Close Encounters of a Surreal Kind
Varanasi's rail station at midnight feels like the inside of Salvador Dali’s mind. Hundreds of make-shift mattresses strategically placed around cow dung and I sprinted through them to catch my train. But there was no train, I had no ticket. I neglected to check my phone for a cancellation message.
Pleading with ticket officers for extra space, I found myself on a new train- in general class. Understanding this meant no real seat, only dozens of Indians locked in hip to hip in a cold cart, I waited four hours for the train.
When the train rolled in, the press of a child’s fingers on my backpack signalled the push onboard. Having scored a sitting space the size of an apple, the battle was not over. Rambling in my left ear a grandma adjusted her body to casually inch me off the bench. We exchanged words, in languages we mutually misunderstood, until I choked on a scream and directed my frustration on this skinny, elderly woman.
“Do not touch me!” violently escaped my mouth and the woman began to laugh. No passivity is allowed in these carts; assertion establishes respect. She willingly shared her space onwards and I slept with the waft of urine escaping the open toilet.
Despite the dry cold of the plains, windows remained open for gentlemen spitting hefty amounts of tobacco from their mouths. I woke and crawled to a top bunk, sans mattress, with curious eyes watching me sleep.
A stranger gifted me stale samosas and instructions when the thirteen hour ride arrived at my destination. I boarded the next bus heading to Rishikesh, the sights of trees unfolding and comforting my jaded spirit.
Though I had booked a hostel, I had no knowledge of its whereabouts, so I delivered my questions to a young Indian traveler sitting with a Sadhu. When we exited the bus, eager tuk tuk drivers offered me rates twenty times a reasonable price. My visible distress encouraged my new friend Shivendra to walk me the distance to my waiting bed, with a silent Baba by his side.
A two hour stretch to my hostel and Shivendra explained the Baba’s philosophy of serving others, while I recalled the warnings I received about solo female travel in India. Do not trust strangers. Do not engage in conversation with men. Do not return their gaze. But twenty-four hours since leaving Varanasi, I only encountered unconditional help and the beginnings of a valuable friendship.
As if India knew all along, co-operate with her and she co-operates with you.
