Night train to Varanasi

Nasir and his uncle discussed what to do and the next moment I was running up an escalator behind Nasir. He said, “Come Trassee!” He gained a good ten-feet in front of me, my wheeled-bag flapping like a tethered bird trying to escape its trainer. “Nasir, will I make my train?” I yelled. But he didn’t hear me. Then I began to laugh and invite what this new experience was bringing. Then I knew deep in my heart that I’d be on this train when it pulled away from station. I wasn’t sure how, but certainty flowed in and though each of my billions cells. Then I felt an energy boost as though an injection of something powerful was released and I picked up the pace. I ran with confidence, conviction and most of all trust, that all would be well and that this event is a very important part of my journey. As I followed Nasir down the many tunnels that connected the new and old parts of this city, my consciousness struggled, without success, to recall a time when I had this much energy. At fifty-one years old I was hurtling stairs with a heavy pack on my back, weaving through what seemed like half of Mother India’s children. As I ran my mental hard drive continued its search and suddenly stopped abruptly on a memory file, almost thirty years old, complete with images of me running up and down the hilly terrain of Camp Pendleton. Another surge of adrenaline rushed in as I closed the distance between Nasir and me. I’m nearly giddy by the excitement of the chase. I wondered why I kept running when I knew with certainty I’d be on the train to Varanasi. But how did I know? Where was this feeling of confidence coming from? As I befriended it I realize it was a kin to the faith that told me that this journey was predetermined, maybe even written in Sanskrit on some ancient scrolls that says, “Tracy will walk the banks for the Ganges in this particular century, this decade, and this year, even on this particular day.”

Our bodies came to an abrupt stop as we slammed into the stainless steel ticket counter of the Metro station. The ticket agent was undisturbed by our sudden and almost aggressive appearance. His lack of reaction confirmed my suspicions that people often emerge abruptly because they’re all in a rush to get where they are going. Where is everyone going in such a hurry? Why don’t they just leave earlier? But it’s not that they’re in a hurry, it’s that there are just so many people, period. I’m coming from a country with a population of 309 million and recently arrived in a country with over one billion people in it and they are all competing for their space in line, for a seat on a train, for their turn to be heard.

I slipped a ten-rupee note through the opening in bottom of the thick Plexiglas. I took my change and thought, “I get change?” But I’ll compute the cost at some later date. Nasir pulled one of the tokens out of the palm of my hand and resumed his lead position. I went straight for the turnstiles and realized I’ve lost Nasir. I turned to find Nasir and instead came face to face with a tall skinny man in a drab khaki uniform and a black leather belt with several molded compartments holding enough unknown objects to make him look intimidating. He held out his arm to stop me from entering the Metro. I followed the sharp military crease up his long-sleeve and into his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. He was void of any real expression as I attempted to translate his blank face into instructions I could follow. I wanted to say, “Not now fella I got a train to catch.” He said something in Hindi while pointing to some where behind me just as I heard Nasir say, “Trassee, you must but your bag here.” I turned as he dropped my Osprey on the large conveyor belt of a dirty x-ray machine that looked like an O’Hara Airport reject from seventies. Nasir responded to the police on my behalf, probably saying something like, “Silly foreigner, she doesn’t know.” They laughed, I laughed, and we crab the bags and made a quick u-turn to the down-escalator to the platform below us. I’m relieved to find another constant anchoring the familiar with the unfamiliar. These mechanical steps looked just like those leading to the platform at the Powell Street BART Station. I was amazed to see that a particular universal decorum was practiced by commuters all over the world as those choosing to ride stood to the right descended slowly to the platform, while Nasir and I, along with a few others, took to the left as we flew down the moving stairs, skipping every other one.

I realized I was having a blast, even though I was quickly becoming drenched in sweat from wearing more clothes than needed for an unplanned workout. The likeness of this system with those in San Francisco, New York and London gave me a cultural-constant and comfort as time slowed the faster I moved. It was happening in slow motion in my head, while my body was getting another infusion of adrenaline. I saw Nasir almost take out a couple of commuters with my bag that slapped both sides of the escalator walls. The loud thud, was just what I needed to get my mind and body on the same speed. I laughed with relief that I didn’t have the usual breakable souvenirs in my bag that I’ve collected on previous foreign holidays as a tourist. Instead it’s filled with a sleeping bag, a zipper-hooded fleece, a headlamp; not for coal mining but finding the toilet when the lights go out, which I’ve been told happens often. It hits me like the train I’m running to catch and I stumble to a full stop and I say outloud, “Oh my god, I’m not a tourist here! And if I’m not a tourist, then what am I?” Nasir turns to ensure his charge is still keeping up, instead he’s sees that I have stopped. “Come on Trassee, you must run!” I re-position my grasp on the present moment and begin to make a mental list of the inquiries I’m shelving for a less-dramatic moments.

A polished silver train approached from deep inside the tunnel. I followed closely behind Nasir as this would be the wrong time to get separated. The train came to a sudden stop, making the passengers sway back and forth. The train was packed full of working-class Indians that all wore western clothes. I looked at Nasir with a “you really think they’re going to let us on?” expression. The doors open and he took a tight grip around my forearm and pushed me into the crowd of exiting passengers in a country where personal space was non-existent. This slender handsome salmon was determined to make it up and over the waterfall with his charge. The doors closed behind us and I looked for a place to hold on but there was none. I chuckled, realizing it’ll be impossible for me to fall over I couldn’t even see my feet. Heeding the warnings over the loudspeaker in both Hindi and English to beware of pickpockets, I placed one hand on my waist where my money-belt was concealed under three layers of clothing. I gripped Nasir’s sleeve silently saying thank you for going to great lengths to get me on a train, that he wished I wouldn't take for one or two more days. He smiled big, which I took as confirmation that I was forgiven for not fulfilling his wish.

I was tempted to look at my watch but I made a pact with myself that I would just move toward my train and once on the train I could check the time. This would a demonstration of faith, which I knew from previous experience caused very powerful results. For right now the lighted kiosk above the doors got my focus. Nasir confirmed with a nearby passenger that Old Delhi train station would be the next stop. Nasir grabbed my forearm again and looked at me intently as if to say, “Get ready!” I knew that another race was just outside these doors, but other that, I was clueless. The doors opened; last in, first to be pushed out! The shove was just what we needed to establish the momentum to run up the escalator stairs. If I said “Excuse me!” once I said it a hundred times, but I might as well have been saying, “Please stay where you are. I want to increase this game’s difficulty!” I’m sure I left some bruises in my wake.

I watched Nasir move in and out of the ground noticing his inexhaustible effort to get me to the train. It would have been so easy for him to say, “Oh well Tracy, you’ll have to go another day” once he realized the mistake that was made. It’s as if it was his mistake and he wasn’t going to let this karma come back around.

We must be very close because the western clothing has changed to the traditional wardrobe of India. Colorful sarrees and Punjabi suits worn by the women eclipsed the men in drab-colored shirts and trousers. We stood on the stairs above a platform when Nasir yelled the name of my train into the crowd. An available coolie responded with the platform number, which was where we stood, and he snatched my bag from Nasir’s grip as if it was a empty straw basket. Nasir stood on the threshold that he couldn’t cross without a platform ticket. The hand-off was instantaneous. I was now following the coolie down more stairs that led to my waiting train. Was it waiting for me, because the usual platform campers had all disappeared? Once I reached the flat surface I turned around to look at Nasir, telling him “Good bye” with my eyes. It’s not appropriate for men and women to exchange even platonic affection in public. I’ve never left a friend or loved one at the ‘curb’ without even a ceremonial embrace until now. Nasir shouted from the top of the stairs, “Bye Trassee. Don’t pay him more than 65 rupees!” Not the usual good-bye I’ve come accustom to, but nothing is as I’m accustom to.

My coolie took off like a bull-legged pack-mule who had been slapped on the hide quarters. He must have been very aware that the train would pull out at any minute. Watching him run with such exaggerated bows in his legs reminded me of mixer blades doing more folding than whipping.

Still running, I managed to pull my ticket free from my fanny-pack to confirm the coach number. It seemed as if two hours had passed with all the excitement, but it’s not possible because my train is still here and I was told from a reliable source that originating trains always leave on time. Holding to my agreement, I resisted the urge to look at my watch reminding myself, “No you don’t! This is a journey of trust!” I looked for my coolie who I lost track of when running while extrapolating information from my eTicket. I looked for my bag, which is the only familiar thing I could lock onto in these extremely unfamiliar surroundings. I looked behind me doubting that I passed him, but sure enough he was coming up behind me panting, his leathery skin drenched in sweat. My blue Osprey was still mysteriously perched on his head as he ran. Both of us in our fifties; mine were early and his were probably late. We might be in the same place but our cultures put us very in different worlds. His skin is dark and wrinkled by the both the closeness of the sun and his arduous occupation. He looked so small in the distance. Then I realized it wasn’t the distance but his height, or lack there of, that made him seem so small. I stood taller than him even with my bag on his head. I let him catch up to me to ask him which was my train since there were trains on both sides of the tracks. He must have understood enough English because he pointed to the right with his free hand while the other kept my bag balanced on his head with the help of a loosely draped red turban.

My attention was captured by the painted ‘B2’ in on the dingy grey-blue coach. I’ve surely run the entire length of the train. I looked behind me and couldn’t see the end of the train and then glanced up the track in front of me and there were only two other coaches and the engine. If I had more time to inspect the train I would have been concerned that it looked as though it’s been in service since Gandhi was alive. I remember landing at the Delhi Airport and as our pristine plane taxied to the gate I looked out the window at the passing train. I was shocked to see people riding on the top, which I thought was a thing of the past. I was about to learn that the many documentaries on India I watched to prepare for this trip weren’t as out-dated as I thought.

I turned to my coolie and pointed to the coach number. He nodded and said, ‘Achcha!’ Then he asked me something in Hindi as we stood in front of the passenger list pasted to the side of the coach. Before I could remove the folded wet document that once was my ticket, he was pointing to my name on the list. I was shocked. "How does he know my name?" He took my surprise as acknowledgement and disappeared into the coach with my bag still on his head. I followed him through a narrow door that led to the berth compartments. We shuffled and shifted to get our luggage-clad bodies down the small passageway trying not to step on the feet of the seated passengers. I was too deep in cerebral relief to be inside the train, in what I assumed was less than twenty-five minutes, to notice that my presence was stopping numerous conversations as if E. F. Hutton had just boarded. “I’m on the upper berth,” I said loudly, as a clean-shaven tall India man with a gentle face and immaculate haircut stood and lifted my bag the distance between the tiny coolie and the upper berth. My bag now looks like a beached whale on the narrow bunk. The coolie was relieved to be rid of the heavy load and was now looking to be paid. I replayed Nasir’s advice not to give him more than 65 rupees when I looked into the sunken eyes of this exhausted dark-skinned man. He watched intently as I counted the ‘ready cash’ concealed in the back zipper pouch of my fanny-pack. Rupees still looking a bit like Monopoly money to me yet it’s helpful that the notes are different sizes. I pulled out one of the larger bills and expected it for its denomination. I handed him the 100-rupee note wishing I could ask him why he chose such a laborious occupation. I would soon learn the vast difference between my choices and his.

I assumed he was pausing to see if I expected change, but really he was wanted more. I stood up to adjust my bag and couldn’t help but notice that he was still standing there. Before I could say anything to him another passenger in my compartment said something to the coolie and he scoffed and left. As he was leaving I said “Namaste”, hoping that he would realize that I was grateful. I climbed onto the ladder to my berth and stared at my bag wondering how I was going to sleep through the night with this bag taking up a third of my bunk. The man who help lift my bag from the porter said in very clear English asked, “Where’s your chain and lock?” I choose to spare him the boring story of my unsuccessful search in the Chandigarh marketplace for those necessary items. “I don’t have a chain and lock yet.” So instead of him removing my bag from the berth he reached up and pushed it into a vertical angle at the head of the bunk. Part of it rested on the rack that’s for small pieces of over-head luggage such as briefcases. At least it was taking up less of sleeping space. I nodded and said, “I’ll manage. I’m just glad to be aboard. I just ran from New Delhi station where I thought this train left from.” He said, “Well ma’am you’re lucky because this train always leaves on time, but not tonight.”

I scratched my hand on my watch as I peeled off my jacket. I looked at the time. It was 6:10 pm. I smiled to myself and felt sure that I was meant to be on this train. I sat on the lower berth trying to remember if I have ever sweated to this degree. At that moment I felt sure I had triumphed over at least one aspect of menopause; hot flashes. I smiled as I slowed my breathing, which began to cool my body. The air-conditioning, I’m told, would only be turned on once the train had left the station and then it would take a few minutes before we would actually feel it. The car was hot and steamy partly from the passengers who boarded early but they seemed unbothered by the heat but then again they hadn’t just run a marathon. I gazed out the foggy dirty window thinking about how proud I was of myself. I was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps nearly 30 years ago and all through boot camp and four years of active duty I was never required to do what I had just pulled off. I basically completed a 10k obstacles course through the Indian transportation system with a fifteen-pound pack on my back, in jeans, long sleeve shirt and jacket in trekking shoes. The train sped up, but for me everything seemed to slow as I considered all that I have already conquered. I continued to look out the window as the train pulled away from Old Delhi on its way to the even older city of Varanasi where so many new experiences await me.