I sit by the window on a blue
train from Mysore to Bangalore,
my
forehead resting against the cold, metal bar that crosses all
the windows down the line of
the train, watching the landscape
roll by like the frames of a
film. It is night, but only a few seconds pass
between
fireworks that illuminate palm trees, rice paddies, and
mounds of sugarcane stalks.
With each strobe, a new scene:
women holding up their
technicolored saris as they lead Nandi-bulls
through
paddy spotted with spikes of rice plants. A huddle of
big-bellied, dhoti-clad men
smoking bidis on their stationary motorcycles,
waiting for the train to
pass. A painted elephant sauntering along
the
dirt path parallel to the tracks, followed by men carrying lanterns.
The train pauses and I hear
the constant whoosh-crack of fireworks,
the blaring, sharp Bollywood
music crackling from cell phones,
the
off-key singing of a blind woman who roams from car to car.
A few men leap off the train
and rush to a mound of harvested sugarcane.
They yank out a few stalks
and hurry back as the train begins to
creak
forward. One man hacks them into foot-long pieces and hands
them to passengers who chew
on the sweet meat of the cane.
Soon, the fields are filled
in by low, palm-roofed houses and temples
where
Carnatic singers and tablas and clanging bells call Hindus to celebrate
the triumph of Rama. Villages
turn into the city: buildings stacked on buildings,
obscured by a yellow haze
burning with constant explosions in the streets,
off the
rooftops. The people are shadows with occasional faces when
the smoke cracks. Barefoot
children, sparklers in hand, glow orange and
even from this far I see
their white teeth and the whites of their eyes bright
against
their smog-smudged faces. As the train reaches the station,
the celebration is obscured.
My white, ghostly reflection is superimposed against
the window: braided hair,
bindi between my eyes, gold earrings and a hoop
in
my nose, scarf draped around my neck and falling down my back.
The reflections of passengers
behind me busy themselves with their luggage.
The train stops. I allow
myself to be swept into the darkness, assured by
the
hum of anticipation as the throng moves as one towards the light outside.
We burst out doors and separate
in slow arcs, dissolving into the charged night.
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| Mysore Palace lit up for Diwali |
