She smiled most of the time while we drove into town. We drove along expressways that were as slow as those in New York City during rush hour. We also drove on wide, tree-lined boulevards that had an air of elegance about them that even Washington couldn't match. Half an hour later we fought our way through the narrow streets of Old Delhi and through some streets that were too narrow to be still called streets, that reminded me of the rickety alleyways back home that one would rather not venture into unless one had no other choice. Here, it seemed we had no choice. In some places that was all there was. Eventually, we ended up in a back-street parking garage with an entrance so narrow that a big American car probably wouldn't have fitted between the gateposts.



     The drive from the airport had been 'interesting' to say the least and as varied as India was said to be in the travel brochures. But mostly I was impressed by Indira herself. India's landscape and its colors seemed to be flowing around her as if she was a part of it, but moving in her own way so that everything else bore tribute to her. Her gentle manners and the melody of her voice seemed modulated with a spiritual hue that I had vaguely expected and had prepared myself for, but which unfolded quite differently than one can gleam from travelogues. She captivated me also in the conventional sense. As a driver she was the personified biblical Job in a chaos of traffic where few rules seemed to apply. And above all, she was always beautiful to look at. I cherished the vision, though I had to admit to myself that Fred would have made me look at the tip of my finger and then would have asked me to whom it was pointing. His words would have reflect then what Steve always said, that the beauty we behold is but an image of the beauty that we hold in our heart, the beauty of the Soul.



      The restaurant that Indira selected was totally Indian, as I had hoped. The menu was written on a chalkboard that covered most of the back wall. Since I couldn't read a word, she chose the food at my request. The culinary details didn't seem important at this moment, compared to the quiet power of her presence. Ordering food was definitely of little significance. Wasn't all Indian food generally alike? At least I thought so. She also chose the wine for us. "Americans like wine," she said and smiled again.

      After the wine had been poured, she raised her glass. "Congratulations, Peter," she said and began to grin.

      "Congratulation for what?" I asked surprised when our glasses touched.

      "You came to convince me that the universal marriage of humanity is an established scientific fact, a reality that we can't get away from. That's what Fred told me you were coming to India for. You came to convince me of that. I fully agree with your discovery," she said. "In fact, I love it. I have seen the truth of it already. I think I have known that truth all my life. In a way, I am a living proof of it. So my fried, you have won your bet with Fred. If Fred had sent you to any of the higher cast Thevars, you might have been in trouble. But Fred knew that. That is why he sent you to me." She put her glass down, leaned across the table and kissed me on the lips.

      "Wow, I love India!" I said.

      "That's not India. That's humanity!" she said.

      "Maybe Fred wants us to figure out together how to convince a business tycoon that all human beings share the same humanity and the same beautiful Soul," I suggested.

      "And the same worth," she added. "But you are wrong about the business tycoons. The business tycoons aren't the problem here. The discrimination that makes us Dalits the untouchables of India takes place within a narrow segment of the caste hierarchy, mostly at the low end of it. The biggest conflict is between the poorest of India and the not-quite-so-poor. It's between the landless laborers and the small landowners. The differences come from the economic leverage that the caste Hindus, the non-Dalits, the Thevars, are able to wield over the local police and the district administrations, in some cases also over the state governments. This small difference has been magnified over time to the point that we have become the untouchables."

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Stories about  Healing from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche