Oh travelers of this world

"Happy Valentines Day," the call recedes as the motorbike rushes past. I walk on, but I cannot suppress a smile. I think about what this smile means and about why I felt the need to suppress it. Am I twisting myself up needlessly thinking about these things? The words are friendly. Yet romantic love is there. If only love were just love. I get so mixed up because of this umbrella term that holds within it such contradiction. Having put three scoops of tea leaves in my cup of hot water this morning, my thoughts come quickly. The road is dusty, the morning sun is orange. I think about why I have come here, to this land of spice and heat. Is it the possibility such dislocation presents? To shake me from my comfortable slumber? I look at my dust covered feet and think about the sight I see each day from the rickshaw, only men’s feet are visible as their motorbikes and cycles pass me, cracked toes, peeling sandals. I break thin dry branch from a tree and peel the bark with my fingers. All these roads and I fear I will forever be without a map. Perhaps we are all such travellers, all such blind seekers, stumbling in the dust. 

Later that evening I participate in the Billion Rising March, which is all about breaking the chain of violence against women. We meet at Phule square. The fruit stands glow under yellow light-bulbs in the dusky evening. I tie a pink band around my head with writing I cannot understand. A woman beside me with sparkles on her cheeks and in her hair hands me a sign to carry. I stand in the warm night and watch the crowd grow. There is strength in numbers, in the music, in the dance. What worries me is that I do not yet know how I can break chains on an individual level. So much structural violence is invisible. I perpetuate it by my complicity and perhaps by direct action. Who knows? That is the scariest part. So many things must radiate from the centre, diverging and diverging again, getting so far from the root, I can't even see what bigger larger power I am feeding into. Does rejecting the rays even matter, if they have grown so far from the source? We walk on in the darkness and the thoughts keep coming, abstractions, confused and floating. We reach the Good Luck Cafe after two hours and Eliza and I, hungry from the walk, enter for a treat. I scan the menu needlessly, and of course order the Rumali roti and a paneer curry special. Grounded by the warm meal, my thoughts grow pleasurably slow. I look across at this beautiful friend my travels have given me. On the menu there is a dessert called 'Fruit Funny,' the name makes me laugh. We dip our spoons into the sweet cream. It is so simple; it is enough to be playful and full of love on Valentines Day.