I started this blog to review films and share the wonders of Bollywood with you all. This hasn’t really happened. I know my failure to produce weekly reviews (did I actually say weekly in my Namaste post?) has distressed you and for that I'm sorry. This is me making it up to you. Friends, please enjoy the first in a series of posts about my time in India. I once was a naïve, self-involved person. Then I traveled to India and came back a naïve, self-involved person with a whole lot of stories.
Kidding! But not about the stories, those I have.
Jumping From Moving Trains and Other Ways of Dying
Haridwar in January. Do people outside of India realize how cold this country can get? It’s no Wisconsin winter but there’s also no heating. In one of Delhi’s bazaars I bought a red and black blanket for a couple of rupees. It was ugly and kind of scratchy but it did its job, my nightly incantation ensured it: "keep me warm, o blanket gods! And also, sometimes, please let red-scratchy blanket serve as a passable pillow for my world-weary head!" And so I was somewhat protected against the cold but, as with all things, it came with a price.
I took great pride in the luggage I brought to India. 3 ½ weeks crammed into a medium duffel; for me it was proof of the miraculous. The plan was to buy another duffel on the last leg of the trip to stuff full of all the hanumans, ganeshas and dupattas my rupees could buy. Enter red-scratchy blanket (as the blanket will henceforth be called). Red-scratchy blanket threw off my duffel, messenger bag to arms and hands ratio making navigating the treacherous streets, alleys, trains, rickshaws, etc. even more difficult. It doesn’t sounds like a big deal, but trust me it is. This, my friends, is a typical street scene in urban India.
Can you find Waldo? No, because he's pinned under a rickshaw.
I wasn't being cute when I said treacherous. I meant it literally. Of all the ways I almost died in India, being run over by (insert type of motorized vehicle, large four legged animal, or variety of wheeled-cart here) counts for at least half. The remaining half is divided between almost dying while riding (insert type of motorized vehicle, rickshaw or large four legged animal here) and eating street vendor food. One that stands out, mostly because while it was happening my mind nearly rebelled and refused to operate my limbs at a very crucial must-operate-limbs moment, involved jumping from a moving train.
My time in India was spent primarily in the north west region of the country and rail transportation was how we covered the most ground. From Delhi to Haridwar, Haridwar to Amritsar, all by train. This trip being a crash course in all things authentically Indian, we skipped all the amenities provided to first class passengers and stayed in the third class compartments. Third class meant traveling without such luxuries as "ventilation" and "space." Squeezed in our bunks stacked three tall to the ceiling of the train with ancient metal fans inches from our faces we lay trying to will ourselves to sleep. In the dark I heard my fellow top bunker whisper "this is what prison must feel like." I nodded silently in agreement and closed my eyes. I woke once in the night to use the bathroom and was never seen again.
At least that was I was thinking as I stared into what could only charitably be called a toilet. It was really a hole in the train floor and it taught me an important lesson: never say you've seen it all, you're only tempting fate.
Kidding! But not about the stories, those I have.
Jumping From Moving Trains and Other Ways of Dying
Haridwar in January. Do people outside of India realize how cold this country can get? It’s no Wisconsin winter but there’s also no heating. In one of Delhi’s bazaars I bought a red and black blanket for a couple of rupees. It was ugly and kind of scratchy but it did its job, my nightly incantation ensured it: "keep me warm, o blanket gods! And also, sometimes, please let red-scratchy blanket serve as a passable pillow for my world-weary head!" And so I was somewhat protected against the cold but, as with all things, it came with a price.
I took great pride in the luggage I brought to India. 3 ½ weeks crammed into a medium duffel; for me it was proof of the miraculous. The plan was to buy another duffel on the last leg of the trip to stuff full of all the hanumans, ganeshas and dupattas my rupees could buy. Enter red-scratchy blanket (as the blanket will henceforth be called). Red-scratchy blanket threw off my duffel, messenger bag to arms and hands ratio making navigating the treacherous streets, alleys, trains, rickshaws, etc. even more difficult. It doesn’t sounds like a big deal, but trust me it is. This, my friends, is a typical street scene in urban India.
Can you find Waldo? No, because he's pinned under a rickshaw.I wasn't being cute when I said treacherous. I meant it literally. Of all the ways I almost died in India, being run over by (insert type of motorized vehicle, large four legged animal, or variety of wheeled-cart here) counts for at least half. The remaining half is divided between almost dying while riding (insert type of motorized vehicle, rickshaw or large four legged animal here) and eating street vendor food. One that stands out, mostly because while it was happening my mind nearly rebelled and refused to operate my limbs at a very crucial must-operate-limbs moment, involved jumping from a moving train.
My time in India was spent primarily in the north west region of the country and rail transportation was how we covered the most ground. From Delhi to Haridwar, Haridwar to Amritsar, all by train. This trip being a crash course in all things authentically Indian, we skipped all the amenities provided to first class passengers and stayed in the third class compartments. Third class meant traveling without such luxuries as "ventilation" and "space." Squeezed in our bunks stacked three tall to the ceiling of the train with ancient metal fans inches from our faces we lay trying to will ourselves to sleep. In the dark I heard my fellow top bunker whisper "this is what prison must feel like." I nodded silently in agreement and closed my eyes. I woke once in the night to use the bathroom and was never seen again.
At least that was I was thinking as I stared into what could only charitably be called a toilet. It was really a hole in the train floor and it taught me an important lesson: never say you've seen it all, you're only tempting fate.
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| Don't call top bunk. |
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| If I were a realtor I'd call this cozy. |
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| A much nicer version of what still haunts me. |
The thing about Indian trains they didn't tell me, which also happens to be the single most important thing to know about Indian trains, is that sometimes they don't stop. Wait, isn't that the whole point of transport, you may ask, to pick up and drop off at various locations? You with your logic, there is no place for you here on this train. Now don't get me wrong - the train will stop, just not every time. If you're getting off in Delhi don't worry. You'll get the full stop treatment. One of the other towns along the way? Brace yourself.
We were headed for one of the "other towns" and I was still under the assumption I would be able to leisurely step onto the train platform, bags and red-scratchy blanket in hand ready for whatever new challenge awaited me. The train slowed then slowed some more. But it didn't stop. It.didn't.stop. This is when my travel companions began to jump off onto the platform. I remember thinking "Oh so we're doing this now" and "Maybe I fell asleep on the floor toilet and am dreaming this." No such luck, it was my turn to take the plunge.
Let's skip to the end first: I made it to the platform, physically unscathed. That's what really matters, right? Not the part where I nearly lose my group because I refuse to jump or when I slowly shook my head no when told by everyone to get off the train or when I did "jump" and red-scratchy blanket got caught on the side of the exit and threw off my equilibrium so much I landed like a sad rag doll on the concrete while (bonus!) the rest of the group lands like the graceful swans they are. Thankfully this incident was never mentioned again because these people were (and still are) some of the coolest people I've ever met. Thanks for that guys.
Red-scratchy blanket was eventually left with a family who lived outside of the YMCA in old Delhi. The six year old son used to follow us around with a bull whip (another story for another day) and we left them blankets and clothes that we hoped helped during the cold nights.
For people who didn't feel like reading my rambling story and cut to the end of this post for a summary, here it is: I jumped from a train and didn't die. Sounds fun, right?
I'll be posting more near death stories and other ramblings soon (I promise!) so keep watch. And because this is a blog about Bollywood here's a musical number from Chandni (1989) with superstar Sri Devi. She's hilarious and this always makes me smile. Enjoy!
