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          "Three dollars a glass!  And they're not even local lemons!"
          I raise my hand to my forehead, creating a visor against the setting sun. I look towards Lori, who's nestled at the end of the green bean row. I've been listening to her talk for some time now but with my head down, eyes buried in the beans, making sure I'm throwing fat, juicy ones into the bucket I'm sitting on, not stringy ones (even though they're called "string beans"). I'm reveling in being on -- more like in -- this farm, where my life always feels complete and in need of nothing else.
          But with this exclamation I look up. I stand up, to hear more.
          Lori has been talking about time. How to get more of it. Every day this summer (save for when she went to Queens to visit her mother) she has been straddling a bucket next to some row of vegetables growing on her small New Hampshire farm. Or she's been standing on the hard concrete floor of her garage late into the night wrapping rubber bands around bunches of kale or weighing tomatoes for her customers. Every day there's been something to do... something... and though her husband Jim tackles many of the needs of the day, Lori tackles just as many: weeding, watering, harvesting, packaging, selling... weeding, harvesting, packaging, watering... 
          It's hard for me to tell her I'm going on a kayak trip later in August. I know she     cannot -- has not -- done anything off the farm for months.
          "One thing Jim's done to save me more time is build a permanent table for us at the farmers' market, so I don't have to set one up and take it down every Saturday," she says, stepping over the green bean row to pick on the other side.
          That's good, I think as I snap fat beans off their wiry stems. But I know a mere table will not ease the burdens on my 47-year-old friend. 
          "We're also thinking of growing fewer varieties of crops and focusing instead on value-added products that can earn us more money with less work."
          "What's a value-added product?"  I ask. 
          "Like sauerkraut or pickles. We can grow a lot of a few things and make them into products that people will pay more for. We can only get $3 a pound for our tomatoes -- that''ll never change -- but people will pay much more for homemade tomato sauce."
          Then she says: "Lemonade is a value-added product, too. I'll bet those people who sell lemonade at the farmers' market make a killing. People line up to pay $3 a glass for lemonade -- even though they'd never pay $3 for a bunch for carrots. But what have the people who are selling the lemonade done to grow the lemons?  Nothing!  Three dollars a glass!  And they're not even local lemons!"
          Lori's nearly laughing. Not because there's no such thing as local New Hampshire lemons, but because it's ridiculous that a couple of lemons and some sugar water earn their sedentary servers a whopping $3, while the carrots Lori's tended through two plantings this summer and that Jim has monitored daily for pests and that taste sweeter and more divine than any sugary drink could never earn that much these days.
          I've stood up now. Lori's gotten my attention because I know I've stood in the grocery store many times and looked at the local peaches or the local lettuce and seen their price and passed them by. I've then pushed my cart into the next aisle and -- breezily,   mindlessly -- bought the equivalent of that $3 lemonade. Through these "lemonade purchases" I've enriched stockholders, CEOs, people who get to go on vacation, people I don't know. But not the Lori's of the world -- farmers who could use some of my cash to hire an assistant so they can leave their land for a couple days and get some rest.
          Summer, after all, is about rest. But not for the people who feed us.
          "Carrie, I can't tell you often we've wondered how much we make an hour. We haven't figured it out yet 'cause we know it would kill us."
          A few weeks later at an agriculture conference, I would learn that a University of Wisconsin study found that most small farmers make under $10 an hour. But for now, Lori and I lapse into silence and return to our bean picking. Behind me is a row of kale, and behind that are the carrots. Behind the carrots is the spinach, and then the corn. These fields might look less diverse next year if Lori and Jim choose to focus on just a few crops for value-added products.
          Or perhaps by then -- because miracles do happen -- people at the local farmers' market will be willing to pay $4 for a bunch of carrots. Perhaps I will. Or we'll all go over to Lori and Jim's for a few hours a week and help the people who are feeding us. Many hands make light farming. 
          Haley-dog, the farm's resident spirit-angel, prances around me and gets tangled in my feet as Lori and I make our way back to the house with our buckets of beans. We're laughing about something or other, and the hot sun has slipped behind the treeline at the western edge of the farm. Jim's back at the house with a bucket, too, full of freshly-picked leeks soaking in water. 
          "Hope your bucket doesn't leak," I joke. 
          Not if I can help it.

          Whoever chose the unflattering picture of Gandhi that appears on nearly all Indian rupees (every paper denomination shows the same etching of him looking toothless and befuddled) may have shared the unflattering view of Gandhi that I heard a number of Indians express to me while I was there. From the taxi driver in Aurangabad to the dental student at the Goa train station, these strangers told me that either they or "most" of their fellow Indians hold Gandhi responsible for "the Partition" -- the 1946 decision to turn chunks of India into Pakistan and Bangladesh, lands for India's Muslims. The Indians I spoke with believed that Gandhi was not strong enough in standing up to Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the Muslim leader who most wanted the Partition to take place. As a result of the separation, they told me, there are still so many problems between Hindus and Muslims -- the latest being the Feb. 18 bombing of a train heading from Delhi to Pakistan, a terrorist act meant to derail the Indo-Pak peace process.
          "But Gandhi got the British to leave India," I said to these strangers, "and nearly perfected the art of non-violent resistance. Isn't he respected for that?"
          They'd all shrug at this, as if it were old news. And indeed, it is. No one below 60 bears any bodily scars from the British Raj -- how can anyone blame younger Indians for basing their opinion about Gandhi on India's more current problems?
          I began to feel as though the rest of the world pays more heed to Gandhi than young Indians do. But this may not be simply because of the Partition. It may also be due to this reason, expressed by a historian in Outlook magazine and reprinted in an article from The Independent: "[Everyone] deified him and buried him in institutions," the historian said of Gandhi. "He was conveniently portrayed as a saint so they wouldn't be threatened by his ideology."
          Isn't it true about our saints. At some point in our collective consciousness they become other-worldly, different from us, and that keeps us, in our "real world," from believing that we have the ability to reach the same depths of experience as they did. We project our goodness onto them and they carry it for us, unable to remind us from the grave that they were once like us and we can be like them. Gandhi was certainly a human being, but when Indians see him daily on the currency, see his dusty picture draped in flower garlands, and see him calcified in statues in almost every Indian city, they are more apt to believe that he was a god and they are not.
          A visit to one of Gandhi's former homes in India can knock the man back into reality a bit. You can see the mud floors on which he slept, see his wire-rim glasses and spinning wheel, even peer into his bathroom. But during my visit to Sevagram, his ashram near Nagpur, in central India, one statement from a tour guide reminded me of how courageous and unique his ideology was.
          I went to Sevagram one afternoon with Prem and Lalita, whose farm is two hours away by car. The word "ashram" for Westerners may conjure images of a place where hippies on year-long stints in India live with their guru and do yoga, but the Sanskrit word simply refers to the residence of a religious community. Sevagram is a collection of adobe-like buildings with small rooms in which Gandhi lived with his followers in the late 1930s and 40s. Aside from the leafy center square in which prayers took place, there is little of note on the property besides the buildings. Yet the feeling of peace within the compound is palpable.
          The building that served as Gandhi's residence features a long, wide porch on which the Mahatma often met with significant Indian and world leaders. Standing on the porch, I realized how disconcerting it must have been for such "important people" to engage in conversations on a dried mud floor in the sweltering Indian heat. (Could Dick Cheney have managed to cross his legs? Do you think he would have liked the dal?) On this porch, it is easy to get shivers from history. On this porch, Gandhi as a person, not just as a politician, makes sense.
          While we were on this porch, an elderly man came up to us, explaining that he was a tour guide and that he lived at Sevagram when he was a boy. (He didn't look old enough for me to believe this, but in India I learned to just go with things.) He began to speak at length in Hindi, with Lalita translating for me, explaining what the various buildings were used for. After some time I asked him, with Lalita's help, what his main impression of Gandhi was.
          "He was considering nothing to be his own," came the thoughtful reply.
          He was considering nothing to be his own. Meaning, he owned nothing. Everything around him was not his. He allowed it all to be used, or taken, by others. Everything. Once he even gave away the cloth he was wearing to a woman who confessed her shame that she had nothing decent to wear in front of him. It is easy to do something like that when nothing is your own.
          I've heard some people say Gandhi was an egocentric man whose demonstrations of poverty were calculated political moves. Maybe so. But does this change the fact that he chose a very difficult way of life that challenged everything he had ever known? It could also be said that he had plenty of followers who could provide him with additional material goods after he'd given "his" away. But he never surrounded himself with more than the bare minimum and he shared it all, unconcerned that others touched what he had, that they used what he was using.
          As we drove back in the van after visiting Sevagram, I felt overcome by the tour guide's statement. What would it be like if we considered nothing to be our own? Our dishes, our clothes, the rugs in our home, even our home itself, our food, our telephone, our bed. If none of it was ours, what would we be compelled to do? Give it to others if they ask for it, Gandhi would say. Share it. Don't be distressed if it is stolen. "But then what would happen to me? I wouldn't be able to eat, I couldn't phone anyone, I would have to sleep on the floor!" Maybe so. But what if life were still ok? And what if life actually improved? How can we predict the outcomes of our actions?
          The van rocked back and forth on the pockmarked road, forcing me to hang onto the window strap. The setting sun seemed eager to blind me. I stared at the Maharashtran countryside that flew by, stunned by how radical Gandhi's philosophy was and how no one prominent in Western society today is saying anything about unequivocal selflessness. Could I ever live the way Gandhi did? I felt the pit of my stomach drop out from under me as I thought about this. Imagine the implications -- both horrifying and exhilarating. Imagine.
          Mohandas K. Gandhi would say we could all live the way he did. He was human, after all, and so are we.

          Ok, another taxi ride. Here we go again. Lone American woman in car with lone Indian man. He drives while she, sitting in the back, wonders whether this man will really deliver her to her destination or instead take her to places she fears -- places she has heard about but never known.
          So far, during every taxi ride in India, she has managed to remain in the same chaste position in the back seat: nearly frozen, hands clasped on her lap, her eyes locked on the passing scenery, her head and neck covered with a scarf. She has dared to steal glances at the drivers only when there was no chance they'd be looking at her in the rear view mirror -- when they were passing a truck, for instance, or paying a toll. Just don't lock eyes with him or give him any ideas. Just keep looking out the window.
          Siddharth closes the door of my taxi and wishes me well. He is the kindly manager of the lodge I've been staying at near Bandhavgarh National Park, and I trust that he has hired a good taxi service to take me to the Jabalpur train station, 3 hours away. The train to Jabalpur was booked, otherwise I wouldn't be taking the bumpy, nauseating roads of India again. I have plenty of water (but don't drink too much or else you'll have to piss on the side of the road) and I have plenty of time to kill in the back seat.
          Before the car drives off, though, someone opens the passenger door. It's one of the employees from the lodge. "Do you mind if the taxi takes him to the next town?" Siddharth asks. How can I? The guy's already taken his seat. But he was nice to me at the lodge and sure, I can give him a free ride to see his family.
          The driver is a serious-looking, early-20s guy who doesn't appear married and doesn't smile and doesn't turn on the radio. After I say "good morning" to him he nods his head, indicating he doesn't speak a lick of English. We settle into our respective roles as passenger and driver. I grab the strap above my window to keep from getting too jostled by the potholes. I tell myself there's no reason to distrust this stern-looking driver, that he'll get me to my train on time without any... problems. I'm just getting nervous because I'm a woman traveling alone... I drift off, thinking about...
          After an hour, the car comes to a stop and a bunch of guys are coming up to my window. Oh, come on. I'm tired and just getting over a head cold and I know India is getting under my skin because of this physical exhaustion. But here are a bunch of men at my window and my driver has stopped for some reason in an obscure village and I can't communicate with him and I just wish he'd get on with it.
          The men start banging on my window, about five or six of them. The lodge employee has already gotten out of the car and has joined the commotion at my window. "Ticket! Ticket!" one of the men shouts at me through the closed window. I am not sure why they are saying this so I pull a trick that gotten me out of a confusing situation a week before: I simply shrug and pretend I don't speak English. I throw up my hands and shake my head at them. Still, they keep saying, "Ticket! Ticket!" and use their hands to indicate a piece of paper.
          Ok, they want my train ticket. And look, they're pretending this is some official toll booth and in order to pass I need to show my train ticket. Sorry, guys. Indian Railways won't let me on board without it so there's no way I'm showing it to you and watching you run off with it while I suddenly become stranded in middle-of-nowhere Madhya Pradesh. I keep shrugging at them and throwing up my hands. They look confused as to why I don't know this very common English word "ticket" and a few of them start shaking their heads in disbelief. It goes on like this for a very long minute.
          Finally they start to walk away. I feel victorious, having already been humiliated and ripped off by too many conniving taxi drivers, shop keepers, and others who saw me as nothing but a walking piggy bank. But as the driver starts up the car again, a strange man who had been in this gaggle of "ticket takers" gets in the passenger seat, replacing the employee from the lodge. He turns to me in the back seat and smiles. He doesn't speak English either, so he can't explain to me why he has gotten in the car. Is he trying to get a free ride out of me, too? Or get something else? I sink even deeper into fight-or-flight mode, convinced that this can't be good and very aware that there are two more hours left of this ride.
          The driver and this strange passenger don't say anything to each other and we continue. I start to get concerned about whether I will get to the station on time. And then, as if cued by my worries, we come to a bend in the road and are stopped by a police officer. There has been a bad truck accident along the road and they're not letting any cars through. I can't believe my bad luck. The strange passenger gets out and appears to be getting alternative directions from the policeman, who uses his hand to trace a big circle in the air -- clearly the detour we must take to get to Jabalpur. What was that about hoping not to miss my train?
          The driver backs up and retraces a large part of our route. I try to use the sun to judge whether we are, indeed, heading towards Jabalpur. But I quickly get disoriented as the road dips down into a forested area where dense stands of trees block the sun. There are no villages around anymore -- we are in pure forestland -- and for the first time I am on an Indian road where there are no people meandering along the shoulders. It is only me and these two men. We are alone and now I am frightened.
          For 20 minutes we head up and down the dips in the road. There is no way that Jabalpur -- a major city -- could be anywhere near here, since this is all forest land. And if this detour has taken us far from Jabalpur, how will I make my train? So far, I haven't been nervous about anything during my trip to India, except for my inexplicable fear of missing my trains. I have feared being stranded without a place to stay. Most backpackers in India have no problem showing up in a town without a place to stay, but being a solo female traveler has led me to want guaranteed reservations at hotels that I know are safe and clean. So I really don't want to be stranded in Jabalpur tonight, in the dark, watching my train to Nagpur chug off into the distance.
          Then, again as if on cue, as soon as I begin worrying about the time, the car stops once more. Ahead of us are railroad tracks and a barrier is blocking us from crossing. A train must be imminent. But I hear no train. There is dead silence. There aren't even any people in the vicinity of the tracks. Someone has left the barrier down by mistake and we can't cross!
          Stuck between an abandoned railroad barrier on this end of the road and a truck accident way on the other, in a vast stretch of Indian countryside that is devoid of people, running out of time to catch my train and in the hands of two strange men who strike me as untrustworthy, I begin to breathe erratically and can feel my heart beating rapidly. I wonder if this is what hyperventilation is like. Tears begin to stream down my face and I try to hide them from the men by keeping my sunglasses on, even though the sun has just disappeard on the horizon. I fumble in my bag for some homepathic liquid that's supposed to bring calm, but for me it does nothing.
          The men get out of the car to look for someone who can lift the barrier. They go off and leave me alone, and in that space of time the sun finally shuts the door on the day. I am still unsure of their motives. But when they come back, they come back with someone else, and the barrier lifts at last. The car starts up again, gets going, and then -- God, who would have thought -- just around the bend is a sign for Jabalpur. I might make the train after all.
          But I feel no relief yet because I have not yet escaped from these guys. Only until they are out of my sight will I feel safe. At the train station entrance, I rapidly shove the taxi fare into the hand of the driver without looking at him, because inevitably -- as with all the other drivers -- if you linger they will try to convince you to give them more than the agreed-upon price. But if you get the transaction over with and don't make eye contact, you can get away more easily. So I scram, as fast as one can scram with a big old suitcase in the parking lot of a foreign train station.
          I reach the main hall of the station, completely relieved to be rid of the men and glad that I have a bit of time left to find my platform. But the electronic board that lists the incoming trains -- the kind of board that has helped me in every Indian train station so far -- doesn't list my train and doesn't seem to be working, either. I try and decide what to do.
          I swing around to seek out a ticket kisok, and there behind me are the taxi driver and the strange passenger, standing 10 feet away from me and whispering to each other. Goddamnit, why have they followed me into the train station? I feel safer here than in the taxi because of the throngs of people congregated in the hall, but still, what do they want? They aren't even looking at me, for some reason -- as if they're trying to pretend to blend in. How stupid do they think I am?
          I decide to take the situation head on and fish out my Hindi-English dictionary. I haven't used it until now. Finding the phrase for " Where is the train?" I walk up to them and proudly state my question but they look at me blankly. "No," they say, indicating I have not made any sense. I try again, twice, then get disgusted and walk away. Now I really have to find out where my platform is -- the electronic board is simply not working. But there is no ticket kiosk or station manager evident anywhere. I am stuck, frozen.
           I have an idea to go back to the two guys and show them my ticket.
          As soon as I do, the strange passenger takes it, examines it, and hands it back to me. The two of them dash off purposefully toward the other side of the main hall. After a minute or so they return, and motion for me to follow them. It's not like I have any other option. I have less than 10 minutes until my train's scheduled arrival. We push our way through the dazed crowds of families and young couples and beggars and old people, crowds that are so ubiquitous at Indian railway stations, and when we come to the stairs that cross over the tracks, they offer to help me with my bag. I let them. And as we head down the stairs on the other side, I see a train approaching.
          No, no, they shake their heads. This one is not yours. I glance at the numbers on the side of the car next to me and see that they're right.
          They're right. And look where they've lead me -- to my train. I sit down on a bench and begin experiencing an opening in my chest, where my heart is. I feel a lightness inside, as if someone were blowing air into me. I look over at the two men who, even here, are standing ten feet away from me. I manage to eke out a smile, and the strange passenger smiles back.
          I look back down at the ground and feel tears clouding my eyes again. I realize that these two men are my angels, that they have been on my side all along. "Ticket! Ticket!" I think back and realize that the gaggle of men at the taxi window were asking to see my ticket so they could give me advice on how to find my train. The lodge employee who had bummed a ride halfway with me had probably told them I was headed to Jabalpur and that I was alone and needed help. And when I didn't show them my ticket, one of them -- the strange passenger -- got into my taxi instead, and maybe made the trip into Jabalpur because he was familiar with the station and knew he could help. That's why they followed me into the station and stood behind me -- to make sure I got to my destination. 
          Who knows. The fact is, they were on my side all along, and I had convinced myself they were not. Even though I had no evidence that they were nefarious, and had no bad intuition about them, I never considered that maybe there was nothing to be afraid of, that maybe I could trust them. Obviously, I would have taken action if I felt truly threatened, but I never felt that way. Why was I so scared?
          Sitting in the Jabalpur train station, slumped over my bag, my mind heard this question, and peered out from behind the curtain.
          It was my mind that had worked so hard to make me so untrusting in the taxi. Exhausted, hungry, conditioned by knee-jerk fear (women, because of our history, are born with it) and discouraged by two previous weeks of unsettling Indian taxi rides, I was thinking too much about what could be happening in that taxi, but I was wrong. I was assuming so many things, and all of them were bad, and all of them were wrong. Why did I never assume the best?
          I see another train pulling into the station and it is mine. The two guys motion to me again to follow them. They know from looking at my ticket which car I'm supposed to be in. The train stops and they break into a run -- clearly my car is at the other end of the platform and we'd better hurry because the train will take off soon. I wheel my suitcase deftly through the narrow openings between people and stop when I see the two men standing in front of one of the cars. The strange passenger pushes his way through the people boarding so he can help me lift my heavy bag up the steps of the car.
          Once I'm aboard, I reach into my wallet and see I only have a few 10-rupee notes. It's not enough, but I take a couple out, reach over the compartment steps and hand them to the strange passenger as the train begins to move. I can't see his face because I am concentrating on getting the money into his hand without falling down the steps. I then retreat back into the car and realize I must find my berth.
          When I do, I collapse onto the plastic blue seat covering, let my head fall back onto my bag and stare up at the rickety metal fans cooling the train compartment. "They were my angels," I think to myself over and over. "They were my angels, and I doubted them." I try to capture my breath and feel the sweat of my back soaking into my shirt. I feel stunned by my own distrust. I feel humbled by the gift that was given to me. I feel a desperate sense of sadness that I will never be able to find my angels again, so that I can thank them.
          I feel the grace of infinite possibilities.

[The posts below were written in India and have not been significantly edited since they were written. The posts above were written after my return. Photos from the journey have been posted on a separate photo-sharing web site. Contact me if you'd like the link.]

          By the sea, the Arabian Sea, in the Keralan port city of Cochin, local fishermen stand under makeshift tents and sell tilapia, prawns and other seafood fresh out of the water. It's possible, as you stroll by them, to buy a piece of fish and walk to a nearby food stall to get it grilled and seasoned in front of you.  Seeing all the flies hovering above the seafood, I opted out of this choice but instead bought a small fish the size of my hand for a thin, weakling cat I saw sitting on the pavement. Bending down to pet her, I saw a thin film over her eyes and wondered if she was blind. At first, she played with the fish as if it were a soccer ball but then a fisherman offered to cut it up for her and she devoured her treasure as I walked on, smelling a mixture of sea air and garbage, and wiping the tropical sweat from my sunburned face.
          Also by the sea, just up from the fish stall, stands a ramshackle structure that appears to be fashioned of dried coconut leaves tethered with coir, or coconut fiber rope. It gets awfully warm in the structure, particularly at night when it's filled with dozens of tourists, so a fan is provided for people when they sit down. Inside here, every night, students from a Keralan school of traditional performing arts stage one hour of Kathakali dance, a haunting, 17th-century re-enactment of ancient Hindu myths using elaborate costumes, colorful makeup and hand mudras that resemble sign language. The characters are both frightening and inspiring, and I went back to see a second performance, mainly to hear the evocative chanting of the narrator, who I bumped into on the street the next morning as he put up fliers advertising that evening's show. I was humbled by his dedication to his artistic mission. Weeks earlier, after seeing yet another temple dotting the countryside and yet another plastic Hindu god mounted on the dashboard of a taxi, I remember thinking, "This country is
saturated with devotion." I was thinking about religious devotion, but this man's devotion to his art was just as compelling.
          Also by the sea, strolling along a sidewalk in this unusually walkable Indian town, I happened upon a crowd. Piecing together information from bystanders, I learned that a movie was being filmed. Bollywood? I asked. Well, not really -- a Malayalam-language film starring a famous Keralan actor. No matter -- I said yes when the assistant director asked me to be an extra in a scene. So I strolled past the camera with some other folks as a fight scene in a cafe was being filmed. I can say this: If you wait on an Indian street long enough, something interesting is bound to happen. 
          And by the sea, this sea, on December 26, 2004, 65 people died just 25 kilometers south of here in what only need be called "the tsunami." When I was told this, I looked down at the small doll that my friend Mae Lee gave me before I left. It was made by Indian women who lost their livelihoods after the tsunami and who are now selling these dolls to earn a living. The doll has been pinned to my backpack the whole time I've been in India. I believe in some way she has been helping me along.
          
          If all goes as planned, I'll be heading to Delhi tomorrow and spending the night at the Hotel Broadway, which I wrote about in an earlier post. I've asked for the same room, and will likely be woken at 6 a.m. again by the cries of the muezzin. On Wednesday, I fly back to New York. I would like to end these journal entries by summing up my trip in some way, but it's not possible, mainly because I feel the trip will go on, long after I return, as I process these experiences, share them, and observe how they evolve. However, I will post another entry here within a couple of weeks, perhaps to share a bit more, and certainly to let you know where I'll be posting some of my photos!
          Speaking of sharing with others, if you've been reading these posts as they've been written, if you've been following this trip as it's been happening, you have been with me. Thank you for lending your eyes to my words.  It has allowed me to see deeper into the meaning of friendship.