Julie frantically pushed her way through the crowd to the front of the ticket line. “Emergency, emergency, excuse me.”
She rose onto her tiptoes and pressed her face close to the bars.
“I have to get on that train that just left,” she said, pointing to the right. “It’s an emergency. More than an emergency!”
“Madame,” said the young Indian man, “there is no train that just left.”
She squeezed the bars with both hands and pressed her face further between them, trying to get closer.
“It was just here. Check your list.”
“Madame, no train just left. That I can assure you of. If a train left that way, it would have a big wreck with the south-bound train coming here any minute.”
“But, I just rode it.”
“You’re going to have to leave now; you pushed to the front of the line.”
She fought to regain her balance when the man behind her gave her a shove.
“Two for Delhi,” he said. She looked pleadingly at the dark faces in the line.
“Did anybody see the train that went that way?” Most only stared, unable to understand, but those who did agreed with the ticket agent.
“I saw no train.”
Then her pleading voice was drowned out by the southbound train pulling into the station. She whirled around and stared. I’m going crazy!
Passengers jumped on and off the train before it had stopped. She walked closer. Those scrambling to board and those scrambling to get off brushed by, oblivious to her. She scanned every window, looking. Are You on here? When the train left she sat on a bench and wept with her head cradled in her newly manicured fingers.
After several minutes, she felt a shadow over her and looked up to see the bowler hat on Mr. Dove. Before she could suck in enough breath to speak, He smiled and said in an excited voice, Isn’t this brilliant? Here we are in India, and we’re looking for lambs! She jumped up.
“Please, can You help me? I live in New York. I have to get back.”
Oh, I’m sorry then. I can’t help you get back home now. I thought you were looking for lambs.
“You, You, were sent to help me?”
Well, yes, to help you find lambs.
“Not to get back home?”
No, just lambs. It’s your mission.
“My mission?
Yes, feeding the lambs. He did tell you to do that, did He not? Remember, YES, LORD? As He spoke, a huge bolt of lightning struck the top of the train depot.
She wiped her tears with the heel of her hand and nodded yes.
Well, then, I’d be looking high and low for lambs, if I were you.
She thought about this for a moment.
“Do You know where the lambs are?”
Oh, yes, please come with Me.
They exited the train station, and He hailed a yellow and black auto rickshaw. Julie stared at the square-shaped little vehicle resting on three wheels. The top was canvas and the sides were open. A silver pole divided the back and front on each side. The driver sat in a single, small seat. The seat in back looked as if it would hold three.
Get in, said Mr. Dove, motioning. She stepped inside and slid over to make room. He spoke to the driver in Hindi. He will take you there, Julie.
“Wait, You’re not coming?”
He shook His head. I was sent to point you in the direction of the lambs.
“But I don’t know anyone.”
Jesus is with you.
“What will I eat? Where will I sleep?”
I said, Jesus is with you.
Her body jerked, and she grabbed the metal pole to brace herself as the cab took off. Mr. Dove looked at His pocket watch again. Impeccable timing.
Ready or not, Julie was about to encounter Mumbai—legendary, lively, colorful, exciting, chaotic, unpredictable, threatening, dangerous. India’s financial powerhouse, rich power-hungry moguls. Bollywood movies, stars, nightclubs, fashion center, discotheques, theatre, music, after-dark romps. Shopping malls, bars, restaurants. Shiny skyscrapers, art deco design, colonial relics, Hindu temples. A study in contrasts. Street bazaars, construction 24/7, honking horns, horrific congested traffic, pollution, humidity, sickening smells. Second most populous city in the world, half living in slums. Twenty-five percent unemployment, grinding poverty. Organized crime, sex trafficking, temple prostitution. Majority religion—Hinduism.
As far as Julie could see, there were vehicles ahead and behind, and none of them seemed to be moving. Why is everyone honking all the time? After what seemed like forever, the traffic surged forward.
“Look out, look out,” she screamed at her driver as he aimed toward a small gap between cars.
A bus pulled to the curb. Julie watched as people piled on. They’re hanging off the sides. They’ll get hit by passing traffic.
Buses, cars, auto rickshaws, brightly painted trucks, and even an ox cart lined the street with little to no room between them. When the traffic stopped again, those on bikes and motorcycles snaked their way through the small spaces between cars. Because of the horrendous traffic congestion, pedestrians sometimes made faster progress than those in vehicles.
This is unbelievable. The drivers have folded their side view mirrors in so they don’t hit each other. This mess makes New York cabbies look courteous!
As the traffic stopped again, Julie watched as an elderly, disheveled, black-skinned man with white hair and beard, limped his way toward the auto. His foot was wrapped in strips of fabric. His hollow eyes were riveted on white, American, affluent Julie. He reached into the auto’s open side, displaying an open sore on his arm.
“No, no. Please no! Don’t touch me!” She slid to the far edge of the seat as his trembling hand indicated he wanted money.
She curled into a ball and wrapped her arms around her purse. His hand tapped her arm, and she screamed and pushed it away. The traffic moved on, and he was left behind, but trapped like a rat in a maze. He hobbled forward and back, trying to go between the cars to return to the safety of the sidewalk. Julie immediately slathered her palm and arm with hand sanitizer.
It must be 100 degrees. It’s so humid; I feel like I’m swimming. She wiped sweat from her brow. She could also feel it trickling from her armpits to her bra. What’s wrong with this country that they don’t have air conditioning in cars?
She coughed and realized her eyes and throat were burning. What is that smell? The thick exhaust from a thousand vehicles idling in traffic mixed with gasoline, garbage, human waste, sweat, and industry, combined with the heat and humidity, almost made her nauseous. Please, not a headache. All I need to make this even more horrendous is a migraine.
Large buildings towered on each side of the street, making her feel claustrophobic. I can’t even see the sun because of the pollution. I thought New York was bad.
The sidewalk was packed with vendors displaying their wares—on bicycles, on tables, on carts, and on blankets laid on the ground. Everywhere she looked there were people—people on the sidewalk, people darting between traffic. They all seemed oblivious to their surroundings and in a great hurry to get someplace. This made Julie feel all the more alone. Her heart pounded. Take deep breaths, she told herself, but then choked on the exhaust from the city bus that missed her auto by inches.
Driving on the other side of the road was unnerving enough, but being in Indian traffic was like playing bumper cars with the real thing. Trucks, buses, cars, and auto rickshaws moved at a snail’s pace when they moved at all. Horns honked constantly. Several times Julie thought they would hit another vehicle.
“Too close, watch it,” she yelled to the driver. “Back up! You’re tailgating!” She shouted at the rickshaw behind her.
At the next traffic signal, a little girl in a dirty white blouse and with disheveled black hair thrust her hand in the auto.
“Please give to me in the name of God. Please. Please.”
“No, go away!” shouted Julie.
“Please. One dollar. One dollar. Please give to me in the name of God.”
“No. I don’t have any money. Go away. Can’t you go?” she shouted at the driver. “I’m getting assaulted back here!” The traffic started, and the little waif darted back to the sidewalk.
After ten minutes of stop-and-go traffic, weaving in and out, they were transitioning, leaving the business district. Skyscrapers gave way to dirty apartment buildings with bricks or lumber piled in front. Tarps and towels hung over the balconies, and outside of each apartment was a clothesline with garments flapping. On one balcony, a man in shorts bathed by dunking a rag in a bucket of water.
Julie was surprised to see nice houses with iron gates and beautiful flowers and palm trees next door to hovels: old boards, cardboard and sheet metal, barely standing, with a tarp for a roof. Wealth and poverty side by side. That would never happen in the U.S.
Julie saw multi-storied, expensive homes next to a slum, next to businesses, next to little stalls that serve simple snacks and chai, next to a fish market and tobacco shops.
Half-dressed, filthy children played on the sidewalks. She was too scared to notice the lush green foliage almost everywhere.
The longer they rode and the more she saw, the scarier it felt. She rubbed her burning eyes again and popped a breath mint to soothe her throat. Now the train station seemed like a safe haven that was dwindling away. Maybe he can take me back to the man in the ticket booth. He spoke English, or maybe he can drop me at a hotel.
The driver pulled over and stopped.
“No, no, this isn’t where I want to be. Is there a hotel around? Ho-tel,” she said loudly. “Hy-att, Hil-ton? Close-to-airport?” She held out her arms like wings. “Even a Red Roof Inn?”
The driver shook his head and pointed to the ground.
“Here.” He stepped out of the cab, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to the sidewalk. “Two hundred rupees.”
She unconsciously wiped her hand on her dress.
“Rupees? I don’t have…Will you take American dollars?”
“Yes, yes,” said the driver as his eyes lit up. “Five American dollars.” In her purse was an English-to-Indian dictionary. “What?” When she opened her wallet she shrieked. The bills were not green, but multicolored. She pulled several bills out to look at them more closely. Gandhi’s face was looking back.
“Are, are these rupees?” She hesitated. “Ru-pees?” He nodded, snatched all of them out of her hand, and climbed in the auto.
“No, wait,” she yelled as he pulled away. “Don’t leave me.” She gripped the grab bar and was yanked forward, landing on her face in the street as dirt and exhaust enveloped her. After taking inventory to make sure she wasn’t hurt, she muttered, “Welcome to India, home of the world’s friendliest people. What is that horrid smell?”
She stood up and dusted off the front of her dress.
“This will never come clean.” She brushed it even harder. There were scratches on her palms and both knees. “These will get infected.” She applied hand sanitizer liberally, then beat the side of her purse to remove the dust. “Filthy, filthy, filthy!”
On the other side of the street were several vacant lots, which had become the garbage dump for this area. Her eyes scanned the large patch of dirt with one lone tree. Spread out over about 20 feet was a pile of foul-smelling garbage— cans, wrappers, tires, broken furniture, old clothes, plastics, branches, bags of trash, and rusted sheet metal. It was hard to tell what else. Several girls from age 6 to about 11 dug through the pile.
Their clothes were worn and mostly too small. Their charcoal hair, whether long or short, was matted. One little girl was wearing a man’s t-shirt as a dress; another, the smallest girl, wore a green dress with one sleeve missing. A young girl, wearing a tattered blue and white print dress, was skeletal. Her arm and legs are bony like sticks. The tallest girl wore a grey and yellow dress that was much too small. Another little girl wore a pink dress and shoes, but the toes were cut out.
The boys were in front of a hedgerow that ran along the back, wrestling each other. A littlest boy, missing his front teeth, looked on longingly. Beside him sat a boy wearing a paper hat, made from a newspaper, totally engaged in trying to disassemble some kind of early model cell phone. A medium-sized, emaciated brown dog lay by his side snoozing.
They’re playing king of the hill without a hill. Guess the last one standing is the winner. Julie watched as a boy with big ears crept behind the tallest boy and knelt on all fours. The remaining kids charged and toppled him backward over the crouching one. They all cheered.
What a dirty trick. They’re behaving like animals. This must be the most disgusting, dirty, rag-tag group on the planet.
A short boy with a scar on his chin yelled something, jumped on the pile, and threw a few punches.
What a bully! They’re beyond hope.
She turned her attention to the girls. The little girl wearing the man’s t-shirt and a girl wearing a pink dress with ruffled sleeves were in an argument. Julie couldn’t tell about what. After a minute, the t-shirted girl bit her opponent’s arm, resulting in a loud wail.
The fight ended abruptly when one of the orphans noticed Julie. She pointed and shouted. The sight of a well-dressed, white-skinned American caused a stampede. There had to be lots of money in that purse, and they intended to get it, one way, or the other. Julie watched helplessly as the mob charged across the street with hands outstretched.
The older boys arrived first, shouting what sounded like gibberish. They surrounded her. Dirty hands touched her, pulled her. She was engulfed by the whole group now. She recoiled in horror. She could see a blur of dark skin and hair and white teeth surging in. She felt she was drowning and couldn’t break through to the surface. The boy with the scar grabbed her purse and gave a hard yank. A sudden burst of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She managed to hold the strap.
“Stop it! Don’t touch me.” Dirty hands continued grabbing in slow motion. Desperate pleadings. She couldn’t get away. She screamed, “Get-your-hands-off-me! Get back.” Panic drove her, and she hit indiscriminately, bringing the purse down hard on several children. She could see angry faces, and she felt her nails dig into flesh.
The littler ones turned to run back across the street. She marched forward as the crowd withdrew, still swinging her purse and screaming, like a crazy woman.
“Don’t touch me; you’re disgusting.” Her body shuddered in revulsion.
Everyone was back across the street, but the littlest girl, barefoot and with the missing sleeve. She had fallen and twisted her ankle. She lay helpless, cowering in the middle of the street. Julie still had her bag raised above her head, ready to strike. Her eyes connected with the soiled little waif who cowered and curled in a ball, sobbing. Julie could see the scratch on her arm was bleeding. The tallest girl, keeping her eyes on Julie, darted into the street, gathered her friend into her arms, and carried her back.
This kind, courageous gesture touched Julie. With her safety no longer threatened, Julie called out, “Wait.” she lowered her purse and hooked the strap over her shoulder. “I won’t—I won’t hurt you.” The little girl in the green dress cowered behind her friend. Julie took a few steps, but all the younger children backed away. The older boys glared at her through squinty eyes, daring her over. The one with the scar shook his fist at Julie and yelled.
“Fine, then, I don’t want you either!” She retreated to the far side of the street, trying not to watch them as they watched her.