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Was this the new India? I wondered. I have heard stories of women's liberation. But I had also heard horror stories in which the woman is but a piece of 'inventory.' The India that I found, if Indira was an example of it, appeared to fit neither mould. She wasn't the cold activist type of a liberation movement that makes people bitter and small-minded. Indira appeared beautiful and fresh in her smile like the sunrise, and as exotic as India is described in fairy tales told by travelers that seek out the extraordinary. Indira's look didn't match any of those patterns. Her look was that of a 'real' woman, confident, proud, joyful. She touched me like a living paradox, and at the same time like an invitation to solve the paradox. Both seemed so extraordinary that I was at a loss to say something appropriate that would do justice to what I felt was unfolding before me like a great wonder.
"Thank you for meeting me at the airport," I said to her when my baggage 'finally' arrived. I said those words in the most gracious manner that I could muster. To my surprise, my 'stammering' made her smile. I voiced my surprise. "You are the rose of India," I said to her. I took a stab in the dark with that, since I had no idea whether or not they even had roses in India so that the metaphor meant anything. Actually I really didn't care. It meant something to me. That seemed to be enough for a reason. Comparing her to a rose was a part of my dance: my kiss.
The compliment was indeed an honest one. During my preparation for the trip to India, I had felt that I had to be exceedingly gentle with her. Instead, she went far out of her way to be gentle with me. She kindly opened the door between us and opened it so wide that I felt something vital in this meeting of hearts that promised far more than just a fruitful dialog.
"Have you ever felt yourself drawn to kiss a rose?" she said. "I saw this done in a movie once, a long time ago as a child."
"I haven't, Indira, but I do feel so inclined now," I said to her with a grin and kissed her once more. "I greet you with a kiss as no rose would ever have inspired," I added. "The rose as a symbol is but a symbol. The joy comes from what is real. And our 'dancing' is real!"
"I can accept that," she said and smiled and nodded, and then reached her hand out.
I couldn't remember whether I had ever been disappointed in the past when my luggage finally appeared on the conveyor belt and slid down onto the luggage carousel to mingle with the others. This time I was disappointed. The arrival of the luggage had interrupted something that I didn't want to end. I let the luggage go around the carousel once before picking it up. Picking it up somehow brought the conventional world back into view, though the conventional world had now a brightness of its own. The openness of her greeting gave me hope that I would find a way later on to address the most sensitive subject with her that I had come to explain to her and to solicit her agreement with. I reasoned that this could only be done in a process of lateral 'dancing.'
She seemed to sense that something was interrupted when the luggage arrived. She responded to it. She was like a gift from heaven in this respect. "Let's find a cart," she said, "though the cart really wasn't needed.
She turned out to be easy to talk with. Perhaps the ease of her manners, with which she touched me like a gentle light was nothing more than my own inner upwelling response to her greeting. I barely paid attention when she told me on the way out of the terminal that her car was nearby. Why wasn't I surprised that she owned a car?
The world of her wonders seemed to continue in the privacy of her car. She looked exotic in her long gown that reached to the ground, but her manners were cultured with a touch of Europe reflected in them, a touch of Paris perhaps, or Berlin, Rome, or Florence. She appeared as if she would feel herself at home in any of these places. Except she wasn't domineering as many people tend to become in the great cities of Europe, especially when they are put under the pressure of frustrating situations. I've been on the roads there where fists are often raised. Patience was her virtue, even behind the steering wheel. She wasn't domineering towards anyone, so it seemed, certainly not towards me. She hadn't any plans lined up for me to follow. She allowed me to let our evening together unfold as I would desire. Naturally, I invited her out for dinner. I asked her to select the best of her favorite places, or even one that lay outside of the normal range of her choosing.
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