Part one of a two-part story.
RISHIKESH, India – So, four hours though the mountains on bus seats labeled and numbered for three but made uncomfortably for two, clutching on bars in front of you and wrestling with balance and inertia. All this, to get to Pathankot again and hit the train.
The first hour was cool … lil’ leg room, lil’ shoulder room … then more and more climbed on `til there were as many standing and falling over me as there were sitting down.
The steep switchbacks and hairpin turns finally were impetus enough for the drunker than drunk idiot rummie in front of us, who kept repeating his bad breathed questions, to turn his red-eyed self around and grip himself in for the ride.
As the kilometers passed, it cleared out a bit, but the dark brown faces of some of the Indian passengers were oh so cadaverously pale and clammy. Up front, a lady dressed in traditional Hindi fashion, was puking out the window, choreographed through alternation with the young blue-sweatered chap whose curly hair was prematurely falling out. The old man in the turban and crabby disposition (who I named “Abdullah the Puker”), he just puked to his own beat but to a rather frequent drum.
One by one, they all went to their homes tired and weary from a day’s work and commute.
I looked up as the bus station drew close and noticed mostly white faces left. Just Kelly, Natasha, me and two other tourist types with crazy hair and purple clothes.
I got up, stretched my back and looked over my shoulder, popping my neck, only to find a large goat a couple of seats back.
“When the hell did that goat get on board?” I asked.
Everybody laughed, but not one of us had a clue and goat … well, he just stayed on as I got off and climbed up to get our packs. He must have been the custodian as he was feverishly cleaning up any objects like a hungry vacuum.
Walking through the Pathankot train station we looked for the ticket window and the power went off.
Kelly goes, “Man, I sure am glad you guys are here, too.”
I agreed and noted that I could quickly come up with a short and a long list of places I’d rather be when the lights go out than in a dirty, smelly train station 12 miles away from one of the most fought over borders in the world.
Natasha’s silhouette lightly whispered, “Man, Pakistan is somewhere over there in the dark.”
The lights flickered and struggled and then came back on and for dinner we had train station dal and little pita breads for dipping with brown heated scars on one side or the other. Kelly went to go get some cigarettes and somewhere between here and there lost her wallet.
Nothing too terrible, just $30 in rupees. I had enough in my pockets to do some spotting, so no harm done, this would still be a good trip.
At the ticket counter, the man tells me, “No sell tickets here after six … you get on train and conductor come by and you get from him.”
“OK” is what I thought and a young boy in a pale blue uniform came by with kettle and cups, “Chai-Chai-Chai-Chai-you want Chai tea?” His voice trailed off, echoing through the station.
We had a bit of trouble finding the car that housed the bunk of Kelly’s previously bought ticket but eventually spotted car S-5 and went through the winded, laborious efforts of getting big ol’ packs through little ol’ cracks.
Her bunk was found as well as others empty in the vacinity. I got the numbers and ran out to find the conductor. He was this grumpy-looking, sour-faced fart, who looked like someone punched him good and square in the chin and the only thing that kept his mouth from exiting the back of his head was that long greasy mustache hanging from his upper lip. He was annoyed by my pestering and seemed to love his job as much as Bartleby the Scrivener. He said, “OK, OK” and wrote it down.
Minutes later he entered our car to check the tickets and when I went to give him money he acted like he’d never seen me before. It was like talking to a chinless brick wall.
The conductor said to that we had to get off and go like four cars down and get tickets from the conductor there. By the time I got down and reached for my pack he was gone and the train was a creepin’ on and this rickety-ass old choo-choo had the cars’ doors nailed shut so that every two or three cars were closed up. We stayed on in our pack of three and every time the little stops eased in we prayed like bad thieves with good lawyers during jury deliberation that nobody with a ticket or birthright would get on. I smiled every time the greasy wheels started, like I was a good thief with a stellar alibi.
After about two hours, at a major stop, it happened and general sourpuss no-chinny-chin came back kicking me off, going, “You! Go! You go!” with bags and girls behind. I ran to other conductors out on the platform and a closed ticket window, trying to buy a ticket, but to no avail. I heard creaking and looked over at the train moving again. It picked up speed suprisingly quick and I got up a little sprint in my big hiking boots and jumped, grabbing the rails while two boys ran along, cheering my heroism on.
Another conductor came to greet me and, out of breath and excited, I started to explain my plight. He smiled and “shhhhd” me, pointing to the ones asleep then motioned for me to wait as he went to the bathroom. I waited `til I heard him grunting and the voices in my head kept telling me, “Run! Hide! Don’t trust these no-ticket-selling nuts and end up getting stuck smack dab in the middle of nowhere India by yourself with no money or pack.”
I scurried through the dark and found a couple of empty bunks and climbed up. That was it, I guessed. I was a stowaway on an Indian train running through the middle of the night. One of those writers once said, “Material don’t come easy.” “No crap!” is what I said.
My sleep was with one eye open and I just slept, hoping olfactory fatigue would kick itself in. A few soldiers dressed in fatigues below me were issuing eggy-stained farts from those Indian MRE’s – oh, how their bellies must’ve been a rumblin’. The rest of the train just smelled like five-day-old urine.
At the next little stop I ran back to quell the would-be-worrying of the girls. I told them what car I was in. Natasha was safely there, still with no ticket either. Out of the confusion of earlier, she had managed to climb back on.
But, she woke me up later in my tin box of foul-flavored air, stating that the man with the official piece of paper to that place where she’d laid her head had finally come aboard and she was forced to move on.
To be continuted in the April 9 edition of the ET.

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