I am distressed about the news from the US that continues to widen racial divides by forcing people to take sides, subscribe to stereotypes, and propagate hate.
In my years in the US, I met many wonderful people who expanded my world view, influenced me in small and not-so-small ways, and inspired me to be the best version of myself.
In an attempt to dispel the enveloping gloom, for the next few days, I will share vignettes of my life in the US where my life was enriched by many people who made my life easy or interesting or just plain fun. They were very different from me; they looked different, they spoke differently, and certainly our lives had very little in common. But we made a connection, sometimes fleeting, sometimes enduring.
Post # 2: It’s OK honey
I used to take the MARC commuter train that ran from Washington DC to Camden station in Baltimore. Having recently arrived from Bombay, I was not surprised by the rundown neighborhood of Camden Yards. I walked for fifteen minutes to reach the school of pharmacy. It’s location at the intersection of N. Pine Street, W. Baltimore Street and Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard provided a good view of downtown Baltimore that housed the graduate schools of dentistry, medicine and nursing.
I often wore a cotton salwar kameez to school paired with practical (read ugly) Rockport sneakers and a blue Jansport backpack. I was comfortable with my outfit, and quite unaware that with my red bindi, glass bangles, and a matching scarf that trailed unevenly around my shoulders, I must have looked like a hitchhiker from another world.
One day after a set of disappointing experiments in the lab, I stopped at the vending machine in the school lobby. My forehead was throbbing with a headache caused by hunger. I inserted quarters for a bag of Lays chips. But the bag rolled and stopped at the edge of the shelf, just short of taking the plunge. Out of coins and with no strength to kick the machine, I walked dejectedly to Camden station and got on my train.
Unlike the crowded local trains of Bombay, this train was luxurious. Air-conditioned, spacious, and with hardly any people on board, I could sit wherever I wanted. I always picked a window seat and relished the view of verdant countryside alternating with junkyards. The conductor, dressed impeccably in a formal suit, would amiably walk around. That evening, I fell asleep and missed my stop.
I woke up just as the train was pulling out of Greenbelt station. I stood up, pointed to the platform that was rapidly fading from view with tears streaming down my face.
“Hello young lady. Why are you crying?” The elderly gentleman conductor came up to me, concerned.
“I missed my stop,” I pointed out.
“It’s OK, honey, you can get home from the next station.” His words were kind and reassuring. He stood beside me as I continued to look outside like a lost child, half-hoping he would stop the train and let me walk back.
In an era before cell phones, I would have to use the pay phone to call for my ride when I got off. There were practical difficulties to get home from the next station. But I could not share all that with the kind man who waited with me and helped me get off when the train stopped.
In retrospect, it was OK. He was right. I didn’t sleep on the train again.
But I will always remember the first time a tall concerned stranger had called me ‘honey’ and consoled me at a vulnerable moment.
How do I repay his kindness?
Photo credit: Stephanie Blanchard
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