I Find My Beatrice Outside the Red Fort, Old Delhi, India from “A Poet’s Progress,” Newtopia Magazine #19

Published in the A Poet's Progress: Newtopia Magazine

April 16, 2011: Old Delhi, India, The Red Fort

Today in front of the Red Fort, a young girl tried to sell me some postcards I didn’t want. I told her that I didn’t have any rupees on me (which was true) and she said I could have them for one American dollar. I smiled but said no again, firmly. But she persevered which I thought was rude, so I turned my back and tried to ignore her. But she persisted. I turned my back to her again and walked a short distance away, waiting for the others in my group to gather so we could return to the bus. But she followed me and now I was unhappy and showed my unhappiness by frowning and turning my back on her again. Then I felt a breeze on the back of my neck, and I turned around and she was using one of her postcard books as a fan to cool me off. “Are you okay?” she asked, genuinely concerned. “Are you overheating?” I couldn’t help it, I smiled and looked down into her eyes for the first time and saw that she was smiling up at me, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head to the left with a puzzled look. I apologized for my rudeness but explained that I was tired and hot and didn’t need any postcards and then wished her luck and said goodbye and headed in the direction I thought the bus was waiting. But she said, “No, mister, this way,” and grabbed my hand and pulled me down into a sidestreet. She walked beside me with her other hand on my hip, steering me through the crowd, pointing out poop and broken glass in the street, mostly without saying anything other than encouraging me to hurry. I tried to pull my hand free and told her I thought we were walking in the wrong direction—that the bus was actually back the way we’d come, but she wouldn’t listen and said “Hurry!” and pulling at me to follow her and I couldn’t see the bus and this part of town didn’t look at all familiar to me. Where was she taking me? Then we came out onto a busy city street and I saw it—my bus—and still walking I got out my wallet and pulled out two dollar bills and handed them to her discretely as I shook her hand before getting on the bus. I said, “Thank you” and half-bowed and smiled at her and she smiled back at me. Then she grabbed my belt and pulled me off the bus. She went through her postcard collections and chose one that was labeled “Indian Culture and Life” and smiled up at me and said, “I think you will like this one.” It was filled with photos of women harvesting wheat, boys on donkeys on their way to market, old men smoking in cafes. I looked at every photo and smiled at her and said, “Yes, this is the right one.” Then she smiled, her face for a moment filled with light, and she was gone.