Late again. I would have been on time had the rickshaw driver not pretended to misunderstand my request for the backroad route and taken the long way through traffic. I could see the traffic light turn green up ahead and simultaneously, everyone laid on the horn, hard. We accelerated finally, only to stop as the first vehicle at the line waiting for the light to turn again. I sat sweating in the heat, which was only severe enough to cause sweating because the heat came in the form of exhaust fumes exiting the vehicles within one foot of the open rickshaw cab. I thought of my friend who had invited me to The Yoga Institute waiting at the bottom of the stairs to platform number two. She would go without me, so I was no longer in a rush.

At the station, I climbed the stairs to the ticket office. A dog laid in front of the booths, thin and asleep; the kind of sleep when they are too weak to be awake. The people all walked around him. Below the counter itself were two small girls, 4 and 2, alone. The four year old sat up against the blue flaking plaster fighting with sleep while the two year old laid on her thigh fully asleep. The people purchased tickets over them and then shuffled towards the platforms.

I stood on platform two. Hoards of people were waiting for an off-peak train. A fast train pulled up and I watched the mix of colorful saris and modern ready-to-wear shove their way into the open doorways, all at the same time. The car read second class; the crowd made sense. I moved to first and the crowd thinned. Did paying four times the price make sense to avoid the battle to board and disembark? My friend must have thought to spare me with this advice. I thought next time, I’ll be ready for the fun.

I sat in the women’s only car looking towards the mixed gender area, with metal caging between us like the walls of a kennel. It was hardly full and seemed like a more appealing option to the crowded female car. A man in a blue shirt spoke with a staccato rhythm and fiery eyes to a man in gray. A gravitational pull activated in the car, drawing the men in the car into orbit around the conflict. The man in blue was on his own. More yelling followed by a few smacks to the back of the head from random parts of the circle. The smacks were hard, but somehow didn’t seem as sincere as a punch. The train was slowing. At near stopping speed a man curled his fingers tightly around the blue shirt and dragged him off of the train. Everyone settled as the attractive force of the fight ceased to have an effect.

Next stop: Santa Cruz. I was thankful that the train also spoke English. I moved from my seat. A woman in a sari standing in the vestibule saw me, nodded to acknowledge that I was moving towards the exit and then called out to the other women to let me through. It must have been clear that I was a novice at shoving. I accepted her kindness and moved into the space in the launching zone. The train stopped. 3, 2, 1, I allowed the momentum of the mass of women to carry me out of the doors.

I walked down the street towards The Yoga Institute. At a sweet cart I saw a blonde pony tail next to a t-shirt and basketball shorts. I smiled and had the urge to walk over and ask where they were from. I laughed at myself for having the thought to say hi only because they were also white and kept walking.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Vendana. She teaches here. She invited me.”

It took several more people to sort out who she was and where she was. 1440. 10 minutes late. Not bad.

As I entered the room full of 30 eager students seated cross-legged on thin woven mats, my friend stopped the entire class to welcome me. It felt nice to be acknowledged with enthusiasm. I sat in the back on my own woven mat. During the break, students smiled warmly at me. What an interesting position; friend of the instructor…or maybe they all were just being really nice.