drunk with the sky

The sun is setting. I am drunk with the sky over Maharashtra. I am sitting on a hub between the driver and the passenger seat. There is no passenger seat. My memory fails me. I cannot remember what was to my left where the passenger seat should have been. I am looking into the faces of passengers looking back at me. My fellow travelers. Our heads swaying in unison as the bus hits. every. single. imperfection in the road. I wonder what my fellow travelers are thinking. I assume they are thinking about the remainder of the trip ahead, how long it will take us to get to Pune or the sharp words of their boss as they left the office that afternoon, the slight hesitation from their husband as they went to peck them on the cheek or the chanting of their neighbor’s puja at six a.m. that morning. Perhaps they are thinking about the white man in front of them sitting on the hub between the bus driver and where the passenger seat should be. I fancy they think me chivalrous. We white men are not all alike. I am sitting on the hub because the young father who boarded with his infant daughter had no place to sit and sat on the hub with his daughter. I am a young father too. And this will not do. So I insist and change places with the man and his daughter. I am surprised that my colleague did not offer his seat. But it does not matter. The young father is grateful. In a Nyquil induced haze I behold my kindness smugly. Trapeze Swinger plays on my ancient ipod as we sway. Music suggested some time ago by my brother, my tastes uncertain but often enough in sync with his. That morning I had refused the generosity of the men on the first bus I rode. They had offered a seat. “You are guest in our country.” “Thank you but please let uncle sit.” The truth is we are crammed in this goddamn bus and I’ve just finally gotten settled, standing in the aisle with my bag between my knees and I do not want to try to move again. I insist that uncle sits. He is after all older. “This is not better for us. You are a guest,” ana says as Uncle sits firmly between two brothers. He seems genuinely angry that I have refused to crawl over the woman and her young son in the aisle and place my enormous duffel on my lap and theirs. I am sick and the drugs are not yet working. I do not respond. Only shrug apologetically and smile sheepishly. Perhaps they will forgive me because I am a foreigner. As I sit on the hub of the second or is it third bus I have ridden that day I think of the good I am doing. I immediately feel bad for feeling good and because the hub is uncomfortable. And because my fellow travelers, like my angry young friend that morning are thinking this is not better for us. But no one moves. No one says a thing. It is silent on this bus. So I watch the sky grow brilliant. I will grow drunk on this horizon. Even now. The dust and the haze. The trees and the trucks. Men in turbans in the fields. There are no women. That I recall. I listen to the music my brother has picked out. And watch the sun set on Maharashtra.