by: Dena Moes

If I dug a hole straight through the middle of the Earth from my home in Chico, California, I would eventually surface in India. I took the long way around, traveling for twenty-three hours by air, to see my sister and her brand new baby. My sister Amy was a foreign correspondent posted in New Delhi for years, and I had never made the trip, too busy and cash-poor raising my own young children in California. But when she surprised us all by having a baby at the tender age of forty-five, I couldn’t stay away. I left my young daughters Bella and Sophia with my husband Adam, and flew the 7,694 miles to be with her. My trip was coming to a close, and Amy was shoo-ing me out of her nursery to see some sights of India before I left.

My first solo expedition in India was going to be a night train to the Indigo City of Jodhpur in the Western desert state of Rajasthan. Amy booked the train, and I found the Hem Guest House on TripAdvisor. As I packed my small bag, I wondered how safe it was to travel alone. I heard stories that going places as a woman in India could be fraught or even dangerous. What if I was attacked? Amy put my concerns to rest.

“Dena, I have been traveling around India for ten years and never had a problem. Just don’t go around making eye contact with men. Eye contact is considered an invitation here. Wear the salwar kameez (traditional loose cotton shirt) you bought and no tight tank tops. You will be fine.”

A taxi took me to the Sarai Rohilla Railway Station at nine in the evening. Driving the dark, narrow roads to the station, fear crept up my spine and my palms dampened. I doubted the wisdom of traveling at night, alone. Once I stepped into the station, I saw that I did not have to worry about being alone after all. There is no alone in an Indian train station! The station was packed full of people camped out on blankets, filling the floor space. By “people,” I mean whole families. Women in colorful saris squatted to serve meals out of round, stainless-steel stacking tiffin boxes. Children and babies were helped by their fathers to go to the toilet right on the tracks. Groups of bent and withered elders, and Hindu sadhus or holy men, wearing orange robes and carrying copper begging bowls, sat in clusters.  Monkeys, dogs, rats, and an occasional cow added to the throng of life in the station. I plopped onto a bench, observing vibrant bustle and knowing my sister was right. I would be fine.

The train rolled in on the century-old narrow gauge tracks. I boarded and found my berth, which came complete with clean sheets wrapped in brown paper, blankets and a pillow. The other passengers were friendly, and offered me food from the tiffin boxes they carried. I laid my head down, wrapped my arms around my backpack, and was rocked to sleep by the clattering motion of the car. We pulled into Jodhpur in the morning, and Mr. Hem from the Hem Guest House picked me up. Mr. Hem was handsome and young, and had come for me on his motorcycle. He told me I was very lucky, I had arrived just in time to attend his cousin’s wedding. I was skeptical. Was this a tourist gimmick? Would I be asked to pay a fee to attend an “Authentic Indian Wedding”?

I hesitated to hop onto the back of Mr. Hem’s motorcycle until he explained that the streets in the Old City were too narrow for cars. There was no other choice, so I clumsily climbed on behind him, grabbed him around the waist, and was off on a morning tour through the narrow cobblestone streets. I saw school children, flower-filled shrines and temples, tiny stalls with herbalists, shoe-shiners, and tailors, women in beautiful saris carrying copper kettles on their heads, and the gorgeous crumbling architecture of six hundred year old buildings as we zipped around blind turns in the narrow streets, dodging rickshaws, cows, and other motorcycles. I couldn’t stop smiling, and hoped I wasn’t getting too many bugs in my teeth.

Mr. Hem’s mother served me chai and toast on the rooftop terrace of the Guest House, which had a view of the fort and palace that tower above the city on a steep desert hill. The house had been in this family’s possession for generations. They had turned some of the rooms into guest rooms, and Grandma Hem cooked delicious meals in her closet-like kitchen which were served on the rooftop. The talk from the Hem family was all about the wedding, and indeed there was no fee, just an invite to join them tonight for the celebration.

I spent the day wandering through the picturesque streets of the Old City. I met local craftsmen and bought tapestries and scarves to bring home. I entered a white marble Hindu temple carved from top to bottom, and sat quietly while a group of elderly women sang their heartfelt puja, or service. The women looked at me and smiled, and gestured for me to sit among them. The melodies were unfamiliar, the words of their chants beautiful and hypnotic. My eyes feasted on the painted reliefs, marble carvings, and altars adorned with magenta flowers as the women sang.

At sunset I rode an auto-rickshaw packed with the other Guest House visitors to the wedding. The auto-rickshaw zoomed through the dark and winding streets, barely missing other rickshaws, cows, and motorbikes. The dashboard held an altar of Hindu gods that glowed with neon rainbow lights and wobbled crazily as we flew over the bumpy roads. Hindi pop music blasted from speakers mounted behind us. I felt like we were on a carnival ride – Mr. Hem’s Wild Ride. I glimpsed warmly lit scenes as we sped by – women crowded into tiny stores, and shrines lit up with candles and incense. “I had heard that India was lively,” one British tourist shouted over the shrill and thumping music, and we all giggled.

We followed the Hem family, in dazzling saris and rainbow turbans, through a neon-lit curtained tunnel. The wedding was held in an empty lot, where rolls of carpet covered an area the size of a soccer field. White curtain “walls” were hung around the edges, and stadium-quality lamps lit the whole space up like a Bollywood movie set, thanks to a loud, stinking row of diesel generators. Tables with traditional Rajasthani foods lined the perimeter, manned by an army of all-male caterers and servers dressed in crisp suits. Guests began eating, so I walked around, chatting with the friendly Rajasthanis and sampling spicy and rich unidentifiable delicacies.

“Where you from?” people shyly asked me. When I told them, their faces lit up with smiles as they declared what they knew about America, “Obamaland!” Then, they asked the other thing they knew about America, “You carry gun?”

After more than a couple hours and at least a dozen tiny plates of mouth-searing snacks, the bride arrived. She was dressed in a red sari heavily ornamented with jewels, and glittered with gold bangles, nose rings, and necklaces, and her heavy eye makeup gave her face a luminous, extraordinary beauty. The sari was aglow with gems and jewels that had been sewn into the red fabric.

The shout “the groom is arrived!” went out, and a small band of musicians marched in, blowing dissonant bagpipes and banging on drums. The groom rode in on a tall white horse bedecked in flowers. Bride and groom met in the middle of the room, and climbed up upon a flower covered pedestal. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the first fireworks exploded above the party. The bride and groom placed giant flower garlands around each others’ necks, and stood smiling and holding hands as fireworks filled the sky. Then, the pedestal on which they stood began to revolve. It was a turntable. Around and around the bride and groom slowly turned while the crowd cheered. A canon beside them shot endless pink flower petals into the air, which rained down on everyone.  I left with some other foreign guests long before the wedding finished at dawn with the bride and groom leaping together over a sacred fire.

*

I lay on my vinyl cot on the train back to Delhi, relishing this adventure, and not even missing my family in California. I was so full with the experience of being here, it was easy to focus on the present. A new baby niece, a wedding, a train trip to a place that captivated my heart with its kind people, ancient traditions, and colorful beauty. I carried pictures of Adam and the girls, but hadn’t brought them out of my bag. It was better not to look at them just yet.

Back in Delhi, I pulled out my pictures and took a peek. Adam, Bella, and Sophia smiled at me from a campground in on Mt. Shasta. That night, I dreamed I left my eight-year-old Sophia home alone and went to a party. The party was crowded and loud, and it got very late. I hadn’t meant to be out so long! How would Sophia be handling this all by herself? I went out to the lot to get my car, and it was like an Indian taxi lot, cars crammed in so tight you couldn’t even get one out if you wanted. All the cars looked exactly alike and I couldn’t remember where I left mine. Urgency to get back to her tore at me, and I woke up. This much I knew: This trip was nearly over but I would be back, and would bring the whole family.

Main photo courtesy of: Saad

All other photos courtesy of author

Dena Moes is a Hollywood born, Yale educated midwife with a BA in literature and an MS in Nursing. She is the author of The Buddha Sat Right Here: A Family Odyssey Through India and Nepal, a memoir of adventure, motherhood, and love, woven into a spiritual journey. Dena’s writing has been published in Midwifery Today, Minerva Rising, Mutha, Grown and Flown, and The Wisdom Daily. As a nurse-midwife Dena has provided compassionate healthcare to women, mothers, and babies for twenty years. Learn more at: www.denamoes.com