Faith, Trust and... Pixie Dust

How important is faith when it comes to love? The question came up in the tense dark of Maratha Mandir when during the climax of India's longest running film, the hero simply let go of his heroine because he did not believe in eloping with her against her parents wishes. I argued with my friend while Amrish Puri (the father) laid slap after slap on Shah Rukh Khan (Raj)'s rather delicious cheek.

"How can he just leave her like that and go??? Its insane! They love each other." I whispered agitatedly across to my partner in crime Reshma.
"Its faith, Nik. He believes with all his heart that Simran's father WILL bring her to him."
"But what if he didn't? I mean...this is just a movie... what if the father DIDN'T let her go at the last minute?" I argued, always the sceptic. She'd have to spend the rest of her life in a forced relationship with Kuljeet Singh, who, we had all agreed half an hour ago, was a total creep.
"He believes in it. Therefore it will happen. And that's just the way it is in real life." My idealist friend shot back. The thing is, Reshma really believes this. She believes in the healing power of love, she believes in fairy tale love stories, that someone out there is destined to be hers and...among other things...that Raj (from the same, Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge) is a virgin. I have laughed over this last one with her several times. But I haven't been able to provide empirical evidence (so to speak) to prove her other beliefs faulty.

Its not like I'm trying to prove her wrong though. I just want to test the power of faith. I want to know if marriages are really made in heaven, if two people can be together for ever... For most part, I am scientific and sceptical. I question everything. It doesn't just take having burnt your own fingers to know that relationships can be hard work. Statistics prove it too. Faith in the idea that everything will turn out right in the end may not cure cheating, lies, deception or simply a passing away of romantic feelings.

However, at the end of the day, I AM a girl. Unfortunately, fairy tale logic is what we're fed and raised on. We believe the idiot will discover an old text message, phone log or see a "sign" (the old-fashioned way) that will make him get off his ass and call. A co-sceptic and close friend recently had her tarot cards read, asking the Reader if things would work out between her and this guy she has a crush on. The Reader told her that things would indeed work out but that she was to do nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is a problem-point for my friend. An absolute "man of action", she cannot believe she has to wait (patiently) for the stupid boy to have a sudden brainwave...or a desperate wave anywhere else in his body...to set up as much as an evening out together. Acid test of faith? Yup. But how to account for free will? The choices we make? The actions that determine our fate in the world? Would Romeo and Juliet have had a happily ever after, if they just waited around for a bit? Or Raj and Simran...had they just eloped?

A couple I know for a while now have been together for over thirty years. Has love kept them together? Has faith in their love kept them together? Sex? No siree. These two are in it for the kids.

And the kids look up at them as they argue, week after week, fight after fight, with the definitive faith that...no matter what happens...these two will never give up on the marriage because they... (hold your breath)... love each other.

The Disease

Mumbai, India: Circa January 2010

The train stopped at Bandra. The women got off. The women got on. Two most fortunate women got the lucky space next to the door.

You cannot underestimate the importance of the lucky space on the Indian local train network. The lucky space is the only place on the train where you can imagine the possibility of a breeze, without getting killed. A great many historic wars have been fought for Her Spaceness and only the bravest and the most resilient have won.

One woman, 50, dressed in a blouse and trousers, coral necklace in place, heaved a sigh of relief. She was going to be in time for work. The way she was, always. The other, 20, (barely a woman for two years according to the law) continued to read her Amartya Sen essay, mandatory reading for a Modernism class she should have been in fifteen minutes ago.

Enter two lepers, stage left. "No. No," shouted the Victorian in blouse and trousers, "Yeh fust class haai. Tumare logon ka alag compartment mein jao." She looked to other women for support. "They have a separate compartment for the handicapped, no?" But the leper was faster. With the one leg and damaged hands he had, he swung into the door. Right in the middle of the lucky place. Open yellowing bruises, congealed blood, flies and all.

The Modernist looked down. His foot...or whatever remained of it... had brushed hers twice. Mental note, she wrote, ask friend from Med School if leprosy is contagious. Then she felt ashamed. Guilty. According to Amartya Sen, our ideas of justice come from our social identity. How we were raised. What we were taught. She had been raised to believe in karma. And the knowledge that karma exists, is terrible. Somewhere in her head a divine cash register was going *kachinnnngggg* with a new addition to her final bill. One more dead weight on the wrong side of her beam balance. One more thing that could go around and come back around. She had been taught at college of Human Rights. Heard stories of philantrophists who had crossed borders illegally to help the underprivileged. She had listened. And now she stood.

She looked up at the Victorian. A great conflict was bubbling on her face. Literally. Her features were contorted and her eyebrows went up and down maniacally. The Modernist opened a mental copy of her 2nd year Psychology texbook. Atkinson and Hilgard. She was sure the Victorian had some kind of syndrome. Turrets, was it? It didn't matter. The karmic cash register was unwilling to stop and her education was throwing questions to her conscience. Should a disabled leper be allowed to travel in the first class compartment of a train, without a ticket? Shouldn't we share the resources of our world with the underprivileged?

The Victorian was beginning to regret it too. The contortions in her face were forming words. Bless, me, father, for, I, have, sinned. Didn't she distribute food to the poor at community service? This too was community service, yes. She would have to learn to be more tolerant towards the underprivileged. The effervescence on her face simmered, then died.

At Mumbai Central, the leper started to get up. The Modernist involuntarily put out a hand to his back to help him up. But stopped short of touching him by a few centimetres for worry of the contagious (or not) nature of his disease. He swung his branch-like arms around the pole at the door and got off the train.

The leper was a test. A sort of litmus paper. First, he was dipped into an acid. Then, into an alkali. Together, the two had formed a base.

The Victorian got off with five "Hail Mary"s. The Modernist, with a "clean" karmic bill. Their diseases were only theirs. On the platform, the leper sat down and wondered if his friend Khalu would have a bidi.