I feel liquid anxiety dripping from my forehead as I swim through Mumbai’s humid air to catch the 12:05 CST train. The platform is crowded with all sorts of people - rich, poor, dark-skinned, light skinned, muslims, christians, even Europeans. But they all blur into one color as I race towards the second-class, ladies compartment. And as soon as I hop on, my daily ritual begins. Upon being seated at my usual window space, I place my tired legs on the empty seat across from me and, with a considerable amount of difficulty, haul my bulky bag onto my lap. I drag it inwards, holding it close to my body so I may take in its unique aroma - a combination of fresh henna, my mother’s special veggie stir-fry, the cucumbers and pears I bought from the vendor at the station for 20 rupees, and just a tinge of my book, journal, and growing stash of train and bus tickets. And as I take in the scent of my worn out, big, blue messenger bag, I feel a sudden wave of comfort wash over me.
My bag does not smell of home - it doesn’t smell of any place I have ever been. Rather, my bag smells of me - its distinct essence captures the very essence of who I am. I lift the leather flap of my holdall to find two nearly-depleted henna cones, which I had used earlier in the day to paint my grandmother’s hands. The cones remind me of the tale she had narrated to me of her migration from Pakistan as I had used them to color her wrinkled hands - rough from a life of hard work. More importantly, they remind me of how much I have yet to learn from her - of how many hands of hers I have yet to paint in order to gain her world of wisdom. I pull out my tiffin box that my mother has packed with such care. I can feel the jealous eyes of my fellow travelers on me as I savor each and every bite of home-cooked love. It reminds me of a day, years back, when my mother had taught me how to make her special dish. It motivates me to go back and learn more so that someday I can send a box of home-made love along with someone. As I dig deeper into my bag, I feel my fingers slide on the wet dew covering my pears and cucumbers. They remind me of the smiling, aged, vendor I had bought them from. He calls me “beti” - “daughter.” I put my newly-purchased produce back in its black, plastic bag and make a mental note to be more compassionate - to treat everyone as if they were my very own. I bring out my book, The Air-Conditioned Nightmare by Henry Miller - a gift from my grandfather. I have barely begun, but I know that once I finish it he will want to know what a thought of it. I will ask the same of him. As I think of another book I want to read I quickly jot it down in my journal. It was my father who had suggested that I keep it to note down my questions, thoughts, and reminders. I may share it with him when I go back home after summer ends. And lastly, I take today’s train and bus tickets and add them to the pocket in the back of my bag. They remind me of the boy who gave me his seat on the bus, the lady that allowed me to punch my ticket before her, and the poor old woman who gave me directions to find a bus home. They remind me that even though I walk among a sea of strangers, I will never travel alone.
My bag is who I am. It represents where I have been, who I have loved, and what I have learned. But more importantly, it represents where I need to go, the people I have the potential to love, and the infinite amount of things I have yet to learn.
