slowly rambling

we left varanasi with a magical taste in our mouth, ready to encounter whatever the road and train had in store with grace and indian ease. we hopped into an auto-rickshaw, the often extremely elaborate three-wheeled maniac-on-spinster machines that dot and dart across every urban indian horizon, and made for the train station. our driver was a lively, boisterous man, full of mirth, mustache and music (quite a catch, eh there girls?!), and the three of us - B, mike and i - were having a ball. as it is, indian women neither smoke nor drink, and they usually never drive; they certainly don't sit in the front (of semi-public transport such as autos and cabs) - nor are they "socially accustomed" to spit, curse, cheat, yell, swim (in public) or eat cheese (since the war in 1971 that is). en bref, it is a conspicuously 'old-school' populous with a rather 'antiquated' social contract - much to the chagrin of many a western female traveling throughout the land. to truly do justice to the essence of the story would first require a fullblown character sketch of French B (Berenice). (however, seeing as I am still traveling with her, that will have to wait until further ado)

anyhoo, the auto's buzzing through the narrow, meandering backroads out of varanasi, blasting his favorite hindi movie ballads and basking in his midday fortune. mike and i are crammed in the backseat with the bags, and B is in the front. already an anomaly+2 of sorts, B lights up a smoke and begins to sing along with our driver to the thumping, wailing, screeching madness of the hindi tune. seeing as women customarily neither sing, show emotion, sit in front or even smoke, the driver is on 300millionth heaven (one for each hindi god). the two in front bob their heads together and moan in unison to the earsplitting wails of the neutered chanteur, and mike and i die of laughter in the back seat. we approach a central thoroughfare and he slows down to greet a local coppermate of his. as the piggy approaches, the driver draws an inconspicuously (not) mysterious package wrapped in newspaper and hands it to the baksheesh beneficiary. the cop smiles, puts it in his jacket and lumbers back to his previous post. the driver cranks the music back up and speeds off into the bustle of cars, horns, horses, bikes, rickshaws, porters and pedestrians.

we're heading north out of a different station than that through which we'd arrived and need to get the lay of the land before debarking. as with any other station on the subcontinent, its bustling with yet another wealth of human density that would shake the foundation of montana's bucolic resolve and send her running for the (Northern) border in no time. we look up at the time table and try to track down our train. "it'll be on platform six in one hour," proclaims mike, a man on a praxical mission who, throughout our travels, was always on point. "cheers man, sounds good." suddenly a local officer approaches us, the glint and gleam of opportunism sparkling in his eye. "ah yes, show me your tickets and i will decipher their meaning."
"oh thank you officer, but i think we're set," replies mike, with ample certitude in his response. "indian train station very crazy," he takes pains to remind us, "you wait here while i go invent solution." knowing that he was only looking for a little baksheesh himself (eg tip, bribe), we sat down and laughed it off - resolved to the see the joke to its bitter end. about 50 minutes later, the officer returned. "ah yes, my friends, i have make discoveries - your train is on platform six, boarding in ten minutes!" "wow, officer, your expediency never fails to impress," mike replies with a sarcastic grin, "have a nice day," and we grumble on with our rucksacks towards platform six.

our compartment was uncharacteristically empty and we lumbered on into the slow, hot distance with ample room to chat and chive. we smoke cigarettes and drink warm water, for the car's dearth of density didnt justify the usual chai-wallah march that is customary on most indian trains (when a different vendor selling hot, sweet and spicy chai marches up and down aisles selling 10cent teas every five-seven minutes - a true delight indeed if ever an indian one there was!). we're almost exactly in the northern center of the country, about 200km south of nepal and equidistant between the arabian sea and the bay of bengal. though the monsoon has been too little and too late this year, the effects are still remarkable, and what had been the crispy, arid and earthen scorched beige that reigned across that same horizon only 4 weeks prior was now a mosaic of patchwork, richly irrigated greens that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. i tried to cram through my novel, the telling though travel-cliche backpackerhit book named 'shantaram' while B and mike played cards, though was too restless to remain put.

there are always certain, particular advantages to every human system, for any inherent 'order of things' that was truly unbearable to every party involved would surely crumble in due organic fashion. and though nearly everything in india is late, slow, inefficient and disorderly, rules are only a wise remark, regulations a faint suggestion. as we traversed the indian countryside, i'd sit in the open doorway, dangle my feet and engage my cancer stick, one after the other, as i watched the subcontinent and its inhabitants fade into horizontal oblivion. as the dusty breeze rasped through my dirty hair, we passed through medieval villages made of straw and mud, where the most colorful sari-clad women toiled endlessly in the fields, and the men would wander about barefoot, riding their bikes along the dirt roads, conducting their 'affairs' or simply squatting along the side of the tracks to get the demons out their tummy (which they seemed to do quite often and with great perspicacity. as of yet, i've counted 687 squatting nastiness/getting/ridders/of within view of the train since traveling from Calcutta. perhaps there's something in the wawa)

dusk finally approached and the train began to fill. around 8:30 we pulled into Lucknow, the sight of the famous 1857 indian rebellion, when upwards of 2,000 brits and their loyal locals were sent to the clouds after a year+ seige in and around the governor's mansion (im only 'lightheartedly' recalling the 'facts' of the incident, you may check wikipedia for your own peace of mind...). as is customary in larger cities, you have 35-45 minutes' rest at the train station, enough time to fill your water bottles and fetch a hot meal. by the time we sat down in the stationary compartment to eat our indian takeaway TV tray dinners, a small, gaping crowd had muscled its way into our compartment and immediate surroundings to catch a glimpse of the escaped convicts. woman, man and child alike had gathered to witness the mythical procession of three dirty occidental travelers shoveling an array of precooked curry, beans, rice and roti into their grimy mouths with their greasy fingers and no visible cutlery (as is normal with indian grub)

their curiosity wasn't merely culinary and by the time we'd finished eating, one of the young men mustered up the courage to spark up a conversation, though only once B, our female companion, had taken momentary leave to wash her hands. by the time she got back, our new companions were teaching me magic tricks, how to sing hindi songs and how smoke a cigarette with the cherry in the back of your mouth and the filter at the front. the main jokester sitting across from me was a virile and vivacious puntz of a little man, not unlike the great argie "el gordo" i'd known in general villegas, provincia de buenos aires some years before. when i asked whether he was sure we could smoke inside a crowded, festering train, he replied, "but of course, with this little document i have from my aunt, the transportation minister, my friends and i do as we please, whenever we please, hahahaha! we don't pay train if we don't feel like paying train, and we ride at our own pleasure!" Just at that moment, a ticket-taker was passing through the cabin. "Should i chuck my smoke?!" i asked with a worrisome demeanor. "hahahaha but of course not, let's light another for the occasion! guard - get over here! show me what you've got!" The ticket taker hurried along the corridor without looking back. "Haha - you see - between this little card and my magic tricks, they are all afraid of us!" I chuckled, took another drag and stared off into the starless distance