The Night Train to Varanasi

After Sonu dropped me off at the train station I spent an hour waiting for my train and watching everyone around me. Sonu had left me with the helpful advice to watch my things at all times and not let anyone talk me into a scam. I gave him a big hug and thanked him for all of his help and making Agra an awesome experience for me. When I told him I wished he were my guide for all of India he offered to drive me to the rest of my destinations. It would cost more of course.

I would be a liar if I said I didn’t consider it. But ultimately I turned it down. This would turn out to be both good and bad, as many things in life do.

I keep the most valuable things in my kit in a small day bag when I travel on trains. This serves as my pillow on overnight trains, and subsequently I feel relatively okay about leaving my big backpack below my seat. Anyone who makes off with it has only taken a bunch of clothes, some power cords, and most of the souvenirs I’d bought people. If the main bag went missing, it would be irritating, emotionally damaging, but not crippling to the continuation of my trip by any means, which is the most important thing. Anyone who wanted my passport, wallet or tablet would have to take it off me, which would mean dealing with the big Gora. 

With the giant Beard as deterrence. This is in NZ, which was only three days later.

Besides, at this point in the trip, the pack weighed in at least 25 kilos. Which is more than I’d be willing to lug around if I was a thief.

Smoky, dirty, loud, and uncomfortable, the train ride was only complicated by the deranged ravings of a Hindi holy man, who occupied the bunk diagonal from my own. After being assisted onto the train by a young man whose leg stuck out in possibly the most cringe worthy direction I’d ever had the misfortune to encounter, the ragged, bearded, painted old man fixed his wild eyed stare on anything that moved and started shouting at it. He was eventually calmed by the crippled teenager and fell asleep, only to wake up periodically to yell at everything around him.

Up until this point I haven’t mentioned the cripples. Thousands of young Indians are crippled, their legs and arms pointing out in shocking directions; they are unable to work, and beg for spare change around most public spaces. Here’s the insane part: many times, their parents did it to them.

You read that right. When these people were children, to make them more effective beggars, their parents broke their arms or legs and refused to let them heal properly, thus making them excellent beggars. Which brings up a devil of a paradox. Do you give these kids money, knowing that it will feed them and that because of their disability work is hard or impossible to come by? If you do, you’re only encouraging the practice. But how can you not feel the urge to give charity to these people? It’s a rough situation, and there is no easy answer.

I watch the old Hindi with guarded eyes, wondering if he was the one who broke that young man’s leg and refused to let it heal right.

After my encounter with the insane woman at the Beijing Train station, (Read “Night Train to Xi’an”) the encounter with the crazed Hindi Guru and his crippled son/assistant/slave barely fazed me. Sleep came relatively easily.

In the morning I made friends with the man in the bunk above me. In his late twenties or early thirties, with a short haircut and shaven face, I had him pegged for a tour guide or company representative, and was pleasantly surprised when I found out that he served in the Indian Air Force as an aircraft tech. He was heading back to his hometown for his good friend’s wedding. We bonded over our mutual military service, and after a few minutes of chatter, he turned to the guy next to him and started chattering in Hindi, while indicating me.

The man began to nod vigorously and smile.

“What’s up?” I ask, curious.

“You look like Bollywood star!” The Air Force tech says. “You know Bollywood?”

I laugh. “I’ve heard of it, though I can’t say I’ve seen any movies.”

“You look very much like famous star!”

“But I’m not Indian!”

“But you have his beard!”

And people say my beard makes me unapproachable.

I’m unsure of the exact stop I’m supposed to get off on, and use my movie star status and new friendship to alert me to when I’m supposed to get off the train. At Varanasi we part ways, me asking him to wish his friend well at the wedding, and him telling me to be safe and enjoy my travels. We part with the sureness of having made a connection, and even though it will neither be maintained nor pursued, both of us are better for it.

Bleary eyed and filthy I step off the train into bright Varanasi sunlight. As I had suspected, Indian trains are exactly what I expected them to be, which is to say, utter insanity trapped in a small space for hours on end.

An excitable young man who tells me that our driver is stuck in traffic meets me when I depart the train. I shrug. I’m on Indian time, things will happen when they happen. We rest under the shade of a large tree in the station courtyard while we wait, sipping chai. My new friend has brought us our tea in small unglazed ceramic cups, which I examine with some fascination.

“You like?” he asks, “Varanasi specialty, one time use, you just throw away and no trash!” he demonstrates by tossing his on the ground, shattering it. I pocket mine: it is a curiosity, and a free one. I’m glad to have it.

Our driver is a no show for twenty minutes. Finally my contact gets a phone call. “Traffic near the station is too bad for him to get close. We must walk to meet him.” We had been recreationally watching the traffic jam while waiting for the car.

“All right.” I throw my bag over my shoulder, ready to continue my adventure.

-Doug