Carriage after carriage passes through the dark. A window brightens, then is gone; a face appears behind the bars and travels out of sight. The train seems quite untroubled by repetition.
Rinpoche has a small objection: “Oh god train again”.
In November 2014, the word had been simply “Train” the day before. A day later it has acquired an appeal to God and an “again”. There is a little weariness in that again.
Another one.
Inside a carriage, smaller matters occupy the day. An attendant in a yellow shirt and cap stands by the doorway with paper and pen. A seated passenger turns to speak to him. A dark curtain borders this little space.
In such a place, there are still things to ask another person face to face. Being seated does not mean that everything is settled.
Luggage Overhead
A pink case sits on a cream one, and beneath both is Rinpoche’s cap. His arms reach up, one hand steadying each side, while a smaller red case hangs by his hip. Cases extend from overhead to his side; his face smiles out from between them.
In September 2015, he makes this small joke with luggage. Shops stand beside him, motorcycles are parked along the street, and pedestrians go past behind. Alongside the business of getting somewhere, the pavement has room for this pose.
The cases are neatly made, all corners, catches and handles. Stacked together, they have lifted something normally carried in a hand above his head. The luggage has changed position, and its bearer has acquired a different air.
Wet Service
The railway has its small courtesies too. A wet wipe rests in a palm, purple lettering on a pale packet: something light enough to carry, enough to wipe one’s hands.
Rinpoche’s description makes it sound like a formal category of railway provision: “Indian train service. Wet service”.
A small courtesy on the journey.
The joke needs no grand occasion. If a wet wipe can receive a few words of attention on a journey, the ticket and destination have not quite crowded everything else out.
He can object to yet another train, and still show us a small thing the railway has provided. There is room for both.
Hours and Seconds
In another place, even the clocks seem to have a different temperament. In January 2018, Rinpoche contrasts a place he has left, with a flight delayed seven hours and plenty of excuses, with a place where a train leaving twenty seconds early calls for an apology.
Seven hours at one end, twenty seconds at the other. At one end, explanations are still being offered; at the other, an apology has already been made.
The moving walkway carries on at its own pace. The hem of the coat ahead shifts; beyond the handrail, levels and railings slide past in rows. This little stretch beneath one’s feet, at least, needs no urging.
He has also found occasion to marvel at how much traffic a road can hold. A long stream fills one lane on a bridge, with much more room in the lanes beside it. “How mad can one get”, he asks. A wide road does not prevent everyone’s business from collecting on one side.
Other Travellers
A traffic jam in Bir has a different appearance. Sheep and goats fill the road, white, black and brown, one woolly body close to the next. An orange lorry waits behind them. Its cab is high, but that does not shorten their journey.
In April 2018, Rinpoche gives the scene a perfectly ordinary name: “Traffic jam in bir”.
People regard traffic as their own inconvenience. While the flock passes, its journey takes precedence. One animal advances and another follows; for a while, the road runs by a different set of rules.
Let them pass.
There is another traveller above the traffic. A monkey walks along cables stretched across a street, its tail curving behind it. Vehicles below; another sort of road overhead.
Rinpoche offers a guess on its behalf: “Too much traffic I guess”.
The monkey keeps going. On the route it has chosen, there is not a single car.
