The train from Siliguri to Varanasi travels west across central India. It’s a beautiful route, crossing wide rivers with equally wide dark sand beaches, fields of crops and tilled soil, undeveloped plains and small towns with whitewashed mud houses and home-made tile roofs. Clusters of women in bright saris of marigold yellow, turquoise blue, hot pink and emerald green blur by. Cows and water buffaloes sift through piles of smoking trash for food.
Pakorrrraaa! Chai-iiiii! Men selling fried, spiced potato fritters, roasted peanuts, fresh bean sprouts coated in sliced green chilis, lime juice and masala, and pouring mini cups of chai from large kettles walk up and down the aisle. Beggars board at every stop, singing for money, sweeping the floor for money, or simply tugging on sleeves and staring you down for money.
The windows are open and the wind blows through the train. We talk with a young Nepali woman traveling with her mother and uncle to visit more family in Jaipur. Willa loves the train and she climbs on and off the berth in our compartment, watching the country rush by through the bars of the window, waving and calling out, “Bye!,” to the children, cows, and water buffalo we pass. She naps for a solid two hours, lulled by the rocking of the train car.
We had braced ourselves for the train ride, but it’s a pleasure.
Night falls and brings surprisingly cold air. We shiver and contort our bodies horizontally on our narrow berths and try to sleep, starting every time a passing train screams by. A large family boards the train at about 2AM, talking and bickering with each other in loud voices, arranging and rearranging luggage, as they settle into the berths directly above us.
In the morning, men and women line up to use the sink at the end of the car, each holding their toiletries of a bar of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and tongue scraper. Morning ablutions are lengthy and vigorous. The toilet I couldn’t will myself to use last night for the stink and liquid on the floor now empties out women immaculate in unwrinkled saris, beautiful make-up and thick, black hair neatly pulled back.
All of the filth in this country seems to be relegated to the public, common areas. People’s houses and yards are swept daily, potted plants lining the roofs and balconies. Motorcycles and cars are kept shiny. Bodies and faces scrubbed forcefully in public sinks and in the rivers.
Back in our berth, the Nepali family generously buys chai for everyone and shares with us the food they’ve brought in a metal tiffin carrier. The noisy family that boarded late shares potato chips and we share Marie biscuits and oranges.
(Johnny has identified our most American trait as ‘the last-minute purchase panic’ that takes over just before boarding buses and trains. We buy snacks and supplies that we don’t normally eat or use as though we’ll never see land again. Despite the fact that there is no public transportation in Asia that travels more than 20 kilometers without stopping for food, restroom, new passengers, tire change, talk on cell phone, checkpoint, or because we’ve gone too long without a stop.)
Willa and the noisy family’s two children play together, climbing on and off the berth, laughing themselves silly spinning and slapping the wall of the train.
Now 21 hours into our 17-hour train ride, we have consumed an inordinate amount of deep-fried snacks and cups of chai. Willa is beyond manic, whining into my chest with intermittent unintelligible yells. Johnny is staring out the window without seeing. I’m mentally walking through the produce section of Whole Foods, back in Austin, filling my cart with clean, crisp lettuce, plump, ripe tomatoes beaded with water and other fresh vegetables.
We have still not arrived in Varanasi, what is to be the first of many stops on our travels through India. Worse, we are still in the same region. We have not even progressed beyond the state of West Bengal.
