Traveling Softly and Quietly

By Nithin Coca

First there is hope – that travel will turn him into a better person. Then came loss – the unexpected passing of his beloved grandma, just one month before departure, changing everything. Traveling around the world sounded like a fun way to grow, but now, for Nithin Coca, a young, idealistic, recent College graduate, it has turned into a whole lot more.

Nithin has staked his future on his grand voyage, one year through Europe, the Middle East and Asia. He believes traveling will help him overcome his naiveté and shyness. Yet, he immediately struggles to fulfill his expectations, feeling lost among other travelers, including his high school travel mates. They are seeking very different notions of fun and growth. Nithin wonders if he truly is worthy of his grandma's praise, how highly she spoke of him, her eldest grandson, to her relatives right before she died.

To thrive, he must overcome his fears and trust himself. So he breaks away from his friends to travel more slowly and quietly, and takes on new challenges; volunteering, teaching, learning how to be where he is. In Southeast Asia, the last leg of his trip, Nithin realizes that traveling is not a checklist of adventures, nor a catalog of stories. Traveling is intensely personal, each experience is only yours. Traveling Softly and Quietly is about that which we all want in our lives – meaning – through the tale of a young man seeking his purpose in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nithin Coca
• Release date: Oct 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311868572

Nithin Coca

An ambitious, young writer with a unique, global, voice, Nithin is a world traveler who aims to tell stories that connect us through our common human culture. Infected with the travel bug at a very young age, when his mom took her three month old firstborn child to India to meet his grandparents, he has already visited 44 countries and lived in Spain, France, Nepal, and Indonesia. Nithin received his undergraduate in Communications from the University of Southern California and worked for more than four years in public relations, where he frequently ghostwrote articles for national publications. More recently, his writing has been featured on Matador, Jakarta Expat, and Tripatini, and he contributes regularly to 8Asians, Quartz, and Bootsnall. Having just finished Traveling Softly and Quietly, Nithin is currently working on his second book on the History and Culture of Chili Peppers. Publications: Nithin has contributed pieces to Quartz (Atlantic Monthly), Jakarta Expat, Matador, MyanmarBurma.com, and BootsnAll magazines. Academically, his works have appeared in the Penang Institute Magazine, Weatherhead Institute’s Asian Pacific Affairs Journal, The Association for Conflict Management Journal, and the World Resources Forum. Media Experience: Nithin has over three years of professional public relations experiences and had numerous media contacts at outlets including Atlantic Monthly, Glamour, Grist, The Guardian, the Los Angeles Times and Huffington Post. Nithin also has extensive public speaking experience, having spoken at numerous conferences and given lectures both in the United States and abroad.

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Traveling Softly And Quietly

Copyright 2018 Nithin Coca

Published by Nithin Coca at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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TRAVELING SOFTLY AND QUIETLY

NITHIN COCA

Copyright © 2014 Nithin Coca

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or republished in any form whatsoever without the written consent of the author.

All photos property of the author or used under a Creative Commons 3.0 License.

–

ISBN-13: 978-1497425491

ISBN-10: 1497425492

–

All characters in this book are based on, but not accurate reflections of, real people. Many are composite characters. All identifiable names used with permission.

--

Memoir.NithinCoca.com

To Amama. This is the story I wish I could have told you.

Table of Contents

Hope

Prologue

I - SEARCHING

1 - Why am I Traveling?

2 - Vicarious Desires

3 - Festivals of Expectations

4 - A Slow Escape

Interlude

II - BEING

5 - Traveling Differently

6 - Learning Through Observing

7 - Experiencing Courage

8 - Confronting Fear

9 -Trusting Myself

10 -Living Lessons

11 - A Quieter Escape

12 -Truly Belonging

III - GROWING

13 -Encounters with the Past

14 -Living my own Story

15 -Understanding Change

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

HOPE

MY STORY BEGINS ON THE ROAD.

It wasn't the road around the world though. Instead, it was Route 89 though northern Arizona. Two weeks earlier, I had graduated college. Most of my peers were heading off to work, diving into the real world. Me? I was driving back home to live with my parents.

With a need for solitude, time to reflect, I'd decided to take the most barren route. Through the abyss of the mountain west I charted my path far away from the freeways and arteries of America, instead parsing though the back-road capillaries, the gray squiggles on the map that most ignored. Why? I don't know. Even as college was ending, I made no attempt to find a job. I had great friends in Los Angeles, yet now I was leaving them behind, ready for something new.

For as long as I can remember, I'd gone forward following the dream of light at the end of the tunnel. During high school, college was that light. During college, it was the possibility of studying abroad. Now, at the end of college it was something else. Without that glimmer of unknown, future hope, I found living in the present unbearable.

I had big goals in life. For as long as I could remember, I felt that I had the power within myself to change the world. So I drove through the desolate two-lane road, jagged cliffs in red hues surrounding the rocky desert, listening to the melodic strumming of Coldplay, the rhythms mixing perfectly with the arid landscape. There were no other cars on the road, there were no other people in the car with me. I was alone, as I wanted to be, mapping my own path, my destination uncertain but my route clear.

Because I was going to travel around the world. That was my light, and onto it, I'd pinned my future, my life, and all my desires.

PROLOGUE

I remember it distinctly, clearly. A cold day with a strong, damp chill. As usual, work had been uninteresting, and I'd walked home rather than take the subway, letting the air cleanse my lungs as I walked from Maryland across the border into Washington, DC.

Due to the cold, and a pound of ground beef that would soon spoil, I decided to make chili. I ground some tomatoes and jalapenos in the blender, cooked the sauce in a frying pan, and added the browned meat and beans. Soon, I had a pot simmering, the delicate smell of oregano and bay leaf permeating the entire house.

Right then, I felt a vibration in my left pocket. My phone was ringing, and I correctly guessed that it was my dad. Excited, I answered, eager to talk about my travel plans.

Hello? I answered.

Hi Nithin, my dad said, as he typically did whenever he called.

Hey, Dad, I was thinking, I'm probably gonna finish working on the 28th and head back by the first or the second.

There was a pause. Long, awkward, and unnatural.

That sounds good. Hey, mom needs to talk to you.

My dad never handed the phone to my mom so quickly.

Okay, I said, a little surprised. My stomach grumbled. That chili sure would be delicious.

Nithin. Her voice was cracking, high toned. She was distraught. My pulse raced. Something was wrong.

Mom, is everything okay?

It's Amama. She had a heart attack, she's in the hospital.

Amama. My grandma. The chili, the world trip, my appetite, my job, everything around me sank.

She was traveling to India with my uncle and had overexerted herself, wanting to meet all the family she hadn't seen in years. Last night she had sharp pains in her chest before collapsing, and was rushed to the hospital where she was now under intensive care.

Somehow I knew. Although it was just a heart attack, although she was still alive at that moment, and even though I tried to reassure my mom that she might survive, I knew. I would never see her again.

My life had completely changed.

A MONTH EARLIER THAN EXPECTED, I packed to travel even farther than Italy—all the way across the world to India. My mom and I stepped off the plane, the city dark and muggy, and we were greeted by a group of teary-eyed relatives. In Hyderabad, Amama's hometown, uncles, aunts, nieces, and nephews were mourning her death after having seen her for the first time in years. Stories of love abound as we learned about her last days and the unexpected tragedy that had taken her from all of us.

The Amama they described—gregarious, social, beloved—seemed so different from the grandma I remembered. Images of her sitting quietly by the window in the living room, on a regular dining table chair, observing the weather. Or her on the sofa, waiting for the next episode of All My Children, the soap that she followed even though she couldn't understand what anyone was saying. When my parents were around she was quiet, but if it were just my brother and I, she was animated, friendly, and comfortable, but still, language and our vastly different upbringings were barriers.

She left me a reputation. Of all her grandchildren, she'd spoken more about her eldest grandson, living in Washington, DC, a world traveler, smart, handsome, and who would grow up to be famous.

Oh, your Grandma told us so much about you, said one of her nieces, my mother's age, who doted over me.

Nithin. You're her most loved, said another.

I never thought of myself like that. Sure, we never tattled on her when she made a mistake, giving her freedom at home. But she was the same with us to our parents, keeping our secrets and never letting us get punished. What that must have meant to her. We were her companions, and I was one of the few people in America whom she could trust, so far from the country of her birth.

She was, I realized, the same for me.

Amama had been with me since I was two months old, when my mom first infected me with the travel bug by bringing me to see her in India. As the first in her family to be born outside India, Amama became the bridge to my heritage. She came to America shortly thereafter to help raise me, her eldest grandson, after my mom returned to work.

Was it because of her presence that I became aware of the larger world? Perhaps the seeds of my future travels were planted right then, learning about India through her stories about our family.

Stories I could barely remember, and would never hear again.

Throughout the sleepless week, going from relative's house to relative's house, visiting temples to pray for her soul, my mind kept returning to the happy memories we had together. How, as I child, I would wrap myself up in her long, flowing saris. How she took me to the park near our house. Playing doctor by putting gobs of lotion onto her always dry, aged feet. We communicated in my sparse Telugu, less with word than with actions. When I was little, she was taller than I, but it wasn't long until my rapid growth eclipsed her. But one thing never changed on her short, chubby body: the big, happy smile.

Though she appreciated whenever I tried to help her, I could tell that she was happier when she was able to do something for us. Her greatest fear in life was being useless; she had no interest in being a burden to anyone. She wanted to be active, whether it was helping out in the garden or being a good host to her friends and family, whom she treasured, or being a grandma to us. I understood, I also wanted to do something with my life, and care for those around me. Laziness was no virtue to me either.

And her bravery. Living in America, where she didn't speak the language, unable to get around on her own, utterly dependent on us for anything. Yet she made friends with our neighbors and learned to adapt to a new way of life. For someone who never got the chance to finish elementary school, she knew an incredible amount about life. So much that she could have taught me.

Maybe, just maybe, she still can.

Soon, I would be in her footsteps, going to places where I didn't know the language or the customs, but did I have her bravery? I would be too scared to talk to my neighbors, too fearful to depend on anyone else.

My future journey and her life journey—how much did they match? From Amama's birth in Maharashtra, to her marriage at the age of 20. Raising three kids mostly on her own, while my grandpa worked for the Indian railroads far away, to taking care of her grandchildren in America—it was far more epic and difficult than what I was going to do.

Thank god, I thought, that I was traveling with my friends. My emotions were too distraught to be on my own. Then, I remembered. I was departing three weeks before they were.

I'll do it. Three weeks alone to learn about myself, and also about her.

A WEEK LATER, back in my DC apartment, the chili still in the freezer, but those boring days from just a week ago seemed like a long-ago dream. The trip no longer held any awe.

To try to recapture the hope of the trip, I did as I had done nearly every day: I walked a few blocks from my office to the bookstore, aiming for the back corner—the travel section. How the bold white country names on the spines had once drawn me in. I had memorized which books were where, what countries stood out in my mind, immersing myself in reading about the places I hoped to go—Spain, Nepal, Turkey, Thailand—and imagined myself in the glossy, overexposed photos of pristine beaches, drunken parties, and cultural wonders.

How could I regain that spirit, the energy and hope of travel? Amama, I knew, wouldn't want me to mourn her and suffer, she would want me to move on. I could make her most proud by continuing, with renewed fervor.

The country guides seemed dull, so this time I picked up some travel memoirs—books of adventures. Experiences. Most were cliché, but some rekindled that spark. A tale of a woman traveling alone, on a slow boat along the Mekong, and entering the majestic city of Luang Prabang in Laos, finding a place where time seemed to flow more slowly, where few tourists had ever been. I imagined myself on that boat, entering the great unknown.

The best was Rolf Potts's Vagabonding, a book not of travel stories, but more about the philosophy of travel. It was meant for people like me—young, independent, on a low budget, looking for long-term travel as an adventure of discovery and meaning. I sat there until closing time, devouring anecdotes of famous travelers such as Henry David Thoreau and Annie Dillard, and copied down the tips on how to make traveling worthwhile.

I bought the book, and, in the last weeks to my trip, read a chapter at a time, taking in a deep breath of air, inhaling the possibilities. Hope slowly returned, but in a different form than before. To travel consciously, and dedicate the trip to Amama.

As the days passed, my mind returned to India and how much Amama believed in me. With that strength, I would go forward and make her prophecy true: I would grow into a better man. My new light of hope.

I

SEARCHING

"Before the development of tourism, traveled was conceived to be like study, and its fruits were considered to be the adornment of the mind and the formation of judgment. The traveler was a student of what he sought."

Paul Fussell

WHY AM I TRAVELING?

I shuffled through the aisle quietly, trying not to attract much notice. I wanted to sit alone, have a window seat to myself, but it was crowded. The best opening was in a four-person booth, next to the window, diagonal from a slightly overweight college-aged man. His face was unshaven and he wore glasses, very unlike the majority of well-dressed Italians around us.

This would have to do, I thought. I laid back and let the buzz build inside me. Alone, on my first train ride, in Italy. This is what I'd dreamed about for a year. I was finally traveling around the world, on my way to Venice, ready to achieve my dreams!

I looked up as a cute girl walked up and said something in Italian to the man in front of me and then put her bag on the rack above and sat down in our booth. With lightly tanned skin, medium-dark neck-length brown hair, well dressed in a beige suit that went down to her knees, she was very pretty. I wondered if she spoke English. Should I try to talk to her? I tensed up with fear—what if she rejected me? I'd have to sit here in front of her for hours. Not worth it.

The train quickly filled up. I noticed two men walking down the aisle talking in English. I checked my cell phone—we were to depart any minute now.

Well, I'll sit here, said one of the men, waving towards the seat to my left. He was Indian.

Wait for us on the platform, I'm gonna join Jason up ahead, said his partner, with a strong American accent.

Alright, I'll find you later, said the other man as he placed his small duffel bag on the rack above us. He was short and skinny, with a large bald spot on the top of his forehead surrounded by thinning black hair intertwined with specs of white. He was middle-aged, and I wondered what he and his American friends were doing on a train to Venice.

But I didn't ask. How ironic, my first train ride of the world tour, and next to me, an Indian from the States. Shy, I looked out the window, waiting for the train to depart so I could take a nap and be refreshed for Venice and meeting Ashvin and his girlfriend. The thought alone scared me—my younger brother with a girlfriend? As I let my thoughts wander, my eyes began to feel heavy, and my neck slowly began to drift downward as the train pushed into motion.

You're American? I heard in a quick, softly accented female voice. I looked up.

Yes, said the Indian guy. Shit, I thought. How did that happen? The cute Italian girl was talking to my middle-aged seatmate. Not me. What could I do? Sit here and pretend not to notice, or jump in with some, You're speaking English! enthusiasm? In front of me, the Italian guy hadn't moved a bit, still staring blankly outside the window, probably not understanding a word that they were saying.

What are you doing in Italy? she asked the man.

I'm here for business, in Milan, we figured we would take a quick daytrip to Venice while we're here, he responded in a very friendly tone.

But you were born in America?

He smiled. No, I'm from India, but I've lived in America for twenty years. There are many Indians in America, he said as he laughed and turned to me. How did he know? I couldn't believe my luck, I was being welcomed into the conversation.

Her big, penetrating eyes moved over with him towards me. Are you American too? she asked excitedly.

I smiled, Yes, I am.

The girl's name was Jennifer, and she was currently in school in Milan and on her way back to her hometown, near the Austrian border in northern Italy. The Indian-American was Rahul—he was originally from Chennai but had been in Pittsburgh for twenty years, and was in Italy for the sixth time this year, trying to get through the Italian bureaucracy so that his company could begin work on a water treatment plant in Milan.

I'm sick of Italy, he said. Every time it's the same thing, so much red tape. I hope this is the last time I am here.

You don't like Italy? she asked. I turned towards her, expecting to see some shock or dismay at hearing him speak so plainly about her country. But her face was as energized as ever.

No, but I'm sick of the Government, and leaving my family all the time, said Rahul.

Jennifer seemed fascinated by our heritage. We got into a conversation about Tamil, Rahul's language, and Telugu, my parents' language. Telugu was the dominant language in Andhra Pradesh and was the second most spoken language in India, and I knew it mostly because of Amama.

I was born in California, I've only been to India on family trips, I told her. My heart thumped as my mind flashed back to the most recent trip. I pushed it out of my mind.

Oh wow, she said.

The conversation slowly shifted to her. Jennifer had been on a high school exchange program in Washington state, which was why she spoke English so well. We asked her about Milan.

Milan is all about money, how you dress, what clothes you wear, she said.

So very materialistic...they care only about what they have? I said.

Yes. I don't like it, but the school is very good. Her words stood in contrast to her fashionable dress and the Gucci bag that she was carrying. She seemed quite Milanese.

We kept talking, three people from completely different backgrounds. My first train ride was going so well, if this was what traveling solo was going to be like, this was going to be one amazing trip. I dreamt of train rides full of conversations, beautiful girls, and tapping into the mystique and beauty of the world. Traveling was going to be absolutely amazing, I could already feel it. This was what I'd felt before Amama died. This energy.

So, I asked, looking ahead at Jennifer, are you just going home to visit?

She flinched, and, for the first time, she looked away from us. I could see emotions flash through her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, she turned back to us, distraught.

I'm going to see my ex-boyfriend.

Your ex? I said. Oh no. My awe faded into nervousness.

Yes. He broke up with me last night, and I'm going to see him. There was another pause, as I wondered how to react.

Can I ask you guys—I'm scared, I need some advice.

She quickly told us the story. Her long-distance boyfriend had broken up with her about twelve hours ago by email. Email. She'd come to the train station at the break of dawn and bought a ticket to where he lived.

That's a lame way to breakup, I said.

I know! And we were together for five years, she said. After crying and being unable to sleep all night, and attempting repeatedly to call him, unsuccessfully, she had decided that this wasn't how this relationship was going to end.

I am just going to show up. If he won't let me in, I'll wait there until he does. But he cannot break up with me over email, he has to tell my face, she told us, the radiance slowly returning. I imagined her boyfriend, thinking he'd gotten out of this relationship scot-free, only to find a vicious, sleep-deprived girl banging on his door, refusing to leave.

She flinched again, the confidence faded from her face. Do you think I am crazy, she asked us, her eyes eager for reassurance.

Don't worry, said Rahul, smiling, with a tone of reassurance, easily trumping my blank mind, you'll be fine.

I was glad to have Rahul here, with his calming voice and warm smile. Inside, I was shaking with anxiety, clueless as to what to say.

I wanted to tell her about Amama, to tell her that I wasn't just traveling for fun, that there was a burden on me too, perhaps more deeply hidden, but still there. It wouldn't come out, though. The images of India six weeks ago seemed to be from another planet, far away from the Italy of now.

So I said nothing, as usual, fearful of saying the wrong thing. It would be easier when I was traveling with my friends in a few weeks, then I could gain courage. They would be a bridge to what I knew I had to do, travel alone. First, I needed to learn to be social. That was why I was in Europe, heading towards Spain. To party, finally, and become comfortable in my own skin.

As we entered the tunnels through the mountains of central Italy, we began to feel the weight of the early morning departure. The conversation slowly died, as Rahul began to read his book, I began to doze off, and Jennifer, finally feeling the effects of the stress and turmoil of the past day, finally began to show signs of fatigue. Every once in a while I'd catch her looking down at her bag, a glimmer of fear streaking across her face.

Do you think I shouldn't have gone? she asked, noticing me.

I think you're doing the right thing. Email is such a stupid way to break up. If you didn't do this, you'd probably regret it later, I said. One reason I was on this trip, and why I was traveling in Spain and Italy first, two late-night, hardcore partying countries, before moving on to new experiences elsewhere: experience it all so I would have no regrets.

You are right, she said, but her eyes turned upwards, betraying her nervousness. I turned away before she could ask another question.

Not long thereafter, nearly two hours after leaving Milan, the train pulled into a station. Jessica's eyes became bright again as we slowed down.

Well, this is my transfer, she said, leaping up and grabbing her bag with ferocious energy.

Hey, it was great meeting you, and good luck with your ex! I said awkwardly, wishing that I had something better to say.

Rahul, though, also stood up, shook her hand, and said, Don't worry, it'll go well, you're a strong girl.

It was nice meeting you both. And enjoy your trip around the world! That is amazing! she said, feet gliding, heels clicking, as she went down the aisle confidently. She was gone.

I exhaled deeply as I leaned back into my seat. It was a mix of relief, no longer having to try to be supportive, and sadness that she was gone. Jennifer, the first local I'd made a connection with during this trip. Would it always be this easy, I wondered, to meet people? Back home, and even during my time in Washington, DC, right before this trip, talking about my travels hadn't impressed many people at all.

This, it seemed, was quite a good start.

Well, that was interesting, I said.

Rahul smiled. Yes. She's a confused girl.

I feel bad for her. What a terrible way to end a relationship. The image of her showing up at his home, which I pictured to be in a small, mountainside town, banging on the door and demanding to talk kept playing in my head. But I would never see her again, never know what happened.

As the train pulled into Venice, I bid farewell to Rahul as he rushed to find his co-workers and enjoy his short daytrip.

Enjoy the city. I'm sure I'll see you walking around, I said.

Take care, he said as he grabbed his bag. And have a fantastic trip around the world! Be safe! I could sense that he was being genuine, and on my first day of traveling, there was no greater feeling than a stranger wishing you well on your daunting journey.

I was sure that we would run into each other in Venice; being such a small city, I imagined we would all be going to the same sights, so I didn't ask for his contact information. It was a false hope, and sadly I never saw Rahul again. He became the first of my temporary travel friends, and the first of many missed connections.

I STEPPED OFF THE TRAIN, nervous, knowing that outside was a new experience, and that the day would be full of new emotions. My brother Ashvin—who was studying abroad in Florence, the reason I had begun my trip in Italy—and his girlfriend Jess should have already arrived.

Nithin! I heard behind me as my feet touched the hard concrete of the platform.

I turned around to see Ashvin, wearing tight jeans and a trendy t-shirt, with his long, curly hair waving in the wind, and a short, small-faced girl wearing a colorful, plaid red-and-green woolen Italian scarf running up to me. They had been dating for two months. Ashvin, three and a half years younger than I, had beaten me, getting a girlfriend first. It wasn't surprising, though, considering how different we were.

Growing up, I was the introvert, shy and awkward around people I didn't know, and terrible at making friends. Ashvin was the complete opposite. Gregarious, funny, popular, a social beast, especially in high school, and he could always find someone to do something with, whereas I was the quiet guy in school, fiercely independent, preferring to do things alone.

Jess was dressed plainly; her round, pudgy face was a little smaller than her body required, but that might have just been the bulky clothing that she was wearing. It