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Memory Fragment
Apr. 21st, 2006 09:40 amNew Jalpaiguri Railway Station
West Bengal, India
14th of April, approximately 10:40 pm
We sit on a low concrete bench built around a vertical i-beam, our bags at our feet. We are surrounded by a crowd of Indian men asking us where we're from and testing my modest knowledge of Hindi language. "Ek do tin char panch, danyavadh, tora tora, bas, tikka, challo, bhard me jao George Bush." That's about the extent of it.
Our train is late. The woman's announcer voice continually updates the train status in Hindi, English and Bengali.
We're both exhausted but blissful.
Hidden in my bag are a chunk of cheddar cheese, a small gouda from Sikkim, 100 ml of Old Monk Aged 7 Years Rum, and Rilke's "On Love And Other Difficulties". Secrets lie in wait in pockets, in hearts, in musty old garages and in the forward-leaning calendar.
Rats scurry along the tracks, stray dogs pick at trash. Train whistles echo through the station.
It's a beautiful night, warm and dry with a slight breeze. A night to file away in the memory banks, to recall only a few short days later in Dharamsala as I awake in the morning sunshine and set out in search of an optician.
West Bengal, India
14th of April, approximately 10:40 pm
We sit on a low concrete bench built around a vertical i-beam, our bags at our feet. We are surrounded by a crowd of Indian men asking us where we're from and testing my modest knowledge of Hindi language. "Ek do tin char panch, danyavadh, tora tora, bas, tikka, challo, bhard me jao George Bush." That's about the extent of it.
Our train is late. The woman's announcer voice continually updates the train status in Hindi, English and Bengali.
We're both exhausted but blissful.
Hidden in my bag are a chunk of cheddar cheese, a small gouda from Sikkim, 100 ml of Old Monk Aged 7 Years Rum, and Rilke's "On Love And Other Difficulties". Secrets lie in wait in pockets, in hearts, in musty old garages and in the forward-leaning calendar.
Rats scurry along the tracks, stray dogs pick at trash. Train whistles echo through the station.
It's a beautiful night, warm and dry with a slight breeze. A night to file away in the memory banks, to recall only a few short days later in Dharamsala as I awake in the morning sunshine and set out in search of an optician.
