INDIA ARRIVE!

As, of course, we all knew it would.

I take back all my moaning. With the help of three charming Indian men, I’ve received the education I longed for. (Notice how everything happens in threes?)

Two young men from Mumbai extracted me from my pensive thoughts on the beach this afternoon and politely requested my company. I explained I was busy writing.

“Ok, well when you are finished.”

We had a brief conversation and I found myself beaming for the first time in days. They were so nice. It was so nice to talk to people. Maybe India is nice.

They found a quiet bit of sand far enough away that I didn’t feel suffocated, and I wrote and wrote and wrote. When I ran out of words, I stood to leave. They continued talking and watching the water. “It’d be rude to just walk away,” I thought. So I approached prepared to simply say goodbye and thanks for being the first Indians to engage me.

“You’re leaving?” They looked crushed.

“Yes, I have to get to the airport.” My colleagues arrive! “But I have to pick my bags up first at the hotel.”

“Ah, well, we go to Egmore. Where’s your hotel?”

I had no idea. I thumbed through the pages of my book and produced the business card I planned to hand to a rickshaw driver. It said Egmore, and I told them so.

“We go together!”

I found myself grateful for the company.

They were perfect. We walked along the beach and spoke of travel. We crossed the four-line highway (And I use “lane” loosely; there are marks on the ground, but there are no rules of the road in India.) and they placed themselves one man on either side to protect me from traffic. We approached the train and they asked if I’d be ok. “Of course!” It was the kind of experience I’d been craving all week. We sat on the platform and they explained the public transportation system to me. We smushed on, and they explained the train-traveling culture. We got off, and they explained how to get a fair price on a rickshaw ride. “Hide behind us.”

They hailed one in the middle of the busy street, stopping traffic and drawing elongated horns from scooters who weaved their way around. “You wait on the sidewalk; we talk.” They formed a shield to block me from the driver’s view to ensure the good price. 40 rupees. It was the cheapest ride I’d had yet.

The boys took the rickshaw with me all the way to the hotel, shouting directions in Hindi and cracking jokes in English. My heart nearly exploded with gratitude. I will have to write them.

Arriving at the hotel I noticed that the staff finally started looking at me. They spoke with me and joked with me and helped me. Finally they acknowledged—even welcomed—my presence. They quickly put me into a car bound for the airport.

The car deposited me at the arrivals gate perfectly in time. From the corner of my eye I watched a cute Indian man walk by and smiled, realizing it was one of the first locals I found even remotely attractive. I smiled at my new world view then lost myself in the pages of Shantaram and the recently formed memories from my new friends. I had barely read two sentences when said Indian man approached me.

“You are looking for a ride?”

“Yes.” But not from you.

“You are waiting for someone?”

“Yes.” But it’s all pre-arranged.

“You are going to Auroville?”

“Yes.” But how did you know?

“You’re from AUP?”

“Yes?” This is getting creepy.

“You’re name is Catherine?”

“Yes?!” And you are???

But I smiled and quickly trusted my life to my newfound guide, who over the next three hours would teach me all the things I had wanted a guide to teach me—how to eat the local cuisine, why the tea is so much better, etc etc. And I found myself relaxing, smiling, playing, because I knew now someone else was partially responsible for me—even if only a little. Someone else cared. The responsibility of my welfare no longer lay solely with me.

And Lord knows I need all the help I can get.

But before my tour guide’s education in India, I found myself overwhelmed with joy at seeing familiar faces from Paris. I was so excited that I nearly skipped to the van where my peers were piling their luggage into the truck and folding themselves into the worn seats inside…and proceeded to fall asleep. Every. Single. One.

So here I am instead, writing and dreaming and laughing at the afternoon’s twists of fate. When we made a pit stop for tea on the three-hour bus ride from Chennai, I was leaning against a post and staring off into the darkness. The guide brought me back with, “You know Catherine, you look like you’ve been here for ages.” I smiled. I adapted. Finally.

And thinking of the stories from my Mumbai friends and the company of our new Aurovillian guide, I smiled wider. This is how travel is supposed to feel. This is how I know good people exist. This is how I imagined India. This is how it is.