The train lurches forward, and I kick my carry-on bag, which holds a hodgepodge of items in disarray. Slumping forward, something cylindrical and urgently green rolls down the long aisle. I gasp and make a grab for it, but it’s too late. The thing lazily ricochets across the rubbery aisle, alerting everyone of my presence. Every French eye, snatched from perusing Le Monde or Le Figaro, watches its progress, as it pitches this way and that, according to the undulations of the train car. It hits an older lady on the back of her chunky heel before banking across the aisle and coming to rest against a leather bag whose owner I cannot fathom.

It’s the portable oxygen mask sealed in a canister—“The Life Force 3000”—I take on every airplane flight, in case of emergency. My father bought my first one twelve years ago, before our family flight to England, and I have purchased this one, the third, from a catalogue that sells such things as radiation suits and water filtration devices and, well, lifesaving oxygen. The third, because they expire. Oxygen doesn’t last forever, apparently.

I bolt from my seat, mortified to be an instigator. Each placid eye finds new focus, zeroing in as I stumble forward, fixing me with such a look of scientific detachment that I feel like a lab rat put through a maze for their study. At least the rat has some cheese to focus on. I compensate for my gaffe by mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” not even capable of locating “Perdón” in my small French repertoire during the low tide of this second, petty humiliation of the day. I am cognizant of how overly abused the word surreal is in our language, but I don’t know how else to describe chasing down my emergency oxygen mask in a train barreling toward Paris on a foggy morning, with the imperious eyes of France judging me. I almost expect that lady, the one three rows up, with the fussy white dog whose eyes bulge and whose tongue pinkly protrudes, to drink her coffee from a cup wrapped in fur. I have never seen a dog like that, much less on a public train. It’s wearing a pompadour and roosts like a hen on its silk, saffron pillow.

“Sorry. Sorry,” I repeat as I inch forward, smiling nervously, hopeful that, at the very least, they find me colorful. But nobody, not even the dog, cracks a smile. A ticket agent approaches, and I perform a soft shoe number with him, during which he has the nerve to frown disapprovingly. “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!”

Finally, I’m in range of the ridiculous object, which shrieks, For Emergency Use Only! I bend down to retrieve it. My outstretched fingers brush against the leather of a black satchel. The bag is soft yet firm, like the skin of a man’s shoulder. I lock onto the canister, relieved to be done with this genuflection, and start to rise.

“You bring your oxygen with you at all times, then?” a voice asks.

Half-crouching, I confront a pair of almond-colored eyes, inches away. Startled, I retreat to a fully upright position. The stranger, the owner of the interested eyes, offers an amused half smile and continues, “Or is it only in France?”

Flustered, I laugh a little. I scramble to think how he knows I’m not French. There are three languages of cautionary warnings on the canister. Why couldn’t I be French?

“I could use some right now. I think I just sucked all the air out of the car.”

His face is long and intelligent, and when he looks at me, I feel like I might finally forget my name. “Do not let them fool you. Parisians are like a—how do you say?—a cult. They enjoy making outsiders, particularly Americans, feel like outsiders.” His accent is thick, but his words aren’t clunky, delivered with a natural rhythm that makes me believe he has spent a lot of time abroad, in England or the U.S.

“How did they know I’m American?” I can’t help but ask, forgetting my little performance of thirty seconds ago.

“Well, are you not?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand.” I frown. “Are we that hopelessly out of place?”

“I heard your accent; the others likely did too. And the apologizing?” He nods and offers a wry smile. “For all their occasional bluster, I find Americans to be the most insecure nation of people.”

Stung, I retort, “And I am finding the French to be the most judgmental.”

He laughs. “You are probably right about this.” His eyes flick to his book, about the size of his hand. Small, intense font. He seems finished with me.

His ready detachment curls my toes into their Keds.

The ticket agent returns to find me still making his life miserable. Turning to leave, I realize I have a book in my left hand, a finger marking some phantom place on page who-gives-a-crap. Before I can take a step, the stranger’s eyes, alerted to the book by the flapping of its pages—a soft, airy phfft as I allow the leaves to run over my thumb in dissatisfaction—catch the title. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but his face illuminates, like a child’s who is entrusted with a delicious secret, and he exhales from a pocket of ecstasy I cannot fathom. Looking up at me, eyes burning, he remarks, “I apologize. I see the whole of your situation now.”

“And what is that?” I ask, baffled. I’m not used to people talking like this. You know, with sincerity.

His eyes are like my father’s at his best: clear and brilliant, believing the best in me. “You are no tourist.”

He turns back to his little book without another word. I am transported, without legs, back to my seat. I do not think I breathe until the train pulls into a station, and the doors part with a soft swoosh. He rises to exit the train, never looking back.

I watch him go.

“Antique English Clock. Made in England. Very old, very antique…. Le Lo Le lo…”

Mark was always enchanted with that centuries old looking wall clock. No matter how many times he came to Chor Bazaar he always made it a point to go to that lane with the shop selling stolen antiques.

It surprised him that no one ever took interest in that clock which looked like the ones you could see on a station in London.

It would go so well with the theme of his newly renovated plush flat at Marine Drive.

Mark had been in India for almost 6 years now, and had made quite a successful living with his art galleries. He could buy any Vintage furniture he wanted, but his heart always wavered to that antique English Clock.

Concentrate Mark, you don’t require this; you are here for Nike shoes, and a Leather jacket for Loraine.

He quickly found the shop he was looking for, bought a pair of Nike sneakers which the shopkeeper claimed were fresh maal (Meaning just stolen from someone who paid four thousand Rupees for) and a brown leather jacket for his sister back home.

He left the narrow lanes of Chor Bazaar in a hurry lest his heart flutter back to that stupid clock.

“You know Mark I love your new house, you’ve done it so well” Jacob his partner told him the same night when they were chilling over a couple of drinks.

“Thanks Jake, Cheers to that”

“But you know what is missing from this? You need a nice Antique looking wall clock in this corner here. Wouldn’t it look grand, don’t u think? “

“You know what I’ll do, I’ll talk to my antique furniture guy at Bandra tomorrow and get you a good deal on one of those Victorian style Clocks that he has. Or even better I’ll give it to you as a house warming gift. How’s that huh?”

“Hey now c’mon Jake, you don’t have to gift me anything, and besides I think I know the perfect clock that will fit in to this corner” This had to be a good sign, a sign that he should just go and buy that Antique Clock.

“Its fifteen thousand rupees saab” said the guy at the crammed antique store.

“You think I’m crazy to pay that much for this, go call Raja I want to talk him, not you”

Raja walked in from the inner room. “You plan to make me bankrupt Raja?

“Saab he’s quoting very less for you, this is classic 18^th century clock stolen from England, it’s priceless” Raja said in his heavy accented English.

“Oh ya? So you mean to say you have this watch from the 18^th century in this little shop of yours? And that no one has ever tried to show interest in it?”

“Well saab, I no lie to you, this watch has been in our family since generations. My Great Grandfather got it from this English guy with hat and umbrella, and he said it was a very special clock, and you should only give it to right person”

“What is so special about it?”

“The Englishman claims that if you listen carefully you can here many voices from the Clock which would reveal your future. I tell you saab we have been hearing from generations but not a single word. I give it to you because you from England and you look like noble man. The watch must want to come to you”

“Yeah well whatever, here’s 12 thousand, get it delivered to my address here by noon today”

Although Mark pooh-poohed the story that Raja had told him, but deep down he felt a certain connection to the Clock too, or else why would he keep coming back to it?

That night Mark dozed off on his comfy leather sofa, when at midnight the clocked chimed 12 times, and he woke up with a start. Realizing that it was only his newest possession he got up to go to his bedroom, when suddenly there was this buzzing noise.

It was like hundreds of people were talking at the same time, like it was a railway station. Mark put both his hands on his ears and the voices stopped. He carefully removed his hands again, and he could still hear them.

He frantically checked all his rooms for any TV or stereo that must have been left running, but there was nothing. The voices were getting louder. Mark ran to his bedroom locked the door put two pillows on his head and went off to sleep.

The next morning he went on with his usual chores forgetting all that had happened the last night.

The voices came again the next night. Mark thought he was going crazy. He could not sleep for a week, when he decided to go back to Raja and ask for an explanation.

“You say you here voices saab? You must come inside and meet my grandfather; he will be able to explain”

Raja’s grandfather looked like he was a 100 years old, with a long beard, and a wrinkly frail body. Raja quickly explained him the situation in Hindi when his grandfather opened his eyes wide and looked at Mark

“Jo kehete hai karo. Suno”

“He means you should listen carefully to the voices, they are your ancestors, and you should do what they say”

Mark went home confused and scared. That night he made himself a huge mug of black coffee and decided to get this madness over with.

Promptly at midnight the voices came back. Mark strained his ears and tried to single out one voice. There was one which was the loudest.

From what mark could here, it just kept on saying, “Silver Chalice at Cindy Mason’s grave”

The next day mark called his dad and enquired about his ancestors and whether there was any Cindy Mason in their family. It turned out that there was, and surprisingly she was buried in India, in Mumbai for that matter.

Mark was shocked. How could this watch be anywhere related to his family, his ancestors? Nevertheless he took Raja’s grandfathers’ advice and started looking up all the cemeteries around the city.

Finally he found the one, and found Cindy Mason’s Tombstone which said, Cindy Mason January 1878 to October 1935. So she died during the English regime in India. That was interesting.

The next day Mark bought two huge silver chalices, bought off from Jakes Antique dealer in Bandra, since he thought that would make her happy, and hid them in the mud near the Tombstone.

The voices stopped troubling him from the same night.

“Antique English Clock. Made in England. Very old, very antique…. Le Lo Le lo…” Raja was shouting at the top of his voice.

“Psst Raja, these Chalices are awesome we could easily get 15 thousand for them. But next time you ask for something more expensive ok?”

“Yeah yeah”

Chote the assistant chuckled heartily, and continued with his usual work.

“Antique English Clock. Made in England. Very old, very antique…. Le Lo Le lo…”