"Sometimes I Be Sittin On Trains..."

I can little describe to you the pleasures of riding on a train through India.

Surely, I can tell you of the train: a pale, painted blue; long and lean and open; with niched cabins containing both bench seats and sleeping bunks--

Or of the view: hills of ceaseless, seamless, undulating earth; green parrots strung along the telephone wires; and a sunset of sherbet light against lavender-colored clouds and mountains,

Or the passengers: friendly, dark-skinned, mustached men with newspapers sitting cross-legged, who insist you call them "uncle"--

Or the sounds: the droning offer of the venders for "chai, chai, chai, coffee, chai"; the thurrr of shuffling from a nearby card game; the steady, lulling clack-clack-clack of iron wheels on iron rails somewhere underneath you; and the distant, fatherly whistle as the train pulls into the night, whispering softly, "Sleep sound, my darling, for indeed I know the way"--

And, because I ventured to the open door and leaned all the way through the frame, I may also tell you of the smells: from deep drawn breaths of the fresh, free air; and the crisp scent of newly cut hay--

Or, upon returning to my seat: of the soul-soothing rocking (back and forth and back) of the train upon the track; and the leisure of barefeet outstretched... and of a novel and of a pen upon a page...

But (oh!) how sorely I will fail you, friend, in telling you of the freedom and the fullness and the pleasure that is felt from my freckled nose down through my toenails--the inexplicable urge to either laugh or dance that alights upon my heart--from simply being here.

When I stretch my small body (precariously, purposefully) out the train door, and let the wind tussle my hair, and watch the light blue train continue toward that steady, setting sun--I cannot help but laugh with sheer abandon. What care have I, right now--or you? Because whether I face where the train is going, or stare fixedly at the ever-growing places where it has been, I cannot change that my feet are simply here:

On a train, in a doorway, standing still in India, on a glorious, delicious, and unbelievable adventure. So as the clacking carries on, and a four-thousand cricket choir begins to play, and I watch (good God!) the perfect, friendly starlight begin to penetrate the crisp canvas of this night, I cannot keep my silent lips from smiling.

~*~

I remember you, and wish for you

This same and wholesome bliss

And thus I sign my letter

With the warmth within a kiss.

So soon I shall return to you

Far fuller still than this

But 'til that day, keep well, my love,

And know that you are missed!

{Written the evening of 21 September, while on a train to Goa}