Hard Travelin’ Kind Strangers
This is the sixth entry of my India blog done two years back
Monday, November 22, 2004
I have to admit I’m feeling a little tired, and hungry, so I’m just editing straight from the journal on this one– sorry, no snappy People magazine zingers this time. Just the straight poop:
” I have to say again that the last week or so has been such a wonderful, larger-than-life experience foor me, it is hard to come to even write this entry and relate them into words. I don’t think I can ever do it justice, the swirl of sights, sounds, and emotions, but I’ll try.
It started Tuesday morning at 5am, , walking through the darkened, early morning streets of Ahmedabad. The stray curs were staring me down like a porkchop. I had been going so hard on so little, it’s no wonder that they looked at me like an easy target. Yet there I was, walking with purpose from the Hotel Roopalee to the nearest autorickshaw driver down the street. I had been thwarted in getting out of town the day before, and it was my first experience of being tied up and let down by Indian mass transit. Luckily, a British woman of Indian descent saw me in distress at the ticket counter and spoke Hindi with the Ticket-wallah, and figured out a workaround so that I could get out of town early the next day. That was the good news. The bad news was that it was a second class coach, and it was a through train from Mumbai. That meant I could look forward to standing up for the 5 1/2 hour trip to Bhavnagar, something I had steeled myself to endure. I had done second class in Mexico– I could take this one on. In fact, I thought it would be a really great opportunity to talk with folks, and learn about their lives. The people in the business class air-con units could be so, well, businesslike. I would probably have more fun, and it was a morning trip, so the hot tin roof effect wouldn’t be so acute. And the people I would turn out to meet were extraordinary.
Walking onto the train platform, I was brainworking the plan: the only thing I needed to do when I get in, as far as I was concerned, was to keep my bag in sight. I have it bugsnug tight with combo locks, attempting to keep all the honest folks honest– as long as I stayed within grabbing distance of any miscreants, nobody could run off with it. At 6am, I mixed with a motley crue of second class ticketholders , and jockeyed for position as the train creaked to a stop. The atmosphere in an Indian “line” is sadly Darwinian. Woman and Child? No way sister. Little old lady in a Burgundy sari trying to edge her way in? I don’t think so. Nobody was gonna take my god-given seat away from me. Nobody. The granny wasn’t listening to my inner voice, however.
Ascending the staircase into the compartment, everyone pushed harder and harder, without regard to your sacred anatomical features I might add, and the door became a giant metal sieve, drawing the chaotic throng from outside and popping us out the other end one by one. I grabbed a handrail to use as a leverage device/ defensive blocker for those wedging in from the outside. It was brutal, but I tried to keep a strategic detachment to stay above it somehow. I had carried my backpack with my left hand beside me when the crowd crushed in , and of course the sieve effect had squeezed it slightly behind my body, out of my field of vision. I tried to heave it in behind me, but somehow it felt heavier. There seemed to be some sort of catch somewhere. Not being able to look back, knowing that the crowd would stop for nothing, I summoned all my Hulk power, “TIM MAD!!” and lifted it up with a great burst of power. To my great surprise, the little Burgundy Sari Grammy had somehow gotten between me and the pack, and the extra mass I had felt was actually her body sitting on the pack. With an agility that belied her years, she gracefully faulted off the pack and squarely in front of me. I could only stare in disbelief. I had to admire the tenacious geriatric. She had won the game and gotten a seat.
Now, my luck has been pretty tremendous with this particular game, and this ride was no exception. After sinking as low as I could go (even the little urchins who sat in between cars on large bags containing their entire gypsy lives had gotten better seats than I), I settled down in a forlorn crouching position, preparing for my morning in hell. While looking at my grimy shoes on the floor through my slightly parted knees, a pair of shiny black patent leather shoes appeared next to me. I looked up irritatedly. “What now, is the cop going to tell me to stand up? Get on top of the train? Better yet, get under the train?” Turns out, his voice was music to my ears.
He said, “Come.”
There in the next berth was a smallish, 2×2 foot cleared area on the bench for me. It wasn’t much, and I would not be able to use the back of the chair until I had insinuated myself into it with a glacial seat stealing technique I’d learned from a Guatemalan farmer years ago. You don’t just bust out and steal the seat, that would cause a conflict. You take it cheek by cheek, with a gentle rocking motion, slow like. If you don’t mind a little body contact, it works brilliantly. I felt in no time, I’d be sittin’ pretty, no pun intended.
Still insinuating myself into a legitimate seating situation three hours later, the train stopped for an unexpected break at an unknown cow town. Wait, every town is a cow town in India, I should say a farming town. Anyway, when we came back from the break, I had lost the ground I’d been making on bench space, but I made fifty question-asking new friends to take it’s place. I can’t remember who open the flood gates, but I remember getting sopping wet. Oh, it was the requisite stuff, name, age, nationality (it’s Canada, people) but the reactions were totally hilarious. Every reply from me would elicit cascading whispers of what I’d just said all around the train car. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of answering their question of my name with a full sentence.
“What yoor nem?”
“My name’s Tim”
“Schtem.”
“No, my name is Tim.”
“Namis Tem?”
“No. It’s Tim.”
“Schtem!”
Some eventually got it. Others just quit saying my name. But most people ended up calling me Schtem most of the rest of the journey in second class.
It aorund that time I had my historic first meeting with Pappu, otherwise known as Rahul Salecha, a fourteen year-old with one of those exuberant and engaging personalities that is at once as fascinating as it is irritating. He became my capricious muse for the next two days, because it was he who, without asking his father or mother for permission, invited me to go on an journey of a lifetime: a Pilgrimage with several Jain families to a complex of temples called Shatrunjaya, near the town of Palitana, Gujarat. This place is The Big Enchilada for the Jain People, the Holiest of holy temples in all of India, and an architectural marvel to behold — 863 carved marble temples, some of them 600 years old, in an compound that had been a thousand years in the making. Located on a hill where a path 2km long elevates 600 meters and overlooks a gorgeous valley with the Shatrunjaya River silently flowing through, it was vigorous spiritual journey that could wipe a Jain’s karmic slate clean. And they were going to show me how they do it.
But first we had to share laughs, compare watches and snack down on things called Hawaban Marda, Papad’s Churi, and my favorite, Chaa Pat. They also taught me a bit of Hindi pop poetry, the origin of which I’m not clear. It goes:
Chandu Ki
Chachi Ne
Chandu Ke Chacha Ko
Chandni Raat Main
Chandi Ki
Chamach Se
Chatni Chatai
Pappu and the others, namely his friend from Mumbai, Jitendra Katariya, tried to translate it for me, but that quickly fell apart. I told them the next time I saw them I would have it memorized. I plan on seeing them before I leave for the states. I better start now. Time seems to be flying by.
So it was this group of fifteen people, ages between 65 to 7, who took me in and showed me the workings of the epic journey to what they call “The Place of Victory.”
Sure, tourists went to Shantrunjaya because it is architecturally ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE, but I had gotten the backstage pass from the band, and was going to become a member of their group and pass through the rituals with them. It’s true, I had a chance of a lifetime on my hands, so I checked with Pappu’s father, Mehendra, just to see if he had heard about my great news. He said that he would like for me to come, but we’d have to find accommodations for me when we got into Palitana. The Hotel in which they were staying were for Jain families only. I said I’d be happy to do whatever was appropriate, and that included not going. To my relief, he insisted that I travel with them to Palitana. I was elated but I couldn’t wallow in it for long– the train stop at Songadh was coming up in two minutes, and I needed to pull my bag from the train to begin my ascent to the holy mountain!”
Part II: Reach for the Sky, Pilgrim