I remember a freshness and an excitement when I think back some sixty or so years. In this, I am sure that I am not unique: life with all its complications and frustrations begins much like a distant vessel on the horizon. It is initially just a small dot that slowly gets bolder and bolder, and finally looms fully into view. It is only then that you can make out its details: its huge size, its complicated structure, its blazing color, its sublime profile. In all of this, you sense a feeling of lightness, the embrace of optimism. You do not know why you feel this way, but you do. You are alive, though somewhat dull and awkward. Now: what do you do with this life? This is the fundamental question that sticks with the thinking person until the end is presented. Its answer does not seem to reside in money, power or the things of the world; it appears to be a higher goal – almost unreachable. It is “to know the unknowable,” to paraphrase Averroes (1) or “to achieve my meaning to life,” in the parlance of Dr. Frankl. (2) I was just too young to properly articulate this question, though I felt that the query was there, nonetheless. I also suspected that to not adequately address this concern would fill my life with needless pain and suffering, the classic unrequited life. I wanted freedom, whatever that meant!
Don’t be a Wage Slave: a career is a must.
My trip to India has only reinforced that what beats in the breast of every human being is the desire to be an adventurer, a dreamer, a seeker: coupled with the knowledge that we are intrinsically free. These are universal qualities and define us more than religion, race or culture. They delineate our very humanity. This is a bold statement and requires explanation. When we first left the Rift Valley (in modern day Ethiopia) approximately 200,000 years ago, (1) we were in search of a better environment: climate change was upon us. Homo sapiens were certainly few in number and not braver than our hominin brethren, Homo erectus, who had ventured out of Africa 1.5 million years before. But, we had our advantages: we had bigger brains; resourceful ingenuity and the ability to adapt to any habitat. We were also not selfish – we worked together. These capacities allowed us to dominate our species and populate the world, and we did.
The return never leaves you the same
We have come to the close: my final day dances with delights. I am up early, yoga and my morning ablutions. The lady of the house makes me a truly sumptuous English breakfast: bacon, sausages, eggs, tomatoes, beans, toast, and jam — I am forgetting the percolating coffee! (1) I sense a tinge of guilt concerning last night’s water, or lack thereof. This permeates the crisp linen tablecloth and polished silverware. “What century am I in?” I ask myself. In an earlier age, I would have graciously accepted the meal and suffered from gluttony for the rest of the morning. Seniority has its advantages: I opt for a small bowl of yogurt and, as a concession to her kindness, a cup of black coffee. I refuse to feel the requisite guilt at the unconsumed meal. I take my leave and say my goodbyes: the driver is waiting. I suddenly have more luggage than I remember, though this is not possible. The woman sensing something amiss summons a nearby neighbor to act as valet: remember — 1.25 billion people. She pays him a pittance which she states, condescendingly, is already too much. The man trundles my, now overweight, suitcases to the entrance of the building. As if acknowledging he has been overpaid, he carries them to the taxi. He proceeds initially in the wrong direction. Exhausted but morally satiated, he deposits them in front of the vehicle. His fee has been equitably used. We are off. New Delhi is a leafy and beautiful city. I, of course, have come just after a typhoon so I have no exposure to the choking air pollution that I often read about.
Nirvana awaits: are you ready?
I catch the train to Agra. It is an uneventful trip. The only truly exciting occurrence is that the Indian Rail Corporation does not view Agra with the reverence that I (or we) do. I am sitting rather contentedly, half asleep, in my seat when the train suddenly comes to a lurching stop. I am jarred to attention. As I glance out the window, I see an enormous sign: Agra. “Are we in Agra?” I inquire with some urgency. The incredulous look of the weary conductor says it all: another ridiculous foreigner with an inane question! “You have three minutes!” he responds rather haughtily. Life moves in slow motion. I cannot seem to disengage my valise from the upper rack.—the seconds tick by. I tumble out of the train scuffing my newly polished shoes: such are the blemishes of travel.
Can a frail human being comprehend the vagaries of life?
How do you approach one of the wonders of the world: Should I genuflect? Should I prostrate myself, crawl on my belly, what? These thoughts dance in my head as I arrive at the train station in New Delhi: my destination Agra – The Taj Mahal. This is my second excursion by train during my Indian adventure. I am more familiar with the transportation system and am therefore not as filled with anxiety. There are not 10,000 thieves lurking to steal all when I turn my head in the opposite direction. I ask two young men to glance over my luggage as I go to the washroom; miraculously, it is there when I come back. What fun this trust ‘thing” is: wow! Perhaps we could change the world just by trusting one another more – now that is a revolutionary thought.
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