By Ann H. Milam
Special to The Seattle Times
Editor’s note: The Travel Essay is written by our readers about a travel adventure or insight.
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 luxury 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? Whatever does Mr. Singh want? I wonder if he’s planning to lure us away from the safety of the train and rob us, even though we’re wearing only our coats, and have no valuables.
But 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. I’m amazed to see that the floor is packed brown dirt. 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 — he motions to the young woman in the bed. She’s tired but smiling and pretty, 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!”
Ed note: If you have a story to tell, please send it along to share!