As our train creeps along at a camel's walking pace; the countryside merging into smelly, congested cities, children hop on the ends of cars for a free (albeit, taken) ride. They crawl at times, shuffle, past our sticky blue vinyl seats with their palms outstretched for our leftover food and spare change. The look in their eyes tells you they are adept at making you feel sorry for their plight. The droop of their brown eyes is meant to pull at your heard strings. I turn my head away because I can't take one more pathetic look and because instead of compassion I am feeling aggravation and annoyance at their constant begging and the way they pass by the Indian passengers for us, the soft American women.
The train touts that it is the "Superfast" Express train but, the hours tick by slowly, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades; makings it's slow crawl down my back like our train snaking it's way south to Chennai. Flat fields of green in Gujarat turn into dry, acrid looking soil with patches of green gardens, their borders cleanly lined with fierce looking cacti plants. Occasionally, a man working the soil wearing the loincloth/skirt common in the south, will look up from his toils as our train passes him by. I am too far away to see a far away look in his eye; our slow "Express" train moving too quickly to catch the lift of slight, darkly browned shoulders in a sigh.
There are so many ways to write about my travels to make it sound like an adventure but, sometimes it feels more like a misadventure than anything. "Devoted", five times daily, praying men prey on us, chatting us up, asking unsuspecting and naive Milly for her phone number, offering food from their personal supplies. Sadhus squat on the ends of our car, mostly looking out the window or doors at the passing landscape. In the middle of the night when I, unfortunately, wake with the unstoppable urge to pee, I see him still sitting there and an eerie feeling passes over me; one I wish to ignore. Has he only been looking out the doors this whole time, contemplating how we are all connected to a cosmic universe, or did his eyes only begin to wander?
The distasteful journey continues with me actually plucking up enough courage to throw my trash right out the window with the rest of the passengers; adding to the refuse piles made up of tin trays from untasty meals, bags, bottles, used feminine products, etc. I feel like out the window I just threw out my American bred civic responsibility to keep our spaces green. Sure, things are green here, but they are also red from Thumbs Up wrappers and silver from tin plates and cans. The first few times I did it there was a pain in my heart, the 4th, 5th, and 6th times I was a little more numb to it. Hey - it kept my tiny, crawl space relatively free of debris.
Thirty-six hours, a bus ride and a short walk later, we arrive travel worm and Brother's of the Holy Cross where we were told we will be staying. In typical Indian fashion, they tell us they are sorry but, no women can stay here, it is a man's dorm. "But, we were told to come here by your staff" we argue in our now Indian inflected English. A half hour later, they admit their mistake; we are in fact staying in a dorm next door and they deposit us in a room that makes me think of a bad camp experience. The mosquitoes immediately begin to feast on my fresh meat and the bed is akin to the concrete floor it rests on but, all I can think about is ripping (peeling is more like it) off the grime in a shower (cold, please) and finally going to the bathroom in relative privacy. And this time I don't want to see my waste disappearing in a trail down the tracks, Oh, thank you God, Krishna, Buddha or whomever is listening for soap and water!
The return trip has been forgotten for the moment out of sheer unadulterated highs brought on my walnut facial scrubs, hemp shampoo and clean underwear. Oh, the bliss.
This is the account of a brave traveler in India.