Screams at the Delhi rail station

A memory from several weeks ago ….

We are squeezing off India Railway's Shimla-to-Delhi overnighter, groggy, into a fast tumbling current of commuters, when I hear a child’s panic screams, then see two men in uniform, one swinging a lathi at a boy’s legs and back, more screams, the boy in the filthy remains of clothes, now curled fetal on the floor, arms and hands over his head, another threatened swing of the lathi. We stand frozen.

I glare at the uniformed man and his companion. I want to grab his arm or grab the boy or grab back this last minute.

The current of passengers keeps flowing, one, two or three acknowledging what is happening in a quick glance then moving on, when the second man in uniform says something to his companion, perhaps pulling him off, then we too move back into the current, those few moments replaying once, then again and again in my mind’s eye as we search for the EXIT sign.

The painter, the inventor and the puppeteer

In the midst of these India days, already so crowded with surprises, marvels, and chaos, there suddenly emerge during a single day three extraordinary men: a painter, an inventor, a puppeteer. Days later, as I remember them, I see each springing, chuckling, through a rent in the screen of the day-to-day, behind which, I imagine, jokester gods frolic and gentle creative souls seek refuge ….

The painter of miniatures, Narendra Mehta, twinkling eyes, that easy impish smile, more hair in that moustache than on his head, those agile dancing hands and fingers. He sits behind a shop counter covered with his work – camels, lovers, fanciful trees and palaces: images from Hindu and Rajasthan stories – his conversation turning serpentine between the here and far off. His granddaughter who makes him giggle and beam with love. The how’s of painting the fine line. The subjects and styles – there appear images that speak so strongly of 17thC Persia that I wonder if that’s Arabic or Hindi in the lettering. A grandmother’s ancient stories told each evening during his childhood. The meaning of the old legends and the gods … Ganesh for example, he of the big head (“good memory, intelligence, uses head,” says Narendra Mehta), two big ears (“hears more”), mouth under trunk (“less speaking, more listen”), big stomach (“digests more things … not more food but more things … ideas, experiences”), and “moves careful, deliberate, in no hurry when walking.” “You see?” he asks us, dimples deepening, eyes twinkling into ours.

“Fascinating isn’t it,” says the second man – short, slight, teeth askew and dark like a row of wind-beaten fence posts, a jello bounce in his shoulders and head, that eager voice, all energy waves – suddenly emerging from the shop-front’s shadows, his figure surrounded by a clutter of dusty objects with string pulls, tarnished coins and statuary, indeterminate tiny things under glass. I’ve been staring at a two-faced doll, paint-chipped, ear missing. “Do you know what this is?” holding out a small wooden tripod, delighting in our puzzlement. When we quickly give up, he sets his glasses on the tripod’s nose, suddenly giving the whole a classic Chaplin look, then flashes his leaning fence posts, gives a jello jiggle and raises his palms towards the ceiling. Now he holds out a wood block of many fitted pieces in one. “Can you take it apart? It’s simple. Very simple.” Like life, I think. And of course we cannot take it apart. “No one ever has.” Hehehehe …. The fence posts again, and those jello shoulders, as the wooden block falls into many pieces in his fingers. “Every seen one of these?” He reaches for three linked wire rings. Hehehe. He’ll never tire.

The puppeteer, the third man, leads me through a curtain into a brightly-lit profusion of colours, a small room crammed with hanging, sitting and tumbling together string puppets – folk heroes and heroines, character types, animals, fantastic creatures. He knows I’m wide-eyed. “I enjoy puppets a lot, but I have never been in such a place!” Can he describe who this character is? Is there still puppet theatre in Jodhpur? Does he have favourite stories? Favourite puppets?

“Would you like to see the Dancing Girl?” Of course. He vanishes through satin blouses, stripped trousers, a lion’s mane. I hear music, then he emerges, but he seems smaller, all hands and fluttering fingers, but even these seem small compared to Dancing Girl in ankle-length sequined scarlet dress, her torso now arching, bowing, pelvis now thrusting forward with the melody, feet now gliding forward over the floor, now spinning. “So graceful,” I offer. “You’re a magician.”

“Let me show you the joker,” says the puppeteer, disappearing, reappearing, a new figure stepping across the floor, grey trousers and pale maroon shirt, loose limbed, doing a kind of jig, high kicks, body flips, then one leg separates from his torso, then the other, then an arm and another, then his head, then one foot kicks the head, a hand slaps his flying knee, lips kiss foot (I’m laughing), a foot kicks at an invisible second figure, an arm embraces a phantom friend, the whole figure reassembling then flying apart again, but with such exuberance, playfulness, and changing moods, at once so divided, at war with itself, then making up, whole again. I clap. I have to see it all again. “A trickster,” I say. “Yes, yes a trickster.” “Can you do it again?”

"20 rupees"

The bus baggage handler opens the boot of the bus, points and vanishes. 

We are to lift our packs inside, into the usual thick coating of fine dust, into the likelihood of spilled oil or some more mysterious liquid, into a hollow into which will be dropped and crammed various crates, boxes, bags of produce and other goods. 

We heave our bags into the dust, turn, and hear “20 rupees” – from the mouth of the reappearing baggage handler, his hand out. 

Okay, okay – that’s a mere 40 cents, but …. Early on, more naïve, we handed over the 20 or rupees for the privilege of having our bags thrown into that filth pit. Today, deaf, dumb and wiser, we turn our backs and climb into the bus.

The parcel ... and the head bob

Off we go this morning to the main Udaipur post office, two Christmas parcels in hand, bundled in cut down cardboard boxes, wrapped many times over in packing tape, addressed both sides – just as we had done earlier for India Post in Delhi.

Nothing unusual in the walk across town: jumping out of the way of tuk-tuks, motorbikes and cars; trying to ignore anyone saying “What country?” or “Do you rest well?” or “Looking is free”; marvelling again at the surrounding frenzy, colours, signage (“Nice Good Like” over a shop front); working our way from one street corner to the next roundabout with the aid of usually well-meaning and infrequently helpful bystanders. Then there it is: the red and white of India Post.

We are pointed to the parcel wicket (#2, which everyone but us knows), join a short queue, complain (as we have on many days) to men (it’s almost always men) attempting to step in front of us (then facing down their looks of hurt or incomprehension or even, sometimes, anger), and just about reach the counter – when the power goes off.

Semi-darkness. “No service,” the smiling young intelligent-looking man says through the wicket bars, pointing to the weigh scales and computer.

“We understand, but is this where we can mail parcels?” “Parcels need wraps,” we are told. “It’s wrapped,” we push it forward in the dimness, just in case. “Needs white wrapping,” another older man pipes in testily. “White wrapping?” His pointing finger aims at a pile of something in the gloom. “Must be wrapped in white,” says his officious voice. “But we have sent parcels before with India Post just like this one is wrapped.” “Post office policy.” A quizzical look from one clerk, a dismissive frown from Mr Officious.  “Official policy everywhere,” says the latter, certain he is voicing a self-evident truth.

“But ….” Betty stops me and asks where we can find the white wrapping. Three or four men who have been watching and listening intently over our shoulders all point out the PO door. The clerk inside the wicket agrees, pointing outside, gesturing left. Someone else gestures across the street. We hear the word “courier” from several directions. All helpful in its so very Indian way.

Out we go, parcels in hand, into the bright midday sun, first left, then we see the “courier” sign across the street – FAST FIRST COURIER – and now remember passing it 20 minutes ago.

Of course they  - “they”  appears to be a family operation: pop is hanging out, son is running the show, mom … but more about mom in a moment – know immediately what we want, even before we’re halfway across the street.

First we must complete three identical address/declaration forms for each parcel. The parcels themselves are taken behind a counter piled with scraps of worn, once-white cotton near which sits a sewing machine, scissors and a scattering of tailoring tools.

Now mom goes into action, measuring the parcel, rummaging through the cotton scraps, finding what she wants, cutting and trimming, then sewing the pieces into what turns out to be an exactly fitted parcel bag which she hands to son, with a “pretty fast, yes?” smile our way. Then she begins the cycle again for the second bag. How adept she is at this parcel packing business! Really showing us up, and all so congenially too.

Meanwhile son hand stitches closed the end of the first bag with cotton string, drips globs of red wax along the stitching, stamps a seal on the wax (no packing tape needed at FAST FIRST) , writes TO and FROM with a faded blue marker on the once-white cotton and hands the first parcel to us. “You need to copy the addresses.” This will be the fourth addressing of each parcel, the sixth time for each if you count Tom’s address work the evening before. The parcel brings back a childhood memory of taking canned goods and other gifts to church on White Gift Sunday. An eerie look, too, this package, like it might have something to do with the beginning or end of life.

It happens that TO and FROM are the last words the worn blue marker will ever write. I hold up the illegible letters. “Just a minute,” someone says, and son is on his motorbike speeding down the street. We join pop in hanging out, watching mom do her miracle bag-making for the second parcel. Such a warm, good-mother smile.

Another man who also seems to be hanging out at FIRST FAST and is somehow familiar looking, now reminds us that yes we had indeed met him earlier, before we queued and the lights went out and Tom argued in the India PO, and that he had told us then that we must get our packets specially wrapped across the street. He could be saying this in a superior or humiliating way, but he’s not. That’s just what happen to happen, he seems to be saying, and with a smile and gentle head bob.

Now the motorbike and son re-appear with two new felt pens. How could that happen so quickly? The addresses are soon complete. But there’s one more step: son tapes our three address/declaration forms on each once-white cotton wrapped package … they weren’t a waste of time after all! although the odds of these taped labels making it together with parcel across the first room of the Uaipur India PO seem slight indeed. But who are we to speculate on India mail?

Sacrament in hand, we thank mom for her stitching, son for bringing all this together, the stranger for trying to steer us right in the first place, and smile at pop for hanging out, then head back to the India PO where the power is back on, Mr Officious is busy at a distant wicket, and our young intelligent-looking clerk welcomes us back with a smile that seems to be making every effort to ignore the last hour or so, at least in our personal case.

How quickly now – parcels wrapped, wax sealed, addressed and thrice declared – everything is weighed, stamped and set aside … although not quick enough for a helpful man arching over my shoulder to repeat to me in English every sentence the clerk utters in English, and for another to lean into our postcard sitting on top of one parcel, giving it what appears to be a careful read, and (I swear) a third man lifting 100 rupee notes out of my wallet in payment with his very eyes. And all this during the unrelenting press at our backs from those in the surrounding, deepening queue.

“What’s all this crowding and hanging over the shoulder about?” I ask the efficient young clerk.  “You are in a country with more than a billion people,” he says, bobbing his head and smiling pleasantly, intelligently, genuinely, as if the words “more than a billion” explained everything. 

I smile, give a head bob back, thank the man for his help and off we go into the still-bright afternoon sun.

The head bob

Incidentally (meaning quite unrelated to parcels and India Post), I’ve since been wondered why I used the head bob at this moment, and why anyone in south Asia does. It’s so ubiquitous that it can quickly become an acquired habit – just ask either of us. But what does it mean?

Often it feels like some essential empathic conversational gesture: I’m with you, I’m listening, I hear what you are saying. But more specifically? In my experience it seems to have suggested everything from Yes to No, Maybe, Perhaps, Could Be, You Think So? I Never. I understand …. Which perhaps comes back to the idea of an empathetic conversational signal: I hear you, I’m attending to what you are saying.

In my own case, at this moment in the Udaipur India PO, feeling the India full court press and hearing “You are in a country with more than a billion people,” my own head bob might have been saying “I hear you” or “I hear you but that’s no explanation" or “I hear you but I’ve gotta split.” Or perhaps some imp in me, one of those Hindu god incarnations, was just saying “Perhaps.”