passed my ticket to a small man standing in the doorway of train car. He looked, gave me the traditional Indian head bob, a language all to itself that I could not decipher in that moment. After a few head bobs another passenger came back. He looked at my ticket and beckoned me onboard. I took a seat in the row across the aisle from the guy who helped me and his friend. Soon a man came through the car selling chai and lightly roasted peanuts. My helper bought both and sent an order of each to me. Soon we were deep in a very limited conversation. He spoke little English and I speak little (no) Hindi. For some reason one of the first questions people ask me over here is if I’m married. It’s a lot like going to family reunions. He spoke of his wife and his seven-month-old daughter. His friend was single and we joked about being of the same bachelor class.
As the train rolled through the countryside the generosity of the pair I had found became readily apparent. Anytime a vendor came through our cramped car to sell snacks they would hop on it, giving a share to me. Even when I’d try to beat them to it, they would have none of it. Maddur vada, vadai, chai, nuts, a fruit I had never heard of sliced with salt pushed into the cuts, they shared everything that came through. More than this, at every stop people would come through the train car asking for money. A man in an old army sweater and a fake leg dragged himself through the car, a small man with one hand a clubbed feet, a blind man and an old woman with a cleft palette. For every single person they would give them money when few others on our car would. They would share anything they could with the people around us. A baby sat in the row in front of them with her parents and every time the baby’s bottle would run out one of the pair would dart to the back to refill it so the father wouldn’t have to leave his wife and child. They insisted on getting my phone number. So I gave it to them but tried to explain I wouldn’t be able to receive a call until August. “Ok then…August fifth, I call.” He said to me as we were nearing Mysore. Once I got off the platform in Mysore one of the pair insisted on carrying my suitcase to my rickshaw. The driver was a bit annoyed but my new friend couldn’t be dissuaded. As we parted ways he shook my hand for the last time and disappeared into the swarm of people outside the station.