On the kindness of strangers

India is not a country that you can begin blogging about instantaneously. It requires time, experience, reflection and, more than likely, a chance encounter with despair. Until you have reached these four steps, it is doing a disservice to India to begin judging it, or viewing it from a Western lens. 

With that said, I think I earned my badge of honour today. I had been in Trivandrum for a few days, enough time to navigate the chaos, meet some wonderful new friends and get my bearings in a culture so very different from my own. But it was time to move on and I had my eyes on Varkala, a holy site about 50km north, a short train ride away. India's train system is insane. It covers nearly the entire sub-continent and offers a cheap and effective form of transportation. I had been warned about trains before I left Canada. They were chaotic and confusing, and the trains and crowds moved in foreign ways. I was excited! I was also warned that men took the opportunity of the chaos to grope female passengers. I was told to yell at him if it happened, perhaps get a swift kick in if space could allow. I was ready.

I get to the train station in Trivandrum, and it is beautiful. I mean, it's grimy, and every pair of eyes are on the only white person in the terminal, but the smell of diesel, packed bodies and the imminent scent of rain was intoxicating. A very nice man took one look at my bewilderment, looked at my ticket, and steered me towards my correct platform.His knowing smile made my heart literally leap, this wasn't going to be so difficult.

I was waiting for the train away from the crowd when another man approached. He too, wanted to help me get on the right train because although I was on the right platform, I had no clue what train I was to board. We spoke for a short while, he practicing his english and I practicing understanding the thick accent. We discovered that we were the same age, that I had a boyfriend in Canada but no children and that he was single and thought that white skin was the most beautiful skin in the world. My train came then, and I thanked him for the pleasant exchange as I got up to board.

The nice man grabbed my bag and hoisted it on the train for me. So nice! He then asked, in the deserted train car, if he could have a photo with me. This was pretty normal. This happens every half an hour in India if you let it. Then he asked if he could have a kiss. Again, this was normal as already twice in my travels had I allowed a friend to grace my lily white cheek with his lips, usually while a photo was being snapped. I said yes, but only the cheek and only once, because he has begun to get a slightly wild look in his eyes, reminding me that we were alone, in a silent train, and that my right hook was not what it used to be. 

Of course he went for the lips, which I turned my head from and pushed him away just in time. He waggled his head in the affectionate way my indian friends had. But I wasn’t smiling anymore and asked him to leave, NOW. This was not his train car and I was getting nervous. A train official came through the door then, and the man backed away and pretended to be helping me with my bag. Again, I told him to leave. But still my voice was hushed. (Why did I feel like I should be polite in this moment? It’s beyond me.) The train official left without glancing back.

Now, being groped on a crowded Indian train is something that many females experience in India. It sucks, it’s icky and it’s actually a criminal offence if the signs outside of the train urinals are any indication. However, I was not groped on a crowded train. Oh no. The nice man who had helped me with my bag took this opportunity to reach around my back like he was going to put his arm around me and instead grabbed my left breast like it was an avocado he wanted to test.

Kind, and also camera shy, man

I was shocked, and angry and wanted to kick him in the junk. Instead, and here I am letting down all of my fierce Canadian sisters back home, I burst into tears. Pathetic, maybe, but it scared him off enough to back slowly out of the train, repeating “I not bad man, no problem madam”. Later he came back, with a 7Up to share and Indian doughnuts, like perhaps breakfast might make it better. Luckily, I was still crying, so he backed away sheepishly again. The man across the aisle from me had kind, old eyes and had been sweetly ignoring the fact that I had been sniffling for 10 minutes. He said “Indian people are friendly. Sometimes, too friendly” and proceeded to ask me questions about Canada until I could manage a sentence without hiccuping.

It has been a few hours since this happened. I’m sitting in the Little Tibet café in Varkala, Kerala, overlooking the wildest ocean I have ever encountered while sipping black tea and watching strange birds circle above the waves, hoping for a meal. Thunder rolls in the distance, signifying that the rain has not given up this fight. I don’t blame India for the train episode today, but it was a wake up call I needed to shake me out of the feeling of absolute security I’ve felt since waking up that first morning in Trivandrum. It reminded me that Western women are viewed differently here and that not all brown-eyed men are as kind as the older man on the train. But, oh, I am thankful to that older man! It would have been easy to be upset about this for days, walking around with a brown cloud over my head, so to speak.

The next train I take is going to be a very different experience. They say you always remember your first, and this trip was most definitely memorable. But I emerge from it, not disgusted with one man’s behaviour, but thankful for anothers' kindness.