I wish I were Beaver Cleaver. I want a white picket fence and perfectly round pancakes and a family that functions completely in synch.
The problem is, I hate fences, perfectly shaped food terrifies me, and my family seems to inevitably collide and implode, almost as if in competition with the Higgs Field.
(So, the sun has not even come up yet, but I'm now drinking my second cup of Madras coffee, imported from the source.)
After several days of truly fun festivities for my cousin's wedding in Mumbai, my family was to ship out to Gujarat, to prepare for another wedding. My mother, her two sisters and their husbands, my cousin, my grandparents, and my mother's aunt were going to take a train out of Bombay.
Our train was at 6:50 in the morning, but given that we were travelling with about two carloads of baggage and three elderly folks, we decided to leave the place at which we stayed at 5:30 in the morning. The ride was ten minutes.
My mother's cousins had driven us to the station. After they parked, we faced our first obstacle: crossing the street. With a sense of romantic adventure, we trekked across the highway, avoiding impassive cows, unrelenting motorists, and people standing in the middle of the road for no apparent reason, though I presumed each person to be waiting for Godot.
We survived. Our entourage attracted stares and whistles, as we huddled around fourteen bags at the entrance of the station, some of us rubbing sore muscles, some of us rubbing tired eyes, some of us rubbing our fanny packs and visors. My mother's aunt used her cane to fend off stray dogs. I still had not had a single cup of coffee.
We soon found out our platform was on the other end of the station. We had to walk down two flights of stairs, cross the station underground, then walk back another flight of stairs, and progress to the end of the tracks. There were hundreds of people crowding the station; rush hour had conveniently started about three hours earlier that morning. I briefly glanced up at the clouds, in a futile attempt to seek some sort of divine inspiration. As usual, I found nothing particularly revelatory in the skies, so instead scratched a new mosquito bite in my left armpit. Without caffeine or deus ex machina, I lost the thrill of romantic treks through the rough, wild terrain of the Indian train stations, and so picked up four heavy pieces of luggage and embarked upon the pilgrimage to Platform 7.
Some of us were tasked to escort my grandparents and great aunt. I had heard some commotion behind me after walking down the second flight of stairs, but assumed it was the usual buzz of a Bombay train platform. As soon as I reached the top step, I set my bags down for a small break. I glanced over my shoulder and saw my mother and her sister yelling at my grandfather, who unabashedly forged ahead with his lavendar napsack.
My mother motioned to me. "Ruch! Please get the backpack from nanaji."
I ran back down the steps and grabbed the lavendar napsack. My grandfather looked back up at me. His grip tightened. "No, beta, no problem, I have it." I tried again, but he pushed me away. I skipped back up the steps. My mother glared at me.
"Ruch! Please help your grandfather!"
"Ma, he said--"
My mother threw her hands in frustration. I was not completely sure what had spurred on her anger, but I decided to keep a 3-foot radius around her.
My grandmother and my mother's aunt were slowly making there way up the stairs. My mother's two sisters were walking with them, providing them with support up the slippery staircase (I don't know why everything in India is perpetually wet, despite an alleged water shortage).
My uncle told me he and some of my mother's cousins were going to go ahead and make sure the bags reached our platform. He told me to help out my mother.
Suffering a sort of dizzy spell, I turned around once again to my mother, who at this point was cursing in the train station. My grandfather was still holding his lavendar napsack. My aunt was hunched over trying to pry his fingers from the bag. I was not sure with what I was to assist, so I stood back and waited. All of a sudden, my mother and aunt burst into tears.
My grandfather smiled at me and walked on with his lavendar bag. I walked over to my mother, and put a reassuring (though I did not know for what I was providing consolation) hand on her shoulder. She waved me away. I took her bags from her, and added it to my increasing pile of luggage. I trudged on alone, swaying from the weight of everyone's bags and emotions.
My grandmother and my mother's aunt were still slowly and steadily making progress behind my bellowing mother. My grandfather was walking a few feet to the left of me, in utter contentment. My uncle and my mother's cousins were all up front. I walked alone, through the crowds and the dogs and the strategically placed trash cans. Twice, I almost fell into the train tracks, and almost four times I almost fell on my face, as those originally waiting for Godot suddenly jolted awake, and frenetically pushed through me, despite the clear path two inches to the left of me, and trampled me in their journey to nowhere.
Flustered by my near death experiences, I turned to find my mother, who was now heaving sobs with my aunt. I will still unsure of the source of anguish, so I increased my 3-foot radius to about 6-feet, and continued.
We finally all reached Platform 7. My grandfather was still clutching his lavendar bag and telling one of my uncles about the effects of Mumbai traffic on the socioeconomic development of the city. My aunts huddled around their cousin.
"Has he told you he just had surgery? He shouldn't be carrying bags."
Ah, the source. It was fear, worry, and more than worry, the pain of seeing someone desperately hold on to something that was slipping away.
Or, everyone was just a bit cranky and hungry.
My mother's cousin then shared stories of his father's obstinacy in the last few years of his life. He started to tear. My mother and all her sisters began crying with a renewed gusto. I walked over to my cousin. "Ugh, so much drama! I wish we could postpone the crying till after 9 in the morning."
My cousin was playing fruit ninja on his blackberry. "What? Who's crying?"
In about twenty five minutes, the train rolled into the platform. As it slowed, I felt some naan turned over at the base of my stomach. We had to get all the luggage and relatives onto the train in the five minutes that the train stopped.
My cousin and I went in first. Our uncles threw heavy bags to us and we were to catch them, or at least allow our paneer-bellies to soften the fall. My grandparents and great aunt were escorted into the train amid hundreds of other passengers, all of whom were also tossing bags onto the train.
The train lurched forward. Some straggling youths ran and jumped onto the train as it left the platform. My cousin and I divvied up the luggage. Refreshments were being served, so we maneuvered our luggage around the narrow aisles and wide food carts.
Finally, after having ensured all people and luggage were accounted for, we were able to fall into our seats, completely caving to this insurmountable exhaustion. I closed my eyes.
My mother tapped me hard. "Where's Ma and Papa? I want to go see them." I looked over at my mother, who was still sobbing. With the half ounce of energy I had left, I got up from the welcome seat and showed her to end of the car. My grandmother and grandfather were happily munching on biscuits and sipping their tea. My grandmother looked at my mother, and then looked back at me. "What's her problem?"
My mother squeezed my grandfather's hands, in a desperate compassion. My grandfather looked up at my mother. "Do you have my lavendar bag?"
