The Shabati Express was the fast two hour tourist train to Agra and the Taj Mahal. It boarded from Platform One, an area without the crowds of beggars and lower caste people that I had mingled with previously on the platforms. At six am, Steve and I were finding our seats among the brown rows of the nice air-conditioned upper class car. I lifted my black carry-on size suitcase to the metal shelf above and as I did so, Steve did the same. I reached around to grab the black matching daypack that zips on the front of the larger of the two pieces and couldn't find it in the aisle seat where I had left it. I looked all around and below and asked Steve, but I knew. It was gone. A thief had stolen it in the few seconds that we both had our backs turned. Passengers in

the seats behind us told us they had seen someone quickly walk by and out the front door of the rail car, back turned away so they could not see his face. I tried to run out after him but he had disappeared all too quickly. Instead I found two stoic beige uniformed constables who politely escorted me back to my railcar and listened as the helpful passengers explained our story in Hindi. There was, of course, nothing they could do. They suggested making an official report at the GRP office when the train arrived in Agra.

The train began to move and I was leaving Delhi for the third and last time. And as I sat staring out the window at the darkness, watching it turn into day over the countryside, I agonized over my loss. Not only was one piece of my favorite travel luggage set missing, but also the $300 digital Sony camera that was inside. I had bought it in Kuala Lumpur to replace the one that I had ruined when I fell into the ocean in Thailand. At least all the pictures had been saved to CDs, and an extra set was on Kelley's laptop computer just in case anything happened to those. But the Buddhist book with Japanese characters that Scottie had given me as a gift was gone. And so were the two other books on Buddhism I had bought on the pilgrimage as souvenirs - one of which I had not yet finished reading, like Scottie's gift. And my travel cable lock and alarm, my Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags to hang over the Indian burial ground at home, my notebook, my sunglasses - all were missing. It seemed like all we did was blink. Oh, how could I have been so stupid?! I knew better. I had read that you must be very careful on the train between Delhi and Agra as it has about the highest rate of theft of all the trains. It is the one carrying rich tourists to see India's greatest treasure. Shamefully, I accused Steve of not watching, as if it was his fault. And being the sweet, gracious man that he is, he tried to take full responsibility. But it wasn't his place to be careful of my things, it was mine.

Perhaps this was yet another Buddhist lesson, something to drive home the concepts of non-attachment and impermanence. It was, after all, just a bag of things. At least my cash, passport, credit card and plane ticket were all safely tucked away in my hip belt beneath my pant waist. I should be grateful for that. And the mala, the Buddhist rosary that the pilgrim Steve had given me was still wrapped three times around my left wrist. I thought about the Tibetan monk astrologer in McLeod Ganj who had predicted something would be stolen. At the time, I thought it was a good educated guess. I am in India. But there I was, agonizing over what was stolen from me. And I remembered his mantra. So I took the mala off my wrist, and for the first time I really prayed with it as Kelley taught me to do. With the string of beads in my left hand, I moved one at a time with my thumb as I silently chanted, "Om marze mam soha," once for each bead, one hundred and eight times around the circle. Then I reversed the string and did it again one hundred and eight times the other direction, then turned it again for a third time around. I tried to concentrate on the syllables themselves, or on their meaning, which was to wish good things upon those who have accused me or stolen from me. But my mind wandered. I was imagining what the man must be like who took my stuff. How was it to have his life? And by the time I completed the silent chants, I was crying for him. How would it be to put food on the table for your children when you know it was bought with stolen money? Well, maybe, at least, he was feeding his hungry children. And the guy was obviously a professional. He must have done that to his conscience many times. Maybe he wasn't even poor and feeding a family. Maybe he just wanted nice clothes and a new motorcycle and had no conscience at all. And I found that even sadder. That’s a different kind of poor, a tragic kind, a poverty of heart and of spirit. I had forgiven him. He was much worse off than me.

The Government Railway Police (GRP) office was difficult to find by the train station in Agra. A taxi tout with an honest face directed us there with the unspoken agreement that we would take his taxi later. The GRP constables in the beige uniforms like in Delhi had some trouble speaking English. The taxi tout found his boss, Anil, who played interpreter for us. Anil told us later that he had run away from home at the age of eighteen to Agra and worked his way up from a bicycle rickshaw driver to owner of a four fleet taxi service. He taught himself English in the process by talking with foreigners. He spoke English well. With his help, I wrote out a report of the incident on the train and we watched as the constable copied this into his book. He wrote it first in English on the back and then translated it on the front of the form into Hindi. I received a handwritten carbon copy of both forms for my insurance company. There were no computers in this small, dingy, concrete hut with two empty jail cells - one for women and one for men. But the four or five constables who made their way into the room to check out the spectacle were very friendly. They seemed to be very curious about Steve. They seemed to really like him.

We thanked the gentlemen and then took Anil's taxi to the hotel. We had decided to splurge and stay at the Mughal Sheraton. It was a treat to have a "real" hotel room, completely up to classy western standards. It came with a western price tag of one hundred dollars. The night before we had stayed with the backpacking crowd in Pahar Ganj in a spartan grubby room without clean sheets or toilet paper for seven dollars. This Sheraton was in striking contrast. The outside was made of the local red brick graced beautifully by pools and gardens. On the inside floors and walls were created with white marble everywhere and chandeliers hung from the ceilings. I am constantly reminded in India that everything is relative, but even for home this was a magnificent hotel. And best of all, from the large picture window in our room, we had a mystic view of the Taj Mahal in the distance.