The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (7 page)

I thought I was mostly alone because I’d missed the opportunity to really get to know anyone in our group due to the room assignments and a schedule that didn’t lend itself to leisurely conversations. But somehow, apparently, I’d frightened a group of cancer survivors.

“Look, I stand by what I said about this schedule. But I’m also having a great deal of personal difficulty right now.” I took a deep breath. I thought but didn’t say,
I’d like to just leave it at that, if I could.

Terri’s already large blue eyes widened and then narrowed as she tilted her head. “I’m sorry.”

One look of sympathy was all it took. The tears began to flow. “My dog was diagnosed with terminal cancer before I left. The dog in the book.” Terri had read my memoir just after it came out. I suspect that played a role in her selecting me for the trip. A selection she was clearly regretting now. “He means everything to me. He was a huge part of my cancer recovery and now… It’s just hard to be here.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I know. And even in the best of circumstances, I need quiet time. Time to write, to think, to just be in my own head. And I can’t get that here. Not ever. It’s impossible. So right now, all of it, it feels like I’m being tortured. It’s just too much.” I looked away. “So, yeah, I understand that I may look angry and unapproachable.”

Terri shifted sideways. “I was thinking maybe you shouldn’t go this weekend. Maybe this weekend would be a good time for you to be alone.”

The weekend trip was to Agra to see the Taj Mahal.

Why
would
I
fly
all
the
way
to
India
and
not
see
the
Taj
Mahal?
I stared at the ground, dumbfounded.

Then, no longer crying, I looked up at Terri. “I’ve thought about leaving the whole trip several times, believe me. But I made a commitment and I’ll stick it out. The Taj Mahal is a highlight of the trip. I don’t think it’s fair to ask me not to go.”

“I’m not telling you that you can’t go. I’m asking you to think about it.”

“I will think about it.”

I would
not
think about it. I was
not
missing the Taj Mahal. Not after everything else.

We were both quiet for a few moments.

“Here’s the thing. If you decide to go, I need you to not make fun of things. No snippy comments, no sarcasm. I know you don’t like the touchy-feely stuff, but you can’t affect the others.”

“I will think about that too,” I said. And I half meant it.

At dinner, Terri informed us all that the late-night group meetings would be voluntary. She had postponed the exercise that involved writing down something we wanted to let go of in our life and then burning that slip of paper. It was to have occurred the night of my outburst, and now instead, they’d be lighting it up that night. Notice I said “they”? Right. I was the only member of the group who chose not to attend. So much for my “influence.”

By not attending, I got the chance to IM with Chris. My two main coping mechanisms in life are talking things through with Chris and sarcasm (these thing overlap, not coincidentally). I was miserably unhappy, generally wishing I was home with Chris and Seamus, with only Mother Teresa’s Home for the Destitute and Dying as my respite and solace, ironically. I considered booking an early flight home.

Again, Chris talked me out of it by being supportive, assuring me that Seamus was doing well, and that the two of them would be fine if I stayed and made adjustments to get through the trip, like I’d started to do by staying in that evening. He was supportive whether I got on the plane home or stayed and worked through it.

Although, I can see where it will be hard to visit the Taj with one arm tied behind your back. Possibly both.

I responded,
What?

If she wants you not to crack jokes or use sarcasm, she’s basically removing a large chunk of you, and certainly one of your finest honed weapons.

I smiled. I couldn’t even be insulted by this. And suddenly, going home seemed like quitting. I wasn’t a quitter. Cancer had taught me that much.

When Terri returned to our apartment that night, I told her I was going, but I couldn’t guarantee I would smile through it all. Likely I’d just be quiet. But I was going.

“Fair enough,” she said.

I hoped I could do it, but I had my doubts.

One more night on my foam-on-wood-crate bed and I did not wake on a positive note. On the bus to Agra, we were handed name tags. Only they said things like “In the Moment,” “Confident,” “Peaceful,” and “Amazed.” I’m amazed. I mean, yes, amazed at the name tags, but also, my tag said “Amazed.” These were, we’re told, the words we each used in our interviews when asked how we wanted to feel when we came to India. I wanted to be amazed. Now I just wanted to be alone (and that would have been a name tag I could embrace). I’d had a hard enough time remembering actual names, and now I’m supposed to remember to call someone “Present.” And Terri wanted me to do this without laughing. Or scoffing.

One of our local guides was handsome and charming, with a brilliant white smile flashing from underneath his
Raiders
of
the
Lost
Ark
-style hat. His name was Shakti. He asked us to call him Shaz, pronounced like Chaz. But then Terri explained the name game to him (though she likely didn’t call it a game), and he was christened “Happy.” Another guide joined us later, and when we learned he had college degrees in Indian history, architecture, sociology, and anthropology (and I hoped cuisine as well), he was dubbed “Wisdom.” I refrained from calling foul—if “Wisdom” is a feeling, I would have claimed it as my own. Given any opportunity to avoid a feeling, I will take it. If his tag could read “Wisdom,” couldn’t mine just read “Sarcasm”?

In a rare stroke of luck, I was assigned a hotel room with Lina. I had chatted with Lina a bit and observed that she had both an enviable camera and an artistic eye. She also loved coffee as much as I did, thus she was willing to slip away from the crowd for either the perfect shot or cup. I liked her, though she probably felt she’d drawn the short end of the roommate stick. Poor girl also had the raging head cold that had been making its way through our group but, in keeping with the custom, had avoided me.

We awoke at five in the morning to be at the Taj Mahal for the sunrise. The Taj is known for, among other things, the magnificent way the sunlight reflects off the marble walls and reflecting pools. Dawn is considered the perfect time to view this Wonder of the World, and having come that far, even I was willing to wake at that godforsaken hour to see it.

The large white bus drove us through the darkness—Agra is not a pretty city and it was early on a Sunday morning, so we did not miss much. When the bus stopped to let us all off, the Taj Mahal was nowhere to be seen. We were standing in the middle of a deserted, dirty street. Then we all saw the horse-drawn carriages approach, brightly festooned with ribbons and flowers. Terri was smiling widely. The carriages were for us.

I rode with Terri, thinking,
I’m in a horse-drawn carriage being taken to the Taj Mahal!
I concentrated on being in the moment, ignoring that the poor horse was far too thin (as was the driver) and the streets were filthy. I appreciated her efforts—the carriage ride, her choice to ride with me, and making the effort to check in to see how I was doing.

We lined up outside the gates of the Taj, not the only group to have decided sunrise was the time to see this monument. There were stray dogs in the street, lying at the gate, sleeping alongside the road. They were not begging and they did not look hungry. They simply looked like they too were waiting to see this wonder. I resisted the urge to pet them.

Though the sun rose while we waited in line to enter, the light was still beautiful—bright without being blinding, with subtle pink and lavender just barely visible. So naturally, everyone stopped and gasped shortly after entering through the front building and landing on the plaza terrace overlooking the Taj. The massive shrine to love was there before us in all its breathtaking glory. Only, so was the crowd, jostling, bumping, and posing for pictures. They handed each other cameras and posed—each in the same, traditional way, just off to the side with the white wonder of the world in the background, gleaming. My group did the same; they handed each other cameras and posed, taking each other’s pictures. But not mine. I was still
persona
non
grata
, and I was still not doing a thing about it.

I am not adept at those teenage-girl selfie photos, and I was not about to hold my arm out and turn the camera on myself to try. I sensed that handing my camera to a stranger was not a good idea. Instead, I raised my camera in an attempt to take advantage of my height and just take a photo over the heads of the happy, snappy tourists. Wisdom took hold of my arm.

“Come with me. Come this way.” He led me through the crowd and cleared a space, moving people aside politely but firmly. To my surprise, everyone obliged. At the front, just at the edge of the balcony, he said, “Kneel here for your photo.”

I thanked him and knelt, careful not to slip on the damp tile. When I looked up, I was stunned by a moment of perfect peace and beauty.

There was a dog, golden and white, bigger than a beagle but not by much. It was one of the dogs I had seen in front of the gate and wanted to pet. The dog was bent down, his two front paws dangling in the reflecting pool. He was sipping from the pond that stretches a long vertical line from the Taj to the plaza where I was standing, the better to capture the magnificent reflection of this world wonder. And it does. The reflection was perfect. From where I was kneeling, I could see the Taj Mahal twice—the real thing and its full reflection in the smooth clear water, with only the slightest ripple where the dog’s tongue met the water. The blue-pink sky, gleaming white marble, dark orange terra-cotta tiles, green grass, violet flowers, and a golden dog were all I saw. I heard nothing. It was a moment of such complete tranquillity I thought I was imagining it. I turned only briefly to look at the people crowded around me, yet far, far away from where I was. No one was looking at the dog.
Did
anyone
else
see
him? Was he real?
I was glad I was kneeling. I was thankful for Wisdom. I was breathing deeply for the first time in days. I stayed focused on the dog in the simple act of drinking water. I felt peace. I felt joy.

I was amazed.

I managed a few photos before the dog finished his morning drink, looked up, turned, and went about his day. I won’t need the photos to remember that moment always, but I’m glad I have them. It’s how I know that moment was real. I knew also that moment was a sign. And I knew I needed to figure out what it meant.

I roamed the grounds of the Taj alone at first and then, briefly, with one of our group, who kept up her steady stream of chatter, as she had, best I could tell, the entire trip. But now, I smiled, appreciative of her enthusiasm. It was indeed unbelievable that we were here. To go from a cancer diagnosis and grueling treatment that itself threatens one’s life, to have endured such an utter loss of control and, for a time, one’s own destiny, it was indeed a spectacular feat to now be standing on the other side of the world in front of this gleaming, world-renowned monument. It was, indeed.

Once inside the palace, she and I separated, each roaming off to something we were drawn to. I took hundreds of photos that day, most of the architecture but plenty of the people as well. During my first week in India, I had been approached from time to time by young girls asking to take my picture. I get this—I’m blond and five feet ten inches tall; to them, I’m different. The girls usually stood with me, smiling but not touching. I’d always ask to take their photos too, particularly if they or their family members were dressed in the traditional saris in the turquoise, violet, mandarin, emerald, or fuchsia colors I loved. This time, as I walked around the vast courtyards and gardens of the Taj Mahal, I was stopped for photos by many more people. Perhaps my face had softened. I had, maybe, the smallest bit of a smile.

A family of seven adults and two children approached me. A man I guessed to be the patriarch asked if they could take a picture of me with their baby—a boy in purple clothing with a red bindi on his forehead. I nodded, and a younger man came toward me holding the child, who was probably ten months old or so. I panicked, thinking he was going to hand the child to me. (I’m awkward at best with babies.) But instead he stood next to me. Then he motioned to my camera and then to a woman in their group whom I presumed was his wife and the mother of the child. This is when I noticed I was the only one with a camera.

They
wanted
me
to
take
a
photo
with
my
own
camera? Why?

The family was gathered behind the man’s wife, looking at us, the photo subjects. My mind raced. Was this an elaborate scam to steal my camera? If I handed my camera over, would it be gone forever, along with the hundreds of photos I’d just taken?
I’d lose the photos of my golden dog!
I hesitated, looking at their smiling faces. If it was a scam, it was indeed an elaborate one. And if it was not, well, I’d have another beautiful photo to remember this day. I handed her my camera.

She took the photo and then another. She laughed and nodded and handed the camera back to me. The husband asked, in half hand motions, half broken English (“we see”), if they could see the photo. I popped open the screen and showed them the photo taken moments before. The family gathered around and smiled their approval. We all nodded and, hands in prayer position, said our
namastes
.

Later I asked Wisdom (who else would I ask?) what the photo request was about. He said it was a sign of respect and a story for them—the blond American they met at the Taj. Or for the baby, a story they would share as he grew up. The Hindu culture is very respectful of visitors; this much we had seen and learned. This was one more way of showing that. Since I was so obviously a visitor, they were, in a sense, acknowledging that I was special.

What a very kind thing to do. Especially on that day.

In our hotel room, following breakfast, we had an hour to rest or pack or shower before we needed to meet downstairs for two more stops and the long bus ride back to Delhi. Lina and I opted to rest in our side-by-side twin beds, the height of luxury compared to where we’d been sleeping. Maybe it was exhaustion, the lingering thrill of the Taj, or the sudden comfort of soft beds, but Lina talked to me. I asked her if she was married. She laughed joyfully and pointed out that I had missed the “letting go” burning ceremony two nights before. What she was letting go of, sending up into smoke, was her marriage. She told me her husband had an affair and she’d filed for divorce recently. I remembered then that in the group therapy session before I’d made my outburst, Lina had said she was enjoying the trip because she didn’t have to think about anything. Her schedule was set, her meals were made for her and served regularly, and there was no time to think. For her this was a reprieve. I had been shocked, but now I understood why. It’s always perspective, isn’t it?

I shared with her that my first husband had cheated on me twice (that I know of; I’m sure there were more, but it loses significance after two). One of his mistresses was named Lina. This Lina’s eyes flew wide open and she let out a hearty laugh.

“Get out! Are you kidding me? Was she Italian?” she said.

“Yes, she was. So you’ll forgive me if I’ve called you Deena before. I have a mental block about your name.”

She laughed again. “You can call me anything you want. I totally understand.”

We talked for so long we had to throw our things back in our overnight bags in a rush and still were late getting downstairs. But at least I wasn’t alone. I had a friend. I had shared a feeling. Maybe two (anger is a feeling, right?).

As we toured additional sites that day, I made more of an effort to talk with my fellow travelers and to join with the group. Though, even in my new lighter mood, I was enjoying being alone with my thoughts. Seeking to stay in that peaceful space I’d found, I now watched more closely for the dogs, and the monkeys, the cows, the goats, and even the birds.

It occurred to me that the animals were in no better or worse condition than the people. If we were in a particularly poverty-stricken place, the dogs were more likely to be thin, hungry, and sick or injured, or both. At one temple there was a particularly aggressive baby goat. She danced and pawed at the ground to the laughter of the crowd but began to butt her head at the legs of bystanders when no food followed the laughter. It was hard not to be reminded of the small acrobatic girl who performed, grinning, flipping, and dancing, outside our car window a few days before on our way home from Mother Teresa’s. We had been told not to hand out money—that it wouldn’t help the child and would only encourage the rings of adults who “own” these children and force them to work this way (and indeed, she should have been in school—it was noon on a weekday). When we did not proffer money, she’d approached the car, yelling and banging on the window, going from adorable and amusing to threatening and frightening in one quick moment.

In the impoverished villages too, there were more disfigured beggars, more piles of trash, larger crowds of humans, and smaller shanty shacks (but always clean; miraculously clean lean-tos and shacks, thatched huts and tents). In less impoverished areas, the dogs and other animals, like the humans, seemed content, not starving, and, if not healthy, at least not visibly sick or injured. And, I realized now, in the neighborhood we were living in, middle-class by India’s standards, I had seen purebred dogs—a Chow, a poodle, and to my great happiness, a beagle—being walked on leashes in parks, not roaming the streets eating from trash or the handouts given, it seemed regularly, outside restaurants or on street corners.

The symmetry—the equality of people and the animals as sentient beings with souls—appealed greatly to me. Before arriving in Delhi, I had thought I would be horrified by the condition of the animals. I expected to see sick, injured, and even dead animals. I had expected the dogs would be begging and that I would want to rescue each and every one and instead would feel my heart break over and over again at my helplessness. That was not the case. The animals did not strike me as unhappy or in any danger—at least not any more than a pedestrian in Delhi (and in my case, perhaps far less so, as I was not getting the hang of dashing across streets). And the dogs did not beg (and in that regard, I had to note, their manners were much better than a certain beagle, though clearly it was my indulgence that created his behavior, not a true need for food). The cows, of course, got special privileges; they are indeed sacred. We had even been told to follow a cow crossing the street; it would be the safest way across. That was true, but only if the cow went in the direction one wanted. But it seemed all animals were respected as sentient beings. I took comfort in that.