3

This number seems to haunt us.

In our initial journey to the Soviet Union amidst the S.S. Patoria were a group of 3^rd class passengers. At the grumbling of a young Bulgarian boy I felt compelled to complain of the tasteless food that was being served to us. The steward’s response was heartless, infuriating but most of all expected- indicative of the problem.

His thoughtless response, that “we were, after all, third class passengers”, prickled all “third class” ears.

In this moment I felt two opposite forces raging inside me; two clashing instincts, fighting to take charge.

The first was submissive; it rationalized the steward’s words. It played on my expectations, this is as it is. This is how it was, and for a long time this is how it will be. One day perhaps things may change, but today is not the time. The sun sets and rises, one has to wait till it appears again. This voice was familiar but I could not tell where it came from; it felt safe, like the voice of a teacher, an elder, a master.

The other voice was red hot and trembling with rage. It was powerful and emotional; it could not accept what was said. It spread out in all corners of my mind, ringing bells and sticking knives. I could not help but feel its urgency; it wanted the steward to make amends now. Instant relegation to a patient silent third can no longer be the fate that the world holds for us.It was tired of the third class, third world and a perpetual third place.

I saw the myriad of pamphlets, posters and images of my red destination. They circled the recess of my mind then an image emerged to elevate the second voice. The image contained an Indian and a Russian, hand In hand, with their flags, looking across each other entirely in sync; two sides of the same coin. They were different but completely alike. The Indian was not third, the Russian was not first, it was no longer a math equation. They were friends- comrades- with the potential to build lasting friendships with all people, tearing the numbers that were tagged over their faces. This poster was symbolic of a third way. The Indian man in the poster was confident in his own brown skin; he did not expect nor accept third class anymore, just as I could not in this instant.

 “Are we third class passengers, not human beings?”

The silence encouraged me to push further, to be more forceful.

“After all we are third class, as if we were not human beings?”

These words broke the shackles my Indian companions still suffered from, the expectation and acceptance of third place. We were materially, psychologically and politically always relegated to bronze, urged to quicken the pace to catch up, so that eventually we too would win gold in this race against time. We had to emphatically reject this notion, even if it was simply telling the steward off for assuming third class passengers cannot have genuine grievances, just because they are third class.

 My Indian compatriots chose not to support my decision, and herein lies our greatest hurdle; our passivity in our everyday. The intertwined Indian and the Soviet stand defiant with their nations behind them, looking to change their tomorrow, today. It is when we abandon the expectations of our third class treatment, attack the very idea that it is acceptable, will we find our third way.