On the Night Train
Craning my neck from my bunk to look up at the night sky, the high three quarters full moon illuminated the interior of our AC 2 berth. Everyone was fast asleep, except me, as usual. Hours earlier when Marc and I returned to our hotel in Delhi to pick-up the train tickets we ordered the previous day, we were told that the tickets were sold out and we would not be able to take the train to Varanasi, India as planned. This was a blow after a day of running around Delhi in a 3 + hour challenge to ship some items too large to carry home. Our 6:30 p.m. train that we were told was booked was to leave in less than 2 hours, we had a return flight scheduled from Varanasi and now our trip to the world’s oldest continually civilized city would be cut short by at least a day, if not more.
Immediately, we went in to scramble mode. Marc inquired at an air desk in the hotel about the next flight to Varanasi which we learned was not until 11:00 a.m. the following day and at best, we would be waitlisted. I went to the agency office responsible for our train tickets to obtain a refund and ask why they had told us at 1:00 p.m. that the tickets would be there any minute. The female agent keen to working the lobby of tourists each morning offering over priced city tours was all too quick to offer a car service to Varanasi for a mere 18,000 rupees (over $440). Suspecting that the hotel may have delayed our tickets intentionally, I found Marc at the air desk and suggested we go to the train station ourselves to the booking office.
Fifteen minutes later we were at the station in a sea of humanity making our way to a tourist ticketing office. Fortunately, we found the office quickly without a need to inquire of the local touts persistently bombarding us with hotel and rickshaw offers. Feeling the urgency of our situation, “No, I don’t want anything” was uttered from mouth with raw conviction, the waves of which dropped the touts off like flies into a bug zapper. Both of us having traveled before, we knew that this was a do or be done situation and it was up to us to make it a “do”.
Entering the tourist ticketing office, Marc assumed a seat in the “cue” for one of the ticketing agents while I approached the “Enquiry Desk”, “Do you know if there are tickets available for the train to Varanasi tonight?”, I asked. A man with a graying beard across the desk barely made eye contact with me and replied with a firm, “No tickets today, must book in advance.” This was not promising, but we were unwilling to give up just yet.
First in the cue twenty minutes later, Marc and I humbly approach the ticketing agent knowing that this was the last chance for our departure on this day. When the agent learned of our request for same day tickets, without hesitation he said, “Not possible. Must purchase at least four hours in advance.” Still, we pushed forward, inquiring of other possible routes. It looked like we were out of luck and I reconsidered that the hotel was genuine in their inability to obtain our tickets. Then without any prompting, the agent followed with, “What class do you want? All classes are available on the 8:40 p.m. to Varanasi?” Uncertain we had understood correctly, we asked him to repeat.
Confirming we had heard correctly, we practically lunged over the desk to hug the man. Ticket in hand leaving the station, we pushed our fists together and headed back to the hotel to get our luggage, only to learn that our luggage had conveniently been placed in our old room. Clearly, the hotel assumed we would be staying with them one more night. I had the pleasure of telling the hotel tour agent that we obtained our own tickets and that we would be leaving. Earlier, he had asked why we were going to the station when he had told us there were no seats available. At that moment, a conversation I had with Roopa’s massage therapist came to mind.
Although I don’t remember her name, she had lived in NYC for a number of years where her father had an ashram. Her father having since died, she returned to India where she felt more comfortable. One afternoon when she appeared at Roopa’s home, she shared a perspective I had not previously heard, “Americans live to live, and Indians live to die.” Initially I had difficulty grasping her point. There was a cultural difference I had not perceived. Her point was that in India, people believe that their fate is in their karma and that there is little you can do about it. However, her experience in America showed her a different viewpoint, a “can do” attitude or a “where there’s a will there’s a way” outlook. Part of the American character is founded on ingenuity, creativity and solving problems. That was not, in her opinion, part of the Indian mindset.
Having obtained our impossible train tickets, I was reminded of her insight and wondered if a “cultural character” played a part in driving us forward even when it appeared as if there was no chance. If we were not meant to go, then we would not go, but we would not resign ourselves without first making every effort to solve our predicament. This was a surprise to the hotel booking agent who was surprised we would try to get a ticket given the news he had shared with us. Possibly it was a difference in cultural character? Again, a question I will leave unanswered because I do not know, just a side note that sprang to mind.
After twenty plus minutes of traffic to travel 1 mile to the train station, Marc and I were still an hour early for the 12 hour overnight journey. This was the first overnight train of my life and I had no idea what to expect. Marc had traveled on an overnight train before, but had never experienced the chaotic scene we were about to enter. First step was to figure out from what platform our train departed. That only involved dealing with five thousand or so people, sitting, standing, squatting, spitting and urinating in the open air station hall with the large old style flip board with train names, departure times and platform numbers.
Proceeding to Platform No. 5 was what might imagine a rebirthing experience to be, both exhausting and exhilirating. Pushing, shoving, thrusting, hustling your way through an amalgamation of bodies with limbs flailing, overhead bags and boxes swinging, and lots of humid polluted air being inhaled by all. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, but with no method to the madness, and it was madness. Marc and I had been warned several times to beware of pickpockets and it was easy to why as Marc felt hands reach across his bag by as passerby who he quickly stared down. Your arms are full, it’s getting late, and there are swarms of people in every direction with zero personal space between bodies. For the weary or unsuspecting, it is a surefire way to make an involuntary donation to the swift hands of a thief.
Weaving our way through the rivers of people, ninety percent of whom were men, returning to their homes for the Holi festival, we ducked and dodged our way to the platform where a train was waiting. Scanning the sides of the train, we reviewed the AC 2 passenger list only to find that our names were not included. As it turned out, the train was not heading for Varanasi. Like cheetah looking for prey, we stood back to back scanning the crowd, placing our packs between us, only in this case we were the prey. Stares from the surrounding crowd were too numerous to count. And we hoped they were motivated out of novelty more than an issue with our foreigner status.
Fifteen minutes late, our train pulled to the platform. Police stood with their sticks and whistles holding everyone behind a yellow line painted in the cement station floor about five feet from the edge. We had no idea what was about to happen, but we would find out in a hurry. When the train came to a complete stop, the crowd of thousands rushed the train, some with large boxes overhead, others just barreling through, and others pushing as if their lives depended on it. There was little regard for women as they too found themselves being pushed and shoved about freely by the crowd. Mustached policemen with brown berets were hitting men with sticks pushing them back into the crowd as if making some imaginary fire line.
Fully loaded with our packs and not knowing which car was ours, willing or not, we were in the mix. In the first few minutes we were polite, watching the pushing and shoving all around us as we tried to find the openings and avoid the thickest waves of bodies, but as it continued a Darwinian like sense took over. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, survival of the fittest combined with an NFL rushing mindset motivated me to begin pushing forward to find our car before the train departed. Instinct took over intellect where law and order was abandoned for self preservation.
Finding our train car felt like arriving at a fortress of protection and we made our way on to look for our berth. Hot, tired and wide-eyed from the experience, we sank into our bench, a reprieve from the pandemonium outside. Our berth was not the luxury of a second class ticket I had hoped. The décor was basic with blue vinyl covered benches doubling as bunks where we would eat, sleep and chat for the next 12 hours.
We had two “berth mates”, 21 year old Meenu, a post graduate student in Hindi attending Delhi University, and Pushpak, a 26 year old software engineer. They did not know each other before boarding, but both were traveling home for the Holi holiday. Pushpak was like young Vikram I mentioned in a previous entry. He worked in Delhi as a consultant for SAP Labs in the U.S., but lived 36 hours away from Delhi by train and auto, often not seeing his family 5 months at a time.
Before the train pulled away from the station, Meenu, Marc and I were fully engrossed in an exchange of view points ranging politics to religion to education. Meenu was an uncharacteristically wise 21 year old making distinctions between “learned” and “educated”, the primary distinction to her being that those who are educated actually use their knowledge and live by the principles of their faith whereas those who are learned do not. She was engaging, sweet, and a night owl, but as the night wore on, both Marc and I began to fade and so did the conversation.
(Above: "Berth Mates", Meenu lower bunk, Pushpak, Upper)
Marc made his bed in the upper bunk and I settled into the lower bench. Curtains hung as our privacy barrier from the narrow hallway between berths. Bathrooms were located at each end of the car, but those too were worn down emptying their contents directly onto the track below. If there was ever time to exercise bodily excretion control, now was the time. Unfortunately for me, my bladder seemed to delight at the thought of getting me up four times during the night. Thank goodness it was only the bladder.
Lights out in our berth, I found myself concerned about our bags as I recalled stories of packs snatched from berths while people slept. A sign posted in the berth said to secure your luggage using the chains provided below the berth, but those too had disappeared. So while Marc was fast asleep snoring logs, I was reaching for my mini flashlight standing ready for hands parting the curtain looking to relieve us of our items. And my concern about the bags was not without merit as throughout the night hands parted the curtains only to see my flashlight beamed in their direction. I don’t know of their intentions, but it was curious that they were lurching up and down the hallway continuously peaking inside the curtains. Had we gone AC 1, we would have had a door, but we did not realize the value of it at the time.
The train rattled on throughout the night, blowing it’s horn every 5 minutes and stopping in the middle of nowhere to let other trains pass when only one track lay ahead. Lying awake in my bunk, I strained my neck to see if I could make out any objects in the black of night. There was one familiar object staring back at me, the almost full orange tinged moon. It was one of those moments when I was really in the present. No one was trying to sell me something, there was little to do in the dark and I was tired. Riding the night train rattling and chugging down the tracks felt like the India of past and present.
A few facts about the railroad in India. Indian Railways is the largest employer in the world, employing more than 7 million people, more than half the population of New York City and double the population of New Zealand. There are eight classes of travel on most trains ranging from 1st class AC (AC=Air Conditioned), AC 2, AC 3, First Class to Sleeper Class, the way most Indians travel. Seeing the different classes first hand was a glimpse into the caste system of the mother land. Sleeper Class might as well be called “Cattle Class” as people pile (literally stack) into every square of inch of space in the cars leaving some hanging onto the outside bar of the car on the steps. And this is not for a 1 or 2 hour trek, but upwards of twenty and thirty-six hours. Hard to fathom traveling in Sleeper Class conditions, especially in the muggy stifling heat of Indian summers, but it is an inexpensive way to travel and most cannot afford another class of ticket.
On our departure night, we learned later that the trains were particularly crowded due to the advent of the Holi festival, which marks the start of the new year on the Hindu calendar based on the moon cycle. This year Holi falls on March 15. The day is often celebrated with large crowds of people, mostly men, throwing colored powder all about.
(Still standing after a long haul.)
Managing to get an hour and a half of sleep in the early morning, we pulled into Varanasi an hour late, but thankful to be getting off as the train would continue onward for another twelve hours. We had reservations at a hotel I booked based on Graham and Marianne’s recommendation (rafting mates from the Ganges). For $9 per night, the Hotel Surya will be our home for the next few days as we explore Varanasi. The city is the one of the holiest for Hindu’s where those who can afford the posthumous trip desire to be cremated to end their reincarnation cycle. Tomorrow morning we start with a sunrise boat ride on the Ganges to witness these ceremonies. It is here where life come to observe death.
Immediately, we went in to scramble mode. Marc inquired at an air desk in the hotel about the next flight to Varanasi which we learned was not until 11:00 a.m. the following day and at best, we would be waitlisted. I went to the agency office responsible for our train tickets to obtain a refund and ask why they had told us at 1:00 p.m. that the tickets would be there any minute. The female agent keen to working the lobby of tourists each morning offering over priced city tours was all too quick to offer a car service to Varanasi for a mere 18,000 rupees (over $440). Suspecting that the hotel may have delayed our tickets intentionally, I found Marc at the air desk and suggested we go to the train station ourselves to the booking office.
Fifteen minutes later we were at the station in a sea of humanity making our way to a tourist ticketing office. Fortunately, we found the office quickly without a need to inquire of the local touts persistently bombarding us with hotel and rickshaw offers. Feeling the urgency of our situation, “No, I don’t want anything” was uttered from mouth with raw conviction, the waves of which dropped the touts off like flies into a bug zapper. Both of us having traveled before, we knew that this was a do or be done situation and it was up to us to make it a “do”.
Entering the tourist ticketing office, Marc assumed a seat in the “cue” for one of the ticketing agents while I approached the “Enquiry Desk”, “Do you know if there are tickets available for the train to Varanasi tonight?”, I asked. A man with a graying beard across the desk barely made eye contact with me and replied with a firm, “No tickets today, must book in advance.” This was not promising, but we were unwilling to give up just yet.
First in the cue twenty minutes later, Marc and I humbly approach the ticketing agent knowing that this was the last chance for our departure on this day. When the agent learned of our request for same day tickets, without hesitation he said, “Not possible. Must purchase at least four hours in advance.” Still, we pushed forward, inquiring of other possible routes. It looked like we were out of luck and I reconsidered that the hotel was genuine in their inability to obtain our tickets. Then without any prompting, the agent followed with, “What class do you want? All classes are available on the 8:40 p.m. to Varanasi?” Uncertain we had understood correctly, we asked him to repeat.
Confirming we had heard correctly, we practically lunged over the desk to hug the man. Ticket in hand leaving the station, we pushed our fists together and headed back to the hotel to get our luggage, only to learn that our luggage had conveniently been placed in our old room. Clearly, the hotel assumed we would be staying with them one more night. I had the pleasure of telling the hotel tour agent that we obtained our own tickets and that we would be leaving. Earlier, he had asked why we were going to the station when he had told us there were no seats available. At that moment, a conversation I had with Roopa’s massage therapist came to mind.
Although I don’t remember her name, she had lived in NYC for a number of years where her father had an ashram. Her father having since died, she returned to India where she felt more comfortable. One afternoon when she appeared at Roopa’s home, she shared a perspective I had not previously heard, “Americans live to live, and Indians live to die.” Initially I had difficulty grasping her point. There was a cultural difference I had not perceived. Her point was that in India, people believe that their fate is in their karma and that there is little you can do about it. However, her experience in America showed her a different viewpoint, a “can do” attitude or a “where there’s a will there’s a way” outlook. Part of the American character is founded on ingenuity, creativity and solving problems. That was not, in her opinion, part of the Indian mindset.
Having obtained our impossible train tickets, I was reminded of her insight and wondered if a “cultural character” played a part in driving us forward even when it appeared as if there was no chance. If we were not meant to go, then we would not go, but we would not resign ourselves without first making every effort to solve our predicament. This was a surprise to the hotel booking agent who was surprised we would try to get a ticket given the news he had shared with us. Possibly it was a difference in cultural character? Again, a question I will leave unanswered because I do not know, just a side note that sprang to mind.
After twenty plus minutes of traffic to travel 1 mile to the train station, Marc and I were still an hour early for the 12 hour overnight journey. This was the first overnight train of my life and I had no idea what to expect. Marc had traveled on an overnight train before, but had never experienced the chaotic scene we were about to enter. First step was to figure out from what platform our train departed. That only involved dealing with five thousand or so people, sitting, standing, squatting, spitting and urinating in the open air station hall with the large old style flip board with train names, departure times and platform numbers.
Proceeding to Platform No. 5 was what might imagine a rebirthing experience to be, both exhausting and exhilirating. Pushing, shoving, thrusting, hustling your way through an amalgamation of bodies with limbs flailing, overhead bags and boxes swinging, and lots of humid polluted air being inhaled by all. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, but with no method to the madness, and it was madness. Marc and I had been warned several times to beware of pickpockets and it was easy to why as Marc felt hands reach across his bag by as passerby who he quickly stared down. Your arms are full, it’s getting late, and there are swarms of people in every direction with zero personal space between bodies. For the weary or unsuspecting, it is a surefire way to make an involuntary donation to the swift hands of a thief.
Weaving our way through the rivers of people, ninety percent of whom were men, returning to their homes for the Holi festival, we ducked and dodged our way to the platform where a train was waiting. Scanning the sides of the train, we reviewed the AC 2 passenger list only to find that our names were not included. As it turned out, the train was not heading for Varanasi. Like cheetah looking for prey, we stood back to back scanning the crowd, placing our packs between us, only in this case we were the prey. Stares from the surrounding crowd were too numerous to count. And we hoped they were motivated out of novelty more than an issue with our foreigner status.
Fifteen minutes late, our train pulled to the platform. Police stood with their sticks and whistles holding everyone behind a yellow line painted in the cement station floor about five feet from the edge. We had no idea what was about to happen, but we would find out in a hurry. When the train came to a complete stop, the crowd of thousands rushed the train, some with large boxes overhead, others just barreling through, and others pushing as if their lives depended on it. There was little regard for women as they too found themselves being pushed and shoved about freely by the crowd. Mustached policemen with brown berets were hitting men with sticks pushing them back into the crowd as if making some imaginary fire line.
Fully loaded with our packs and not knowing which car was ours, willing or not, we were in the mix. In the first few minutes we were polite, watching the pushing and shoving all around us as we tried to find the openings and avoid the thickest waves of bodies, but as it continued a Darwinian like sense took over. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, survival of the fittest combined with an NFL rushing mindset motivated me to begin pushing forward to find our car before the train departed. Instinct took over intellect where law and order was abandoned for self preservation.
Finding our train car felt like arriving at a fortress of protection and we made our way on to look for our berth. Hot, tired and wide-eyed from the experience, we sank into our bench, a reprieve from the pandemonium outside. Our berth was not the luxury of a second class ticket I had hoped. The décor was basic with blue vinyl covered benches doubling as bunks where we would eat, sleep and chat for the next 12 hours.
We had two “berth mates”, 21 year old Meenu, a post graduate student in Hindi attending Delhi University, and Pushpak, a 26 year old software engineer. They did not know each other before boarding, but both were traveling home for the Holi holiday. Pushpak was like young Vikram I mentioned in a previous entry. He worked in Delhi as a consultant for SAP Labs in the U.S., but lived 36 hours away from Delhi by train and auto, often not seeing his family 5 months at a time.
Before the train pulled away from the station, Meenu, Marc and I were fully engrossed in an exchange of view points ranging politics to religion to education. Meenu was an uncharacteristically wise 21 year old making distinctions between “learned” and “educated”, the primary distinction to her being that those who are educated actually use their knowledge and live by the principles of their faith whereas those who are learned do not. She was engaging, sweet, and a night owl, but as the night wore on, both Marc and I began to fade and so did the conversation.
(Above: "Berth Mates", Meenu lower bunk, Pushpak, Upper)
Marc made his bed in the upper bunk and I settled into the lower bench. Curtains hung as our privacy barrier from the narrow hallway between berths. Bathrooms were located at each end of the car, but those too were worn down emptying their contents directly onto the track below. If there was ever time to exercise bodily excretion control, now was the time. Unfortunately for me, my bladder seemed to delight at the thought of getting me up four times during the night. Thank goodness it was only the bladder.
Lights out in our berth, I found myself concerned about our bags as I recalled stories of packs snatched from berths while people slept. A sign posted in the berth said to secure your luggage using the chains provided below the berth, but those too had disappeared. So while Marc was fast asleep snoring logs, I was reaching for my mini flashlight standing ready for hands parting the curtain looking to relieve us of our items. And my concern about the bags was not without merit as throughout the night hands parted the curtains only to see my flashlight beamed in their direction. I don’t know of their intentions, but it was curious that they were lurching up and down the hallway continuously peaking inside the curtains. Had we gone AC 1, we would have had a door, but we did not realize the value of it at the time.
The train rattled on throughout the night, blowing it’s horn every 5 minutes and stopping in the middle of nowhere to let other trains pass when only one track lay ahead. Lying awake in my bunk, I strained my neck to see if I could make out any objects in the black of night. There was one familiar object staring back at me, the almost full orange tinged moon. It was one of those moments when I was really in the present. No one was trying to sell me something, there was little to do in the dark and I was tired. Riding the night train rattling and chugging down the tracks felt like the India of past and present.
A few facts about the railroad in India. Indian Railways is the largest employer in the world, employing more than 7 million people, more than half the population of New York City and double the population of New Zealand. There are eight classes of travel on most trains ranging from 1st class AC (AC=Air Conditioned), AC 2, AC 3, First Class to Sleeper Class, the way most Indians travel. Seeing the different classes first hand was a glimpse into the caste system of the mother land. Sleeper Class might as well be called “Cattle Class” as people pile (literally stack) into every square of inch of space in the cars leaving some hanging onto the outside bar of the car on the steps. And this is not for a 1 or 2 hour trek, but upwards of twenty and thirty-six hours. Hard to fathom traveling in Sleeper Class conditions, especially in the muggy stifling heat of Indian summers, but it is an inexpensive way to travel and most cannot afford another class of ticket.
On our departure night, we learned later that the trains were particularly crowded due to the advent of the Holi festival, which marks the start of the new year on the Hindu calendar based on the moon cycle. This year Holi falls on March 15. The day is often celebrated with large crowds of people, mostly men, throwing colored powder all about.
(Still standing after a long haul.)
Managing to get an hour and a half of sleep in the early morning, we pulled into Varanasi an hour late, but thankful to be getting off as the train would continue onward for another twelve hours. We had reservations at a hotel I booked based on Graham and Marianne’s recommendation (rafting mates from the Ganges). For $9 per night, the Hotel Surya will be our home for the next few days as we explore Varanasi. The city is the one of the holiest for Hindu’s where those who can afford the posthumous trip desire to be cremated to end their reincarnation cycle. Tomorrow morning we start with a sunrise boat ride on the Ganges to witness these ceremonies. It is here where life come to observe death.
posted by Global415 at 1:21 AM
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