Let me introduce you . .

Let me introduce you . . .

To Babua Mohammad. Babua is 26, looks like 36, thinks like 46 and carries the family responsibilities of 56. I first meet Babua at Fatehpur Sikri, where he works as a guide. Another train chronicle will eventually illustrate one of the main challenges faced by guides in India - the hot, tired, cranky tourists.

Ah, but the tale is long, and time is short in Canada. You may want to skip the story! Just scroll down to the single line that reads:

"And that sets the scene for my tour with Babua." Otherwise . . .

On February 29th I arrive in Agra, on my way to Dharamsala. I've had another ghastly train ride, this time on a top berth in 2nd Class air-conditioned, or '11 Tier AC', the new mantra Arjun sent me following my return trip from the WSF. Bless Arjun; the car is orderly, with a seat for everyone. The porter brings clean sheets, a pillow and a blanket. Lovely, except ...

During the day, the man sitting beside me decides to steal my upper berth. His is across from mine, at the very end of the rail car, squished under a sloping roof and in the full AC blast. I don't blame him for wanting mine, but ... there's a sinus cold building in my head and I don't intend to spend the night squished beneath cold blasting air. Neither does he, so he puts his sheets on my berth and disappears to visit friends in another car.
For hours.

In the afternoon I read The Rope in the Water, a gift from Trisha. I come to the chapter where the author describes bursts of white-hot rage during her pilgrimage through India. I'm with her; I can taste and smell and feel her anger. We were sisters in another life. I recall my bursts of irrational anger at the auto-rickshaw drivers during my first few weeks in Chennai. I consider my response to the current dilemma of the berth. Is anger common for tourists in India, I wonder? How would I find out?

I read a bit of How to Practice by the Dalai Lama. His rational, loving words don't help. I add guilt to my anger, but I'm still intent on getting that man's sheets off my bed. He returns after 9:30 PM. The ladies in the lower bunks are sleeping; I'm perched on top. And I'm seething. Crossly I tell him to change beds. Of course, madam. But there is a price. He lies in his berth with his eyes wide open, facing me, his hand drifting, waving - invitingly? enticingly? - across the narrow space between us. I resolve to stay on my left side and not sleep. I also resolve, for my next train ride, to reserve the single, side, lower berth across the aisle, against two windows, with perfect privacy curtains. BTW, this has been my travel mode since Agra, and it works like a charm.

Morning comes and I'm in Agra. As predicted, I'm sick. Must stop predicting illness. I haul my backpack off the train and shoo away the waiting porters. I have yet to learn the inestimable worth of a porter, that will come with future train trips. Walking to the exit, I shoo away the gaggle of taxi drivers offering me trips to the Taj and other wonders. One is particularly persistent. I toss over my shoulder that I’ve had a rough journey and don’t want to be hassled. Softly his reply, “Yes, I’m having a bad morning too.” I have a good laugh, hand him my backpack, and we head for his car.

Rajid takes me to a reasonable hotel, I drop my stuff and we’re ready to roll. He suggests I see Fatehpur Sikri first, then the Taj. Fatehpur was build by Akbar, grandfather of Shah Jehan, who built the Taj. I’m open to suggestion.

It is 36 kms. from Agra to Fatehpur. On the way I see 21 muzzled black bears, standing, sitting and lying on the road. Men and boy children hold leashes attached to bear muzzles. It is nearly noon, the sun is hot, there are no water containers in sight. Sickly patches of broken, scabrous skin show under the long, fine hair that covers the bears. They look dry-skinned, dry-mouthed and utterly miserable. So do their masters. As cars approach the bears are pulled up by the muzzle, commanded to ‘dance’. For the life of me, I cannot understand the white tourist who stops for a picture with the ‘Dancing Bear’. I cannot bear to look any more.

I bring my wet eyes inside the car and think. I know it is not so simple a matter as merely rescuing the bears from their intolerable captivity. These bears support some of India’s impoverished families. Before retiring the bears, different work must be found for their keepers. This in India, where unemployment is counted at 15 MILLION people; who knows how many more subsist, uncounted? I feel so sad, just so sad.

We arrive at Shere Punjab, a neat little coffee shop 2 kms. from the monument. Rajid asks if I’ll stop for coffee. Oh, you bet I’ll stop for coffee. He disappears to make a phone call; weeks later I’ll learn why. The first coffee tastes good, I have a second.

Fortified, I jump into the car, ready for the sights. A man appears at my open window, asks if I would like him to guide me through the monument. Bent over, adjusting my purse and water bottle on the floor of the car, I crisply reply, “No, thanks”. True to form if nothing else. The man becomes more assertive, hands his government guide card through the window. “No”. Suddenly a faintly exasperated voice says, “Madam, you cannot see the entire monument without a guide. You will see the palace side, but not the mosque side. I will guide you for nothing, and at the end you can pay me what you like, or pay nothing.” I am so embarrassed. Will I ever learn? I thank the man for this information, tell him I will happily pay the guide fee, and ask him to jump in the back.

We arrive at the monument and introduce ourselves. His name is Babua. ‘How do you do, Babua, my good name is Jane.’ "Yes, madam". I laugh. I’ve learned to live with ‘madam’ in this country where respect is so ingrained. Sometimes I smile and say, ‘My good name is Jane, but you may call me ‘madam’.

We walk up a seemingly million stairs into Fatehpur Sikri, and I have the best tour I will have in India. This man’s knowledge of Mogul/Muslim history is prodigious. And his English is amazing. I quickly learn that he not only understands my queries, he picks up on my quips, comments and observations. Eager to learn, I ask increasingly complex questions. It’s just a treat to speak without carefully choosing my words, and I take full advantage of this opportunity. I decide to double the guide fee.

Well into the tour, when I’ve seen amazing architecture, carvings, inlays, and learned the meanings underlying all, Babua quietly asks, ‘So, what do you think of Muslims?’ I say I think they get bad press. He nods, it seems enough. I think of the 2002 riot in Gujarat; Muslim men, women and children slaughtered, their homes and businesses burned, their women and girl children raped to death. What could ever be enough?

The tour over, we return to Shere Punjab for coffee. I learn that Babua is only 26; he looks a decade older. I’m full of questions about this really bright guy. I say, 'So, Babua, you're a terrific guide. Do you like it?' "Yes, madam, it is good work." Ummm, good work, I think, recalling my sunny greeting some hours earlier. Do I nod and I keep my mouth shut? Never. 'Do you ever think of doing something else?' "No madam." I raise an eyebrow. He confesses, "Madam, I can neither read nor write." I see this is a matter of deep shame, and I reach for the strength, his English. Turns out he learned it from the tourists. Hmmm. All of a sudden, and with great force, the penny drops.

'Babua', I say, 'you've been working at Fatehpur Sikri for 15 years. That means you were one of those little kids selling the postcards, yes?' Nod. I muse aloud: what a guy he is, with his amazing competence at his job, the depth of his knowledge, his patience with the tourists, his concern for me as we toured the monument - walking from shade to shade in the blazing heat. All true, and I say it with deep respect. He's lived a life I can't begin to imagine, and here he is, charming, handsome, well dressed, great sense of humour, and so very smart. I don't allow myself to dwell on what might have been, but for the accident of birth. I’m learning that birth is not an accident.

My prying is either forgiven or overlooked. He asks me home to meet his mother. I can't, my touring time is short. The Taj awaits, and I leave Agra tomorrow. Next time. As a matter of fact, there will be a next time. Next month I'll catch the train back to Chennai from Agra.

And when I return to Agra, after McLeod Ganj and Rajasthan, Sundar drives me to the café, Shere Punjab. Babua is there and, on the back of the Hero Honda, we drive to Fatehpur, the name of his village. Sikri is the village on the other side of the monument. Tiny by Indian standards, each village has a population of 40,000.

Fatehpur is built on a hill, with streets about six feet across, only four feet are for navigation. A foot-wide ditch on either side takes up the other two feet. Shops and various markets wind through the streets at the bottom; houses line the steeper hills. There is a smell of sewage as we ride higher, and garbage floats in both ditches. A wee guy wearing only a shirt busts out of a door and across the street, positions his bottom over the ditch, and lets go. Excellent positioning skills. I get it - the concrete ditches are for sewage disposal. But what about the garbage? I think how impossible it would be to get a truck in to pick up the rubbish. Maybe a cart?? So Western, eh?

The narrow streets are filled with playing kids, barking dogs and chatting adults. It's tough going for the motorcycle, especially when we stop to negotiate the foot-deep cuts that cross the street, each about nine inches wide. I think to myself that I would fill those in, but quick. Then I realize they are additional drainage canals, to carry water overflow from one side of the street to the other. I consciously put my judgmental self in a box and slam the lid shut.

We arrive at the house. Babua ushers me into a very small sitting room at the front. In many Indian homes this is where guests are greeted and entertained. Shelves in the concrete walls are lined with dishes. There is a couch, some chairs, a tiny cassette player, and other things I cannot see in the dim light. A man is lying on the floor. He attempts to rise and Babua introduces his father. Tells me he is ill. I murmur concern with my 'Namaste' and hiss at Babua to get me out of there. Yes, I am a guest, but the last thing this ill man needs is a white woman in his sickroom.

We move down the hallway; it opens into a dimly lit room perhaps 7 x 10. Five kids play on a twin bed at one side of the room. Above them more dishes are stacked on the shelves. Two women sit on a sturdy six-foot dining room table on the other side of the room. Each is in front of a sewing machine and they are both creating clothes with a competence I envy. Behind them is a floor to ceiling closet, covered by a cloth. There is another woman with a sewing machine sitting on the floor beside the table. These machines are unlike anything I've ever seen. A modified treadle, they are powered by a handle on the flywheel. Spin, three inches of stitching, spin, three inches. I think of the 10 electric sewing machines that Susan offered me before I left Canada. Would be nice to have them now.

I am introduced to Gazella, Babua's 18-year-old sister, and the two tailor cousins who live close by. Gazella sits on one end of the table, on the other is the youngest cousin, her apprentice. I smile at the five kids - two young cousins who live close and Babua's three nieces, aged 7, 5 and 2. They live here with their mother, Racma, and father, who is Babua's oldest brother. Racma, heavily pregnant, comes from somewhere and we are introduced. Sojo, a 'sister-cousin' who lives in the house, comes from upstairs to get a cooking pot. With her is Mobina, Babua's mother. Her eyes have seen a lot. We smile; she decides that I will call her 'Sister'. About now I'd like one who speaks English and Hindi.

Babua sees I am a tad overwhelmed and ushers me into a large-ish room at the back of the house, maybe 14 by 14. It has two chairs with arms, a king size bed, a TV, a fan and several electric lights. Above the bed is a huge storage closet, curtained, and there are dressers and such for more storage. On two sides of the room, the walls are lined with dishes. I drop into a chair, Babua turns on the fan and my blood pressure begins to drop. He scoots the children out and introduces me to his wife of two months, Najrhana. What a beautiful young woman, even with the colourful scarf partially obscuring her face. I learn much later that when other people are present in a room with her and Babua, Najrhana covers her face. Respect.

I talk to Najrhana and Babua translates. Again this young man takes me aback; he is an intuitive translator. Does not look at me, does not expect to be part of the conversation, does not change my words or those of the other. Yes, after this much time in India, I can tell. Those of you who use translators know a good translator is a gift. It is so enjoyable to have a conversation with this young woman, to hear about her wedding and talk about her family. She is the oldest of five, Babua the 3rd of eight. I tell her that everything I know about families says she will look after him very well. They both laugh; apparently a pattern is already emerging. Speaking of families, how large is the family in this house, I wonder? Seventeen members. Did I get that right? Seventeen? Yup. Babua tells me there are rooms upstairs. I know there is a roof, but I don't get up the stairs on my brief visit.

Curious about this family, I decide to take them up on their invitation to return for several days. In early May, I travel 36 hours by train to Agra, spend three days and two nights, and head back to Bangalore, same train, same timing. I will miss the enforced leisure of the trains on my return to Canada.

Babua meets me at the gate and we travel 36 kms. to Fatehpur on his motorbike - with my backpack firmly wedged between us. Indian friends continue to comment that I've 'gone down' - lost weight - and I think my smaller size is particularly beneficial this morning. We stop for coffee at Shere Punjab, where I feel like a regular, and talk politics. Babua will vote next week and has decided to vote for the sitting MP, a member of the Congress party, a Hindu and a good man who has helped the villages. A local Muslim in a new party is seeking all the Muslim votes, but Babua does not trust him; it appears this man is taking money from the Right. In India, the right is the BJP, party of Hindutva and currently in power. The Congress is the party of Nehru and the Gandhi family, and represents the centre-left.

Coffee over, we are off. Driving up the Fatehpur hill at a good clip, we negotiate a steep curve and are suddenly on top of two youngsters playing on the roadway. I gasp. Babua makes a wheel-wrenching stop, and sits there - quietly reminding two little girls of how dangerous it is to play on the road. I don't need the language, just the wide-eyed nods from the children and the persuasive sound of his voice. He doesn't shout. I would have.

Before we go into the house Babua tells me he has arranged for me to spend my two nights at a hotel. I wonder why; he tells me I will be more comfortable with a proper bath and toilet. Once inside, I see the facilities in this house are located at the front, across from the small living room. There are two tiny, concrete rooms, each 3' x 3'. The room closest to the street has an Indian toilet that someone shovels into the ditch outside once a day, when water gushes through both ditches. Babua does not want to subject me to the toilet. The room behind is an equally tiny bath with a pail and a tap. Not the Ritz, but it works. I spend the first night at the hotel, then convince Babua that I prefer to sleep with the sisters, on the roof, for the second night. And a toilet is a toilet.

Nothing much has changed at the house, but now I am here for longer. I arrive to a warm welcome. I meet people I missed last time. I get my book out and write 'til I reach that magic number of 17. There are eight sisters and brothers in this family. Two sisters are married and gone, Gazella, 18, won't marry for some time.

Then there are the brothers. Kiyu, 34, is the oldest; husband of Racma, father of three - soon to be four - children. He hangs out on the roof. In a low, scratchy voice he tells me years of alcohol and cigarettes burned his throat, but he has stopped drinking. I support his decision. Over the three days he says he hasn't worked for two or three years, but he's going back to his old jobs. He will go on the road in June, to cook at hotels during the monsoon. I don't ask where the tourists come from, in the pounding rain. I do think of staff drinks at the end of each night. On my last afternoon he hits me up for a Rs. 200 loan - for medicine. I tell him Babua will give him money for medicine. Nope, does not want to ask Babua. I ask how long ago he stopped drinking. Two months. I remind him how bad he wants a drink, right now. I won't help him drink, but AA is everywhere, including India; those men can help him to not drink. As I talk Kiyu's eyes glaze over.

The second brother is Ayoub, 27, employed, with one very young child and a wife nursing a baby. He and his wife, Ravenna, avoid me. I learn later from Babua that Ayoub works, but the extended family never sees a rupee. Ayoub is always in debt, always hitting Babua up for money. I commiserate but don't hazard any guesses on where the money goes.

Sabir is 20. He has a tiny wooden shop that stands on four strong legs. He sits on the edge of his shop and supplies all the youngsters who sell trinkets and postcards to tourists at the monument. He also travels to the South and supplies tourist shops with Indian items from the North. He laments how the merchants in the South have not sent the money they owe. I, who know so little, talk to him about the difference between consignment and wholesale, and ask him to see a good business consultant. His eyes do not glaze over. Maybe . . .

At Sabir's shop, I meet Sakir, 16 and in Standard 11 at the local school. Sakir tells me that when he turned 6, Babua decided to send him to school. Ummm, I think, Babua was 15 when he made that decision. Needless to say, Sakir is grateful and the family is proud. What will he do after he finishes school, I ask? Shrug, small smile, eyes drop, "Sit here." He brings his eyes up and gives me a big, 'it's okay' smile. I smile back, forcing my eyes to join my lips.

I've left Sojo, my favorite family member, for the last. Babua calls Sojo the sister-cousin. Somewhere in her late 20's, she's the one I'd pick for a sister. She cooks for the family, cleans house, keeps an eye on the kids, cooks some more, shoos the swarm of neighbourhood kids out when the cacophony becomes overwhelming, slips off to the market without asking for help - my kind of girl.

I ask Babua about Sojo when we are walking to see the ruins behind the monument. Well, she was married, but after one night she went home. Her family told her to return to her husband. She turned to Babua, who took her in to his family. Visions of violence careening through my head, I ask why she left. Long pause, searching for those elusive English words. He was old, not ... powerful ... enough for her. So delicate. I look at the ruins, swallow my smile lest this young man misunderstand it, nod gravely ... and listen while Babua tells me how he is proceeding to find her a good husband. I think once more how so much family responsibility hangs over this young head.

How does he cope, I wonder? I decide to ask. We sit down and look over the valley while Babua teaches me about coping. When he was 5 or 6 he started working at Fatehpur Sikri - cleaning tourist cars. His lips twist - with regret? with derision? - as he recalls how proud he was of those 5 rupees; how he would run home to put them in his mother's hand. When just a little older, he was able to convince Fatehpur Sikri tourists with children that they could trust him to trail along, carrying their babies. 15 rupees, sometimes 20. I think of how responsible he must have looked, even then. Eventually he became one of those little kids I shoo away like flies at every monument, selling the postcards, jewelry, chess boxes, calendars and innumerable other gee-gaws. At 17 he secured his government guide papers and began to work towards the role of family provider. Being a guide is a good job for a man with no formal education. Exclusive of tips, he earns Rs. 250 per tour. $7.80 Canadian. In the tourist season, October to May, Babua may get as many as three tours per day; an average day yields two, but only one or none as the season opens and wanes.

Getting tours is important, and Babua’s strategy is based on well-developed friendships. Walking through Fatehpur I get the impression that he is well liked; we stop often as men reach out to shake his hand and offer the traditional Muslim greeting, ‘Salaam Valaikum’. His ability to make and maintain friendships is a strength in the cutthroat guide business, where every day 80 guides compete for the tourist tours.

The government guides have a system. They belong to two groups: each day 40 work the parking lot near the monument, where they catch people arriving in busses and cars. The other 40 attempt to stop tourist traffic as it comes into town, by frantically waving and shouting. Every time this happens to me at a monument I think someone needs help, and we must stop. It’s pretty awful.

Babua hates the traffic days. But he has a number of driver friends who bring people like me to the café near the monument. On the way out of Agra, and again from the Shere Punjab café, they call Babua. So that’s how Babua came to be at the window of Rajid’s car, I think. When he gets the second phone call, he bikes to the café and solicits the tour. I'll bet very few people, if any, say no. I didn’t.

We return to the topic of the family. What will Sakir do when he finishes Standard 12? He wants to get his engineering diploma. Will that be possible? Babua straightens, "We'll have to look at the budget." What about Sojo, will it cost money to marry her off once more? Some, but he will make sure her family helps. We kick around ideas on how Babua could increase his income by working with bus tour companies. Thinking about money, he tells me he could be a tourist car driver, but his mother is adamantly opposed. Driving in India is just too dangerous. I'm with mom.

We go back to the house, I say goodbye 'til next time. Insha'Allah. We get on the bike and go to the bus station in Fatehpur. My train is at midnight and I don't want to ride a bike to Agra in the dark. Too dangerous. Babua and I sit on the curb and talk more about the family. The bus is late. Very late.

I decide my new friendship can withstand risk, and I say: 'Can I ask some personal questions?' "Sure". 'Were the gifts of the motorbike and the Rs. 5000 from Najrhana's family dowry?' "Yes. But Najrhana did not want to go to the honeymoon, I gave the 5,000 back." 'What about bride price?' [Bride price is the sum a Muslim man pays to his wife's family to provide for her in case of divorce.] Small laugh. "Her family only wanted Rs. 600. I gave it." I think to myself that this perceptive family knew a good thing when they saw it.

‘How many children will you and Najrhana have?’ "None for two years, then one, then one more a long time later, five years, seven." [I’ve seen the household filled with girl children, so I know either sex will be welcome. This is not the case all over India, where the 2001 census revealed 899 girls, aged 0 – 6 years, for every 1000 boys. When I have time, I will put up a piece on female feticide.]

'What about Hindutva?' "It is political. Political parties use religion to make people to fight with each other". 'That party is the BJP and its friends, yes?' "Yes".

‘What do you think about the fighting in Islam?’ "Same, political. Religious is used for so many terrible reasons. Fighting between Muslims, Sunnis and Shiites – I am a Sunni – and fighting between Muslims and others. It is all political, and it all is blamed on religion. It is wrong. I believe in one God. Like Akbar" [I learned from Babua on my monument tour that Akbar believed in one God. The monument has architecture that represents Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains and Buddhists. Akbar had three wives, one Hindu, one Muslim and one Christian. His Hindu wife was his fave, because she gave him his only son. And he introduced the one God concept – a good idea.]

'What do you know about the tragedy in Gujarat?' "I watched it on TV, we cried. Muslims beaten, burned, killed, old women, girls raped, most dead. But some hurt girls were left. Alive. Men came from all over the state to marry to them, to give them homes - you understand, they need homes to live, to be safe." I nod, I understand; sitting in the dark I’m in tears.

The bus comes. A quick hug and I'm off into the darkness. So much to think about.

Lucky me. I came into the life of one very strong, very poor, family in India. Representative of millions of poor families, they are different only in that they are Muslims, a 12% minority in India. Weren’t they generous to let me in? Yes, and as my friend Babua would say, “Hey, that’s India!” Salaam Valaikum.