Patience is a Virtue: Conclusion

by Paul Saulnier 1/26/12

As I head back up the stairway towards the others, I find no familiar faces. I think that maybe they concluded the deal and passed behind me without noticing me. I make my way to the bottom of the stairs but they’re not there either. So I sit at the entrance and wait. Nobody shows. I allow myself a minute or two of panic.

It’s getting late and we never did find out when the last ferry leaves the island. Now I’m thinking that they walked to the ferry expecting that I did the same. So I walk the half mile back to the ferry but I don’t see them anywhere. I’m the last one on the dock and the deck hand ushers me onto the ferry. I ask if it’s the last one but he just motions to me to get on. He unties the ferry and we’re off.

A quick tour tells me I’m a party of one. Not to worry. They probably took the previous ferry, having not found me anywhere on the island. I’ll meet them in Mumbai and we’ll all have a good laugh over my lack of patience. 

The ferry arrives in a different place and I get off with no one in particular to welcome me back. I ask everyone in uniform if there are any more ferries due in. The best I get in English is “9:30 tomorrow”. It’s about 7:00 PM now and beginning to get dark.  Ferries arrive at several locations and I run back and forth looking for a familiar face. By 8:30 it is dark and I need to rethink my situation. I allow myself a minute or two of panic and then decide I have to get back to home base. Which is where, again? I have no idea. I now remember that both Arjun and Parul have cell phones with them. I don’t know their numbers. Wouldn’t it have been smart for me to have asked for one of the phones when we started this trip? Patience would have been an even better idea. 

Across from the ferry terminal is the exclusive Taj Hotel surrounded by jersey barriers and guards, the entrance having been bombed by terrorists six months before.  I’m thinking maybe my companions have decided to have dinner there while they wait for me to show up. Being white, albeit well tanned, I’m allowed past the guards into the hotel. Arjun et al are not in the dining room or the bar. Not even reclining in the lounge area. I allow myself two more minutes of panic, then ask the well dressed host standing in the lobby how I might get to the train station. He directs me around the block where the buses stop and advises me to take bus #110 to the train station. What I’ll do when I get there I haven’t a clue. Bus after bus stops, but none carry the beloved #110 in the window.  I walked down the road a piece and spot a bus stopped further down. There it is. #110. No driver but the door is open so I got in and sat in the first seat next to the driver’s seat. Eventually the driver got on and I sought confirmation that he was going to the train station.

“No. Get out. Bus #93”.

"Thank you."

I allow myself a minute or two of panic, then decide to try to get there by cab. After all, that’s what brought me to the ferry in the first place. Several cabs stop but go again when I say “train station”. Maybe that’s Hindi for “I rob cabs”. A well dressed Indian carrying a briefcase is standing nearby and hails a cab. I run over and ask him if he’s going to the train station and he is. I ask if I can join him. He agrees but as I reach for the door handle the cab pulls away. No more Mister Nice Guy. I’ll jump in front of a cab if I have to. I’m sure someone at the hospital speaks English.

That works and I get a cab ride to the train station for 50 rupees. By 9:30 PM I’m at what is supposed to be the train station but it doesn’t look anything like the train station I left in the morning. I allow myself a minute or two of panic.

Then I follow the crowds through some large doors and finally into Mumbai’s Grand Central Station. So many tracks, so little concept of what to do next. Where did I come from? What train stop was it where I got on? Then I remembered that Parul had given me a ticket stub for the return trip. There it was in my pocket! I’m saved. But it might as well been written in Hindi. Oh. it was written in Hindi. I allow myself a minute or two of panic, then look for someone who might understand English.  I stop the well dressed variety and point to my ticket. Finally one man seems to understand, points to Track 1 and advises me not to get on the first car as it is for women only.

The train fills up to the brim as I am pushed deeper and deeper inside. It is 10:00PM now and we are off. This is not the commuter rail to Natick Green. There are no maps on the wall listing the stops. How many stops did we make on the way in? There is a digital electronic banner that flashes in bright yellow the next stop in Hindi just before the stop. So  I practice looking at the letters and looking at my ticket stub, trying to memorize my stop for when it flashes up. But there’s a problem. Hardly anyone is getting off and I won’t be getting off either if I don’t get closer to the door (which never closes). So with my souvenirs and useless plastic objects in tow, I start my move towards the opening. Most of the action has been to the left side so that is my goal. As stop after stop is behind us, and I still have far to go to get to the door.

I try to look like I know exactly what I’m doing but everyone is staring at me and no one is getting the hint to move out of my way. I have a death grip on my ticket stub and am tempted to abandon my bag of goodies to make it easier to slip through. After about ten stops I’m convinced that I’m on the wrong train. Then what looks like my stop appears on the flashing digital readout and I press for the opening. I notice that the train on the next track is moving slowly but then realize it is stopped and we are on our way to the next stop. No more Mister Nice Guy. Shoving my way past the last two rows of sardines, I jump from the train, landing on my feet to absolutely no applause. Now all I have to do is find the cross over and walk the last quarter mile back to the apartment. I was certain that I would recognize the building as I had stayed there the year before for one night. I find the overpass but when I reach the end I’m not on the opposite side of the road. It’s not the same overpass. I allow myself a minute or two of panic.

Did I get off at the wrong stop? I check my ticket again but can’t see any signs on the fence. I decide to cross the road but first watch a few locals to see how it’s done. Traffic is light enough to allow the vehicles to go as fast as they can, most without headlights to save the batteries.  Once across, I can see that the sign looks very similar the letters on my ticket so I start walking. After a quarter of a mile, I’m not getting that warm, fuzzy feeling like I’ve been here before. Another quarter mile, then another, and then one more for good luck. If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. Then I remember walking past two college-age girls in uniform walking the other way about a half mile back. There is a college near the apartment that I visited last year. I think maybe they are students there. So I turn around and double-time it back to the starting line and then keep walking. After a mere 300 yards I’m home. Well almost.

After climbing three flights to the floor I find the iron gate locked and no one home. A neighbor hears the bell ringing and opens his door, greeting me with a big smile. He lets me in and motions for me to wait as he makes a phone call. Arjun had called the neighbor earlier looking for me and instructed him to call when or if I showed up. It was now past 11:30 and they were still near the ferry, dining in a fancy restaurant with several people they had met and enlisted in the search for He-Who-Has-No-Patience. I had a bowl of cereal with water and went to bed.

Late the next morning we compared notes. How could I think Herb, Arjun and Parul would leave the island without me? It seemed logical to me at the time. They had island security searching for me and were sure I was not there or had been captured by the monkeys.

Patience is a virtue.

Posted in Comings/Goings.

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