A breeze carrying the whiff of a divine fragrance passes by. You stop, hoping to recapture the feeling, the aroma, the high of a fleeting pleasure. Yet the moment is a shot, intoxicating in its abruptness. Drifting by, all that’s left is the wisp of a memory introducing you to a hidden part of yourself, a part you never knew existed or had just forgotten all about. A whiff…
She sat across the aisle, just one seat ahead. Maybe it was providence, maybe it was a sub-conscious desire, but when I happened across an empty seat and decided to place my posterior on it, ’twas the best seat on the train. Glancing at my left, I had the majestic beauty of the Sierra Nevada and the Utah mountains, with the raging Colorado river passing by and when I’d look in, there she sat, alone and wistful, pensive and quiet.
It took me a while to muster up the courage. The adrenaline high of being on an adventure had taken over, an intense desire to keep my eyes and ears open, observe every tiny detail and soak it all in. Would sit by strangers and start a conversation, learning more about people till the time they were strangers no more. Father and son, train enthusiasts, a German couple taking a break from RV-ing across America, a Mechanical Engineer who’d cycled from Seattle to San Francisco, two girls who also cycled along the same pathways from Portland to San Francisco, a photographer touring with a rock-band, a Ph.D student from Berkley studying Ethnic Conflict, school-students jamming on the guitar, a cheery train attendant who would have looked more at home selling surf-boards on Venice beach than cup noodles on a staid Amtrak wagon, an ex-’circus-hula-hooper’ practising her ukulele and finally the object of my attention, a mural artist from Michigan meeting her snow-boarding brother and travelling about; these chance encounters were the passing wind shaping and moulding me with their talks, laughs and deftly tendered whispers.
A pretext, an opening, I waited to find the right words. I couldn’t risk her on a “Hello”. Passing another sidelong glance, I noticed a book peering out of the seat’s pouch. I could discern the author, Tom Robbins, who had earlier caught my attention with his intriguingly titled children’s book for adults (and vice versa), “B is for Beer”. I took a deep breath, reassured myself that it shouldn’t be too hard, leaned across and asked, “Excuse me, but could I have a look at that book you have?”. She had a spare for herself and I borrowed the former book and quickly discovered it to be fascinating to say the least. A tale of a princess and a woodpecker, a love story of multiple dimensions, Tommy was coaxing you to think and playing with the words like a skilled conjurer.
The ice was broken. Mr. Robbins had also given me some clues. I knew from her tastes that she’d be the kind of girl I wanted to sit and engage in a conversation. From then on it was a series of discoveries that led me to find her more and more intriguing, every chat leading to the uncovering of another fascinating aspect to her personality. Art, photography, literature, gymnastics, adventures, music, cinema; her tastes were delightful and to sweeten the deal she was smart, funny and pretty, all in one lovely package.
Passing by craggy edifices, stark mesas (mesae?), incongruous golf courses, swollen rivers tumbling with adrenaline junkies (the majority, in their most friendliest manner, mooning us) tossing about in their rafts, canyons and cliffs, salt flats, log cabins, covered bridges (in Madison County, no less), windmills and waterwheels; time flew by as we talked or just sat by each other left to our own devices and thoughts.
Even the halts served their purpose, she’d get off the train for her cigarette breaks and I would give her company, on the pretext of stretching my legs and experimenting with my new camera. Tired of capturing stark landscapes, it was a delight to have a subject to frame my picture around. Her visage was accentuated by the sunlight veering off the subtle angles and curves, shrouding her in a halo of angelic innocence.
She smiled for the camera, her countenance making for an ideal subject, and yet that wasn’t the only emotion visible on her face. Tired from two days of travelling, the end of a holiday and a train that seemed dogged by misfortune (an engine failed on the first day and the tracks got flooded on the next), her mood got gloomier with every delay. I, on the other hand, was at my cheeriest, glad to have the extra time to finish her book and spend in her company. I also had a party in Chicago to look forward to while she had a bus waiting to prolong her agony, taking her to East Lansing, Michigan. Trying my best to cheer her up, I fell short, and even though I thought it might help, I just couldn’t pluck up the courage to ask to hold her hand. So I unearthed a bookmark of mine, wrote a little message for her, left it in her book and receded to the background affording her the solitude which I thought she desired at the time.
The train rumbled along and soon we entered Illinois, sauntering into the Chicago Union Station four hours late. Farewells approached and the heart grew heavier. All set to say goodbye, I started walking her down to her bus. A tender moment was imminent, and what I couldn’t convey over the past two days was planned to be eloquently conveyed in a warm, verbose and lingering hug. My host in Chicago suddenly made his appearance at the station and all my best laid plans went ‘gang-aft agley’-ing on me.
Having to part ways, we thanked each other for the company, she apologised for her cantankerous (her exact choice of words) demeanor, asked me to find her on Facebook and we summed it up in a quick hug. I cast a last sidelong longing glance to see a solitary figure briskly walking away. Tired and weary she walked along, looking forward to the end of her journey and being back in her own car driving the last hundred odd miles back home; the music, the open road and the wind giving her the company which a 26 year old backpacker from India could no longer offer.
