Touch

Holding hands. Resting your fingers on someone's arm. Sitting on laps, arms slung around shoulders, ankles propped up unconsciously on a friend's thighs. For all of India's harshness, she has a definite softer side. Amongst men and amongst women (but not between the two,) Indians regularly show a level of friendly intimacy that far surpasses anything I've seen in America. It is normal to see two Indian men walking down the street, holding hands or draping an arm over the other's shoulders. Chains of school girls, linked hand in hand, usually giggling at me as they walk past. A man sitting at an internet terminal would think nothing of it should his buddy sidle over and flop down onto his lap to read what he has written on the screen. Women that meet on the train who barely know each other for five minutes will suddenly be plaiting each other's hair and passing someone's cranky toddler back and forth. It's a level of trust and comfort in people, in strangers, that I have never seen before.

As a farangi (a foreigner), I am closed out of these circles. And it's lonely on the outside. But, every once in a while, I was given a taste of the inside. I was in Varanasi one day, sitting on the stone steps of the ghats that line the banks of the holy river Ganges, when an adorable little girl named Abba came up to me with a basket of banana-leaf bowls filled with carnation flowers and votive candles. "One piece, five rupee?” she squeaked at me, in a sing-song little girl voice. Religious devotees and tourists alike purchase these little offering bowls, light the candle, and float them out onto the water with a prayer for the health and wealth of their families. I had no chance; little Abba charmed a 5-rupee coin out of my pocket within minutes, so the holy Ganga has heard my prayer. After it was clear to Abba that she was not going to get any more rupees out of me, she flashed me a cute smile of surprisingly healthy-looking white teeth and inquired, "You give me chocolate?" She twirled her skirt back and forth in an unconscious, endearing 8-year-old-girl type of way. I had no chocolate, and that smile closed up shop in two seconds flat. She studied me for a while with those piercing dark eyes of hers. They looked so big in her small face. Finally, she waggled her head in the distinctly South Asian sign of approval. She clambered up the steps to sit down next to me and, without any hesitation, proceeded to hook her arm around my knee and lay her head in my lap. Startled, I immediately froze; the sudden feeling of physical contact when you weren't expecting it and haven't had experienced it for so long was a shock. But I soon relaxed and then just basked in the easy comfort and trust she showed me in that gesture. Abba and I rested like that, her arm pillowing her head in my lap. I gently rubbed my hand in circles on her back, and we sat in silence and watched the world float by down the Ganges River.

It felt so good just to touch and be touched in such an innocent, friendly way by Abba that my eyes stung with emotion. I realized then the power of physical touch; it truly is one of our most basic of human needs. Traveling as Westerner in India can be incredibly lonely. But sometimes, usually when I was by myself, another Indian or Tibetan woman would rest her hand on my shoulder as we walked down the street, or grasp my hands in hers while we talked. And every time, my initial surprise was quickly replaced with a flood of warmth and gratitude.

This is one area where Indians have it well figured out. In America we apologize if we accidentally lean into or move by someone in the subway. Even a slight brush on the arm while walking down the street is cause for an "oh, excuse me." Friends are different. Friends can link arms and hold hands. And unlike in India, in America couples can be affectionate in public. What we are missing is that comfort among strangers. We are taught to mistrust by default. To touch someone you don't know is considered offensive and inappropriately intimate. But give four Indian men in a train compartment a few minutes to exchange names and pleasantries and I swear it would seem as if you were looking at a group of life-long friends. Before long they would be holding hands, slapping each other's backs in humor and passing around food to be shared. And ten minutes before these men had never seen each other in their lives.

Eventually, when I saw a train roll into the station with so many Indians crammed inside that they were spilling out of the doors and windows like a human version of an overstuffed can of sardines, I knew that what looked like hell to a personal-space-conscious American like me was to all of them just a tight and cozy train ride that always filled up like that at rush hour. No problem. Everyone made it off unscathed; and better yet, they left the train with five new friends. Five friends that they may never see again in their lives, but five friends that made the train ride much more enjoyable for all.

Thank you for trusting me Abba. Thank you for letting me in.