I’m at that point in my adjusting where my day-to-day is starting to stick in to that groove. You know? The one where you feel generally capable of basic tasks? The point when you are routine-based enough to have days that you forget happened by the time you wake the next day? My commute is usually completed on autopilot (no small task) and I have a mental model of the architecture of my days. (This is not to say that the day adheres to my mental model; it is more often than not shattered.) I have things I love – markets; the guy who runs our bodega/shop around the corner, aka “dahi guy”; the guy who makes my jhal muri, sans green mirch with extra coconut. I have things I hate – the red gutkha stains everywhere; the pollution. I have things I tolerate – the crowds of the local buses, the vigorous, loud expectorations; the spiciness of the food, always the spiciness. And I have things I wish for – an instant knowledge of Bangla and Hindi; the ability to befriend and sit with a guava vendor; cookie dough.
This particular early groove point is neither good nor bad. (I think Kayalyn sums it up well.) Some days it frustrates me to no end. It’s easy to feel like finding a general routine in Kolkata has stripped away the possibility for adventure, and the possibility for surprise. Some days it makes me feel like Kolkata is even more gray, dull, and impenetrable than the pollution, endless crowds, and winding traffic make it out to be. Other days I am deeply thankful to not have to put in much thought as I trek to work, or buy several kilos of veggies. I’m thankful for the familiarity of faces in expected and unexpected places. I’m thankful for having the mental space to be able to notice the little things going on around me, rather than having all of my mind focused on whatever mundane task I have at hand. And thus, as I reflect on my months in Kolkata, I think of these interstitial moments. These moments getting from here to there, negotiating one thing or another, waiting. The mundane bits in my routine that also contain surprise, newness.
My co-fellow Andrew and I were on the floor of the Siliguri train station – hour three of waiting for our train back home – when we met our new friend. I think his name was Ned. Or, well, the shortened version he used when I failed to repeat it correctly over and over again was Ned. He had been side-eyeing us for a little while, and I could sense his curiosity before he tenderly, shyly asked “Which country are you from?” When we answered the US, he launched in to a long list of classic American musicians he loved, carefully name-dropping as if he knew them each personally. His knowledge of classic artists quickly outpaced mine, as did his knowledge of soccer players. He graciously shared a few fragments of his life, a childhood in Meghalya, a current life in Sikkim, and en route to Delhi at that moment. With kind gentleness, he introduced us to his silent father, told us to be careful with the slowly growing group of young, male on-lookers amused at the sight of us foreigners, and commented on the books we were reading. We parted with a warm handshake and shared smiles. His kind curiosity, and gentle excitement to share his story and gather ours struck me as just as remarkable as the beautiful Himalayas from which we had just descended.
It was an uncharacteristically hot day, and I was hopping on to an uncharacteristically packed bus on my commute to work. My disappointment at the bleakness of spending the next hour standing in the incredible heat, without an inch to breathe in any direction must have been palpable, as a man near the front of the bus scooted over, making room for me, and motioned me to come. We were seated next to the driver on what I’ll call the engine seat, a bump on the floor of the bus, under which the engine is located. This engine seat is great because: a. It’s a seat. It is horrible because it leaves only a somewhat thin layer of metal between you and the engine. It gets hot. Most buses have a cloth or cardboard for you to sit on, but this day there was only a sad, thin rag. Undeterred, and still generally satisfied, I pulled out my book, content to continue on with my routine.
Over the course of the long ride, during which the bus grew so packed that I am convinced laws of physics and matter were broken, my seat mate emanated an unexpected kindness. He greeted what seemed like every person packing the bus with a handshake or excited greeting. He jovially asked me about my book, my job, my self. He took the bus driver’s jacket – which was hanging next to us – and asked me to stand so he could place it under me, saving me from the growing discomfort and from what had started to seem like A Very Bad Idea. When the bag holding my lunch tupperware broke, leaking dal everywhere, and I embarrassedly tried to hide it, he noticed. He dug around his suitcase and pulled out a crisply folded bag, giving it to me wordlessly but with a kind smile. When I started to move to get off, he told me to stay seated until my stop – typically an unwise practice given the crowd and the very short window during which I could hop off. As we rolled to a stop, he cleared the way to the exit for me, no small task!, and gave me a small wave of farewell as I safely disappeared out of the crowd.
These little – or not so little, depending on your metric – moments of surprise in my mundane continue to thrill and inspire me. In what can be a chaotically bland, insufferably polluted, and seemingly unnavigable city, these are the signs of joy that I see more and more of each day. These are the moments that shatter my routine for the best.
I saw the kind bus seat mate again the other day. It was cooler, and I had my own seat already (blessedly not on the engine). He enthusiastically greeted me with a wave across the bus. He sent his wide smile through the growing crowd. I returned the smile, the wave, happy to have this lovely, new routine.
