by Ann Milam
The train screeches to a sudden jolting stop. “What’s happening?” I exclaim. “We’re nowhere near a town!”
Looking out the small window over my narrow bunk, I see only darkness in the Rajasthan desert in India. It’s the middle of the night and we’re passengers on the Palace on Wheels, a train from the days of the maharajas that has been newly outfitted for tourists.
Our two maroon-turbaned cabin boys, Mr. Singh and Mr. Singh, both darkly handsome with narrow black mustaches and very white teeth, stick their heads into our compartment. “It’s OK,” they assure us. The younger Mr. Singh motions with his flashlight, “Come with me,” he says.
Puzzled, my son and I follow him through several cars to the exit, then out into the night. “But what if the train leaves?” I ask. “Not to worry,” he replies, “I have a torch.” He motions, “Come along!”
I’m uneasy — why have we stopped? What does Mr. Singh want? Does he plan to lure us away from the safety of the train and rob us? Mr. Singh is so insistent. “Follow me,” he says.
We walk along a dirt path into the dark, following his bobbing light. It’s a clear, frigid desert night and the stars are bright above us—we seem very far from civilization. After an anxious 10-minute walk, I spot dim lights ahead. Soon we reach a small cluster of low earthen buildings. Through tiny windows I see the lights of kerosene lamps—evidently there’s no electricity.
We enter the largest building. The floor is packed brown dirt and over the door is a garish picture of Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god of wisdom and wealth. In the corner, a small fireplace is hung with old iron cooking pots. The room is simple but tidy, with the family’s possessions stacked neatly against the whitewashed walls. A small child in home-sewn garments shyly offers us three brown cigarettes on a large round tin tray. I smile and decline, still puzzled why Mr. Singh has brought us here.
He motions us into the next room, which is brightly lighted with candles and almost filled by a low double bed. Now Mr. Singh is laughing as he points to the young woman in the bed. She’s tired but smiling, her long black hair spread over the white pillow. Then we understand. Asleep in the crook of her arm is a tiny, black-haired infant. Mr. Singh smiles proudly. “My son,” he says. “He was born this morning!”
(A longer version of this story was published in The Seattle Times, January 12, 2003.)