Eagalic Music

We are standing, once again at the end of the rose-scented lane, near the entrance to the dargah.  Karen has decided to do something to help alleviate the misery of the beggars who are gathered at the gates, palms outstretched and beseeching. She buys about twenty nans from a baker in an open stall, in full view of the beggars.  Then with an air of great determination she begins handing out nans. 

There seems to be a moment of awkward hesitation, as though no one can really believe what they are seeing.  Then, there is a sudden rush of bodies, the outstretching of thin, claw like fingers, pushing, shoving and shouts of protest.  In seconds Karen is stripped of all the nans and is being confronted by more angry faced beggars who felt they have been cheated out of their share.  Suddenly, she is shaking, not believing what she has just witnessed. 

I am immediately reminded of our confrontation with the angry monkeys at Elephanta when Karen and the children had tried to feed them.  Poverty here is a real issue. 

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We are looking out the window of our Bombay Hotel room, overlooking a leafy green park and congratulating ourselves on our good fortune at having found so elegant a setting at so reasonable a price. 

We have only just arrived in Mumbai after negotiating the streets near the waterfront around India Gate, at first depressed by the numerous seedy looking hotels and aura of poverty in such close proximity to the grandeur of the waterside drive.  We are planning to stay only a day or two and then return to Delhi, a prospect that pleases me greatly since I have felt so comfortable there to begin with.

The first item on our agenda will be to find a restaurant and with this in mind we set out into the streets, free of baggage and with a renewed sense of the euphoria of being on the journey.  There is still nothing so comforting to me as finding a safe haven after running the gauntlet of doubtful cheap hotels.

After a few blocks we find ourselves in the cinema area where once again I am reminded of how much the English affected the structure and look of the city, this area looking like a copy of Picadilly Circus.  Two blocks later the illusion vanishes and we are in the thick of a Bombay marketplace, teeming with bodies, open-fronted cafes, sidewalk vendors and the exotic aromas of singeing spices mingling with a cacophony of sounds.

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We are seated at the back of a modern Indian bus, having elected to try a different route back to Bombay. We are being rocketed, buffeted, bounced, jostled and rattled as the bus careens over the rugged inland roads on the 18 hour journey.

At the front of the bus is a video screen on which an East Indian film is playing. A friendly man is seated next to me, translating the dialogue of what seems to be a modern romance based on an old legend. The fact that the film takes my mind off the discomfort of the long journey is not the least of its appealing traits.

The children don’t seem to mind the raucous ride but my back is killing me, my legs are cramped and the journey seems endless. At nightfall we spread a blanket on the floor between the seats, despite the press of the crowd and try for a few hours rest but because the floor takes the impacts of the road directly we only doze minutes at a stretch. The bus stops at regular intervals for the passengers to stretch their legs. Nearby bushes and walls are the only toilets to be found and blessedly, Nika has decided on this night to toilet train herself, waking me up so that she can pee in a plastic basin. I empty this at rest stops, throwing the contents off into the bushes.

Tavel on an Indian bus or train is no solitary affair and we are thrown into the life of the other passengers, sometimes literally. Once again the children draw an excess of kindness from fellow travelers and there are always offers of food or shared information with the least of introductions.

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Morning brings with it a healing. The moods of the previous night are quickly dissolved in the bustle of early domestic activity and the brilliant sunshine that greets the day.

We wash, dress and walk down the road to the little Hindu cafe where we can order a breakfast of curry and nan or sweet honey-drenched, fruit covered pancakes that would be the envy of any Canadian lumberjack. However, something of the night’s previous mood plagues us still, lingering in the background like the effects of a hangover.

What caused us to explode after such a lovely evening? Was it not only a little girl crying or perhaps the demons of our discontent go far deeper than we would care to imagine?

Shannon has forgiven us but we have not forgiven ourselves. We exchange guilty, silent looks as we eat, knowing that we have some far deeper healing to accomplish than we are perhaps willing to admit. What have we brought with us to this land, from the West or from our distant childhood that is not being looked at in an effective, conscious way?

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The night is pristine, star-sprinkled, tropical and romantic and the four travelers are finding their way down toward the beach to eat their evening supper.

Along the road are a band of gypsies who have congregated near the village well to cook their evening meal and to sell their wares to tourists. The women, intricately bejeweled and bangled, are given the task of spreading the blankets to display their sale items: jewelry, trinkets, cookware, clothing, baskets and even such things as transistor radios. They are the ones who solicit the customers while the men sit in a group swigging on a bottle of feni, the local spirits brewed from coconuts or cashews. They are here most evenings and Karen does not feel intimidated to stop and browse without necessarily buying.

After three or four visits, the gypsy women know her and welcome her smilingly without pushing her to buy, although she does buy something from time to time.

Passing through the midst of these folk in the semi-darkness is an exotic experience, one that seems out of time. These gypsies are those of storybook and legend, absolutely unchanged through the centuries. 

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