Memories part four

There isn't much that I regret after these 48 years, and the regrets I do have are almost without exception things that I didn't do (youngsters who might be reading: take heed). One such case came to mind last night while listening to Ravi Shankar on the radio.

In the last few years that I was in England, I lived in London and worked in Sprawlville (a city a hundred miles away), and commuted there and back by train every day. Some Friday evenings, I would stay in Sprawlville and go boozing with my mates from work, then take the train back on Saturday morning. There would sometimes be half a dozen of us sleeping in odd corners of Smiler's home. (Even then I was the early riser, I'd let myself out and buy bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and a loaf of fresh bread from the market, then cook breakfast for everyone.)

On one such occasion, there was something happening in Sprawlville old town (a fair perhaps) and so I stayed the whole of Saturday and boarded a late afternoon train. It was midsummer and the train was hot, stuffy and quite empty; I sat in the restaurant car and treated myself to a beer. There was only one other passenger, an elegantly-dressed man in his fifties, by appearance an Indian. The train rattled on towards London, and the day wore on towards evening. As the sun was approaching the horizon, I heard the man speak to the waiter:

"May I ask your help? I'm blind, could you please tell me when the sun touches the horizon?"

The waiter agreed (naturally), and we three sat as if spellbound, two of us watching the sun. The waiter spoke: "A couple of minutes yet... about another minute... soon... now."

The man sat up straight and folded his hands, and he began to sing.

It was obviously a prayer.

I couldn't tell you what language it was in, nor any details of the melody or style other than "not English" and "not Western."

He sang for the exact length of time it took the disc of the sun to sink below the horizon, then relaxed and thanked the waiter. I sat entranced and curious, I wanted to know more but didn't ask (the English disease of hyperpoliteness).

To this day, I regret not having approached him. He wouldn't have been offended at my questions, I'm sure; he would have been glad of the contact and happy to tell me about the prayer.