You’re your own in India
And this is how you waft into Lucerne, the weight in your backpack no match for the well-nourished knot in your heart. Hour after hour melts by in blinding stupor. You scoop out your best book but can do no better than caress it absently as the train leads you from one arresting landscape into the next. You claim the window with gratitude as this masterful montage balms your soul all the way.
This is an inter-regional train – on the SBB CFF FFS line – and you’re traversing central Switzerland. This country is a piece of God. Like most things divine, it wears its sheen with a humble half-smile. People go about their business like they could be anywhere else. You marvel at their nonchalant gait and gaze. Look at yourself – you’ve been rambling around here for more than a week now, and your head hurts from all the beauty. You have gasped your way through Berne and Interlaken, Lausanne and Lugano, Vevey and Genève, and it feels like being in one unrelenting reel sequence. This land has thrown up sensations your penmanship is struggling to articulate.
Each morning commences at a train seat, by illuminated glass windows. After the harshest European winter in 44 years, the sun is all too glad to rain down on your eager eyes, but you embrace the discomfort. Over the next few hours, before the train finally nudges you awake at your destined stop, you will slip in and out of gilt-edged consciousness. Even as your weary body yearns to sleep and heal, your eyes remain obstinately awake, embracing every inch of this Swiss grandscape like there will be no tomorrow.
You landed in this country as a prisoner in heart and thought. For months now, you have helplessly loved the squalor of your past. Much as bygones beg to be left alone, you hold on, stubborn, unwilling just yet to call truce. Your thoughts are a parade of manic highs and crushing lows. You dwell compulsively on your grief, relishing its abrasion till your insides threaten to tear. The glory of the mountains makes you want to weep, a reminder that your private sorrows are no match for the world’s wonders.
Had it not been for your demons, you’d have wanted to embrace this moment differently. You might have chosen glee over gloom. You might have cried of laughter and reveled in goose bumps.
Now, the sunshine streaming in from the window is beginning to lift the fog off your soul. You remind yourself that you’re here for renewal. And that the gaping voids in your heart are no match for the magnificence of this land. Here, this minute, you want to get off and walk along every bridge, every lake, every street, every inch of terrain till you can walk no more, till the breeze soothes your inner storms away.
The train comes to a gentle halt. Lucerne says hello.
You head off in the direction of the splendid KappelBrücke – the Chapel Bridge. Created in the 14th century. Destroyed by fire in 1993. Restored, reconstructed, revitalized. Renewed over long years. There it stands, timeless and tall. A subliminal passage waiting to help you cross over to the other side.
You step in. Your knees feel floppy, your feet stiff.
“Will you be demanding maintenance?” they’d asked.
No, you’d bristled. I am a woman. Not a wheelchair.
Your feet move faster now. Your hurts are resurfacing, you’re picking up pace. You’re on a mission to reclaim yourself.
The lake shadows the sky, alternately clear and blue. Humanity feels distant and unreal. This bridge becomes your private cocoon. Tears emerge, you let them stray. Today, you won’t apologize.
The wrongs keep returning, stronger than ever, and you let them. You remember the mouse that bit your toes the cold night you spent on the couch. You remember being told you’re less important than a cricket match. You remember being asked, while packing to leave, if you needed an extra suitcase. You allow all of it to seep into your pores – the hurt, the humiliation, utter wretchedness.
You live it up, because for months, it’s paralyzed you to stone. You live it up, because you’ve decided you will not carry it back home.
The sun has risen higher. The heat feels like sunshine.
You pick up your bag, wipe your face with the sleeve of your dress, and set out to finish the ride.
You walk, brisk and firm, guided by the song in your heart. You walk free, with ownership, with pride. As you gain in momentum, your anguish recedes, your senses unclench, your frown lets go. The winds mingle with your hair and you undo that tight bun. Your head feels warmer, your smile easier, your being lighter. You’re your own.
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