How I Traveled 2,200km in 50 hours

This is the story of a my journey overland across India. 

It's All Relative  

On our second day in Varanasi, Diego and I sat down with Marco and Manu for lunch. The Old City had turned a Little Italy, for all the Italians we were bumping into. As chillums fired, we spoke of our travel plans after Varanasi. Marco stated casually that he had it the easiest, and that after a nap on the overnight bus he'd be back in Kathmandu.

For a moment I was suspended in disbelief. The 500km bus ride Marco so trivialized was the reverse course of the 10-hour bus we took from Kathmandu to India. Up to that point, the winding mountainous road had been the longest leg of my travels. I remember being so worried about my bag falling off the bus, or worse that on some sharp turn the bus would fall off the mountain. Now only a few days later, the same journey was being brushed aside as a cakewalk. 

But Marco was right. He did have it the easiest, compared to the rest of us. Manu had a long trip ahead of him, two days on the train to some unknown part of India. While Diego and I would be taking the mammoth cross-country train down to Gokarna, traveling the length and breadth of India over the course of three days.

Talk about relativity. I was about to put on some serious miles.

No Berth for Young Men

A few days later, Diego and I narrowly missed our train out of Varanasi. Not the best way to start an odyssey, but no point crying over spilled milk. Fortunately, a helpful man at the train station's foreign office told us another train would be coming in two hours, that would take us to Mumbai in time to catch our connecting train to Gokarna. While this was good news in itself, it also effectively meant that our journey would be shortened by two hours. The bad news was that there would be no assigned places for us on the sleeper class, and we would have to "work it out".

By the time we boarded the train it was after dark. There were no beds (called berths) left in either sleeper coach, so we moved to our old spot at the end of the carriage, between the exit doors and next to the toilet. The night train wasn't as crowded as the day train, and there was enough space to sit on the ground. However, like the rest of India, real estate quickly became an issue. Locals gradually set up their mats and sheets to sleep on the floor around us, and in no time we were having to step over mummified bodies to use the toilet.

It would turn out to be a restless night. We played a sit-on-your-bag version of the Wing Chun game while the train moved, and got up at every station in hopes of catching a vacant berth. There were always a few other people angling for the same spot, springing into action as soon as the train started slowing down. Most berths were reserved, but on the off chance there was a free space, it was a matter of who got there first. At other times compassion prevailed, and the berth was given to those who obviously needed it more, an elderly couple or a young family with children. After a dozen stations, we stopped trying. 

A uniformed man approached, supposedly to validate train tickets. After a few minutes of gesturing and broken English, the message got through that he wanted us to pay him in return for securing us a berth. He knew from our tickets that we didn't have a reserved space on the sleeper car, and was offering to 'fix' the situation if we greased him. The cheapness made us automatically reject him, though I had an ethical problem with the proposal as well. Given there were blatantly no berths available, a bribe from us would presumably lead him to kick someone else out of their spot. That just wouldn't do.

And so I attempted to doze while sitting on my bag, because something prevented me from taking the final step of sleeping on the floor. I was dirty enough at this point, but I still needed a mat or something to lie on. 

Open Door, Empty Roof

I discovered the beauty of sitting at the open doorway, feeling India fly past. Instinctively, I was nervous that someone might push me off the train, but at this late hour the risk was improbable. It was too dark out to see anything beyond the faint outlines of the hills or an occasional tree, but the wind in my face stirred an incredible feeling of freedom inside me. I held on tightly to a handle and stuck my head out the door, hearing the roar of the wind over the rhythm of the train, and loving it.

Whether it was due to Slumdog Millionaire or an oft-heard cliché, I had envisioned India's trains crawling with people. To climb a train: the ultimate risk in the Western world, only to be attempted by secret agents and superheroes. But this is the subcontinent, where there is somehow less regard for the value of life. Either that or people learn to live with higher levels of risk (not unlike secret agents and superheroes). 

I'd witnessed hundreds of people perched on top of buses and trucks on the highways of Bangladesh, and was therefore slightly disappointed when I didn't see a single figure hug the roof of an Indian train. Maybe they only went up there between stops, and I didn't realize. Looking back, I would've loved to climb onto the roof myself, and lie back on my hands with my face to the stars, watching the night sky drift. 

At some point the hours stopped making sense, and it felt like we had been on the train forever. Constantly moving southwest, inching slowly towards our destination. Stop and go, stop and go. I got a full appreciation of how large a country India actually is—in the time it was taking overland from Varanasi to Gokarna, I could have crossed three or four national borders in South East Asia. 

Train Chai

When morning arrived, it came with the realization that we would remain on this train for another full day. Exhaustion prevented us from enjoying sunrise, but we weren't so concerned about that. What we were really waiting for was a place to sleep. The sun had fully risen by the time a top-level berth opened up. We scrambled onto it, happy to have a place to at least put our bags. It was so cramped that every time we moved, we risked bumping into the ceiling or a fan. However this was a huge improvement already, and I slept leaning against my bag, trying not to dangle my feet in the faces of the people in the berth below.

It was a fitful rest, but my guard was let down enough to drift off here and there. Hours later, a nearby berth opened up and I quickly moved to claim it. I've never been more grateful for my own place to sleep. Using my bag as a pillow, I finally passed out to the rumbling sounds of the railroad. I woke up to find an old man sitting on the edge of my berth, utilizing what little space I hadn't taken up. He saw me stir and made a move to leave, but I smiled and gestured for him to be my guest. I then turned around and went right back to sleep.

There was no perception of time on this 28-hour train to Mumbai. To break up the monotony, I found myself looking forward to the food vendors that walked through, loudly selling their wares of chai, water, samosas and biryani. With nothing else to do but read and sleep, every opportunity to munch was cherished. I genuinely liked the food, and drank chai like my life depended on it. When I was done eating, I threw my trash off the train just like everyone else. Saving it in a plastic bag doesn't make sense when you eat that much and there's literally no room for garbage, anywhere. Considering my complete disregard for my stomach, it was a good thing my bowels didn't move during the entire trip. That wouldn't have been pretty. 

At long last, we pulled up to the station in Mumbai, in the weening hours of that second night. As we stepped off the long-haul train for good, it was surreal. My train legs were stiff with atrophy and unused to solid ground, my bags felt twice the weight. 

But we made it. The worst was over.

The People On The Mats

There were bodies everywhere in the dark, cavernous arrival hall. Snoring on mats large and small, on every object that looked remotely like a seat. Curled up along the walls and across the floor in arrangements that allowed little room to walk. I noticed one 'sheet' that looked familiar. Imagine the front side of the packaging on 50 bags of Doritos chips, industrially printed on one sheet of plastic and, before being cut up and attached to the back panel of the bag of chips, ended up here to be slept on.

I couldn't imagine where people obtained these chip packet label sheets, but it was pretty cool.

We found a waiting room, which was lit and had no people sleeping on the floor. It had exactly what we needed: free seats and power. I hooked up my computer to the socket, securing the adapter with my trusty judo tape, and we watched martial arts videos and movies until our next train showed up. 

Silpa

We left the station at mid-morning the third day. After sleeping to our hearts' content on the first train, we stayed up all night to watch videos at the Mumbai train station. Our body clocks were completely dysfunctional by now, and we passed out as soon as we got to our seats. Thank God we had reserved places for this train, and it was only going to be a 12-hour ride.

The happy smells of food woke me up, and we had lunch while getting to know the other people in our compartment. A father was traveling with his two daughters back home to Kerala. The daughters were in their late teens / early twenties and friendly, speaking good English. A young man also shared our compartment, himself a student from Kerala but rather shy.

After the meal, the father curled up in the top berth for a nap, and I continued chatting, mostly with the elder daughter Silpa. This in itself was a new experience, because nowhere else in India did I have the chance to sit down and talk to a local woman, of any age. This might have been due to a lack of English, but mostly it seemed prohibited by custom. Women rarely travel alone or in small groups. They were usually with their fathers or husbands, and in Varanasi the female pilgrims moved in numbers closer to a dozen. Even in the recent notorious rape case in Delhi, the poor victim was with a male friend when she was attacked. 

And here was Silpa, happily chatting away with curious abandon, while her father trusted these strangers enough to curl up and sleep. I noted all this in the back of my mind as the conversation progressed, but for the most part it was enjoyable to have a genuine conversation with an Indian girl. She had good taste in movies, and we exchanged data. Pretty soon her sister and the other student joined in the conversation and we all became acquainted, playing games and telling jokes. 

Time goes by so much faster when you're in the company of new friends, and before we knew it, our station was coming up. We were getting off at Karwar to take one final connecting train, and everyone else was continuing south to beautiful Cochin, Kerala.

Somehow the energy drained from us as soon as we stepped off at Karwar. The sun had long set, and the station was dark and deserted. As we found our next platform, I looked up and down the tracks, seeing no one. It was cool and lifeless, but we easily found a bench to rest on while we awaited the final train. I realized how exhausted I was, and started to look forward to a proper bed.

When it came, we dragged ourselves onto the last train for Gokarna. Everyone on board was asleep, but this coach had seats, not sleeping berths, making it much easier to find a spot. Diego and I had traveled together long enough that we didn't need much verbal communication to understand each other, so we silently branched off, each to find our own seat.

My mind entered another half-dream before being jilted awake. 

We had reached Gokarna.

Staring out the window...

...You see some interesting things

And despite the cramped spaces...

...People can still be friendly :)

India Training

In my travels, I've ridden many forms of transport: planes, buses, cars, boats, motorcycles, trucks, vans, donkeys, camels and every manner of rickshaw. Without a doubt, my favorite way of getting around is by train. It's a great middle ground between the expense of airplanes and the discomfort of buses. I get a scenic view of the countryside, without the sharp turns and incessant bumps that plague the roads of many developing countries. Most importantly, I can get out of my seat at anytime to stretch and walk around. 

Before entering India, I researched the train system as much as I could. (www.seat61.com is a good website to figure out train travel in any country). One of the most used train services in the world, it carries 20 million passengers a day. The rail network covers most the entire country, and while there are (often) delays, it is for the most part an efficient, well-oiled machine.  

But what a complicated system to figure out. There are no less than 8 classes of coaches, each with different prices and fixtures. The class codes are confusing as hell, but I thought that an air-conditioned 2-tier sleeper journey sounded reasonable, not so snobby as air-conditioned first class but still relatively comfortable. It was repeatedly mentioned that train capacity is limited, often booked weeks or months in advance. There are limited quotas for foreign tourists, but it's far better to reserve tickets beforehand, so I jumped through innumerable hoops to be able to reserve tickets online, on both systems (Cleartrip and MakeMyTrip). 

Nevertheless, when I came to buy my tickets online to Varanasi, the system would not let me. Somehow the Indian red tape had foiled my plans, again.

Turns out there's no need to reserve tickets online after all. Diego showed me that buying from the train station is the surest way to get a ticket, and in his experience he'd never found a train that was so full that he couldn't find a ticket. Of course, Diego's cheapness demanded that we buy only the cheapest tickets possible, i.e. general class. No air conditioning, no padded leatherette seats, no privacy curtains. We would be traveling how normal Indians travel. 

Train Training

There would be no assigned seating either. When we got on the train to Varanasi at dawn, the general coach was already full of people, and any hope we had of finding a seat was immediately dashed. There wasn't even much standing room, and with our bags on, it was difficult to navigate the narrow corridors inside the seating compartment. We opted instead to stay at the end of the carriage, in between the doorways where people get on and off the train. Both doors were wide open for the entirety of the ride, but there was a wall against which we could lean our bags. So we stood next to these, trying to find as much space as possible to get comfortable.   

It was in this little space, with the countryside of India rushing by, that Diego and I continued our dialogue on martial arts. He was keen to begin training as soon as possible, so I introduced him to a game developed by my friends back home. Based on the Sticky Hands concepts of Wing Chun kung fu, this Wing Chun Game (for lack of a better term) involves two people standing still at a distance where they can touch the other person's face. From here, the two practitioners try to attack the other person's face and body, while protecting their own vital parts, using hands only. The focus is on speed, reflexes and technique, not strength. It is enough to make contact with your opponent's face / torso to score a point, after which you reset and continue. What follows is a fluid, low-intensity exercise that helps illustrate certain kung fu techniques.

Diego and I played the Wing Chun game for the better part of an hour, and he improved quickly. We were so engrossed in our game that we didn't realize how much space had been created around us. Only when we stopped did we realize that the other passengers on the train were pushing up on each other to avoid us, staring at us pensively. Our little martial arts demonstration had intimidated everyone.

This was quite amusing, and not entirely unintentional. We enjoyed the extra space, and it ensured that no one would be tampering with our bags. Diego and I thus continued talking about martial arts, punctuating the conversation with a few hand gestures for good measure. Now that we weren't boxed in by bodies on all sides, I took a look at the people gaping at us from every angle.

We were surrounded by men, which I was used to from Bangladesh. What was also familiar from Bangladesh and Nepal was the man-on-man PDA. It seemed completely normal for a (presumably) heterosexual man to hold another man's hand, lacing fingers. One guy was even wrapping his arms around his friend's waist, all the while looking at us like we were the strange ones. It was one of those cultural differences that I never really got used to, but I was happy for friendship to be expressed in such a warm way. As long as no guy tried to grab my hand or waist.

Beyond this, it was quickly apparent that every single Indian man wore a button up shirt. Diego told me this was normal, and since he and I were the only men on the train who wore T-shirts, we were probably regarded as bums. 

Kung fu bums.

The Transformation of Amit Singh

Even after we'd stopped talking about martial arts, everyone openly stared at us, like we were aliens. There was one skinny kid nearby who was maybe 16 years old, and no doubt curious about us, but stood skulking with his shoulders hunched and head down, scared to make direct eye contact. He looked like Dukie from The Wire. 

Finally someone was bold enough to address us directly, and we started chatting. Once the wall of silence was broken, we were bombarded with questions from all over; the curiosity that had been held back was now overflowing. Dukie broke out of his shell and started talking to us in English as well, timidly at first. But the more he spoke, the more confident he became. His name was Amit Singh.

Pretty soon, the conversation turned to sex, and Amit asked us if we had girlfriends. When we said no, he proudly declared that he had six girlfriends. All of a sudden his 'girlfriends' were calling him, and he made a big show of talking to them dismissively, motioning for his friends to talk with us while he 'dealt' with his girlfriend. He then started showing us pictures of his girlfriend: her face, then a close-up of her lips. The next picture was a close-up of her nipple, which he showed us while enthusiastically announcing, "She's sexy!" 

He then took out his shades and put them on, turning the situation into some kind've movie scene. He went into full action-hero mode and told us, "You need anything in India, you call me. You're in trouble, you call me." And stepped off the train like he owned the country. Needless to say, he never bothered to give us his number.

I shot a look at Diego, who smirked while answering my unspoken question: "India!"

More Babas (Shiva's Night Part II)

Between last night's craziness, the heat and the mosquitoes, there was no sleep to be had. When the sun came up, we got up as well. It just got too hot. Hugging shade every step of the way to the embankment, I felt like a vampire, fearful of the oppressive sunlight. Gone were the pilgrim hordes from the night before…the embankment lay deserted. Though it was only morning, the sandstone had already absorbed so much heat that it was searing to touch. As we paused for shade, a boatman asked if we wanted a tour on the Ganges, but there was no way Diego and I could survive more than a few minutes in the open sun.  

The narrow avenues of Old City once again provided shelter and respite. The buildings were huddled so close together that we were forced to walk single file at times. All the pilgrims had retreated into Old City as well, packing the alleys and streets. There were more women among the daytime crowds, but everyone was still barefoot and loud with elation. 

Wrinkled cows clogged the back streets here and there, and the passing pilgrims patted and stroked them, murmuring prayers. If more than one cow parked itself in an alley, there was nothing to do but find another path around them.

After breakfast, we went to go find Marco, but he was not at his inn. Thinking he might be with our baba, we braved the baking heat of the embankment in search of them.  We found the baba sleeping on the mats at his tent. A nap seemed like a great idea at this point, the sweltering embankment and the swarms of Old City leaving us few other options. We retreated for siesta, along the embankment and through the baba tent city. 

The light of day did not reduce the shock of walking through this otherworldly place. The cloying smell of incense filled the air, and I caught a glimpse of a pair of transsexuals (called hijra) dressed in saris, earnestly kneeling before a baba to ask for his blessing. Several tents over, an naked ash-covered man stood upon the shoulders of another. The man on top held a sword, and the man on the bottom had his penis wrapped around a long stick. They made a loud commotion to attract attention, trying to draw a crowd. It was like a circus act, and I walked by feeling a mix of curiosity, revulsion and amazement. Something wasn't right, so we moved on.  

Spiritual or spectacle?

Puja

We spotted Marco on our way back to the guesthouse, again when we least expected to find him. He looked a little worse for wear, in the same clothes as the night before, eyes faded. He sat cross-legged in a large tent, observing some smoky ceremony. Several babas and other holy looking people sat around an ornament covered with flowers and spices. They were chanting ceaselessly, smoke wafting up from the flower ornament. One baba’s hand was raised high above his head the entire time. Outside the circle sat a ragtag collection of travelers (including Marco), observing the ceremony. We joined on the outskirts of the mat, and as Diego tried to get Marco's attention, I took a closer look around.

  

The other travelers seemed more in tune with what was going on, but I was judging the books by their covers. Regardless of gender and age, wherever they seemed to hail from, all wore brightly colored, loose fitting clothes. What’s more, every one had dreadlocks—some wore them dirty and unkempt, others beautifully braided and arranged. One man had a shaved head, except for three dreadlocks that sprouted from where the knot of a ponytail would be. Even Marco sported a solitary dreadlock that was exposed with his hair tied up.  

The dreads seemed to be a reflection of their commitment to a certain lifestyle, as well as the unquestionable mark of their belonging in this place.  Having spent months on the road, I was used to feeling out of place. But sitting there in a T-shirt and jeans, with not a single dreadlock on my head, I was a complete outsider...not fitting in with the locals or the foreigners. Luckily there was Diego next to me, who had no hair at all.   

Finally Marco noticed us, and came out to chat. As before, he helped to illuminate the situation. The babas were undertaking a puja, or prayer ritual, specifically for Shivaratri. The baba with his arm raised had not put his arm down for the last three months, and would continue to hold it up for months more. This was a self-imposed demonstration of his will and commitment to the holy life, and to God. I later tried to see how long I could keep my arm raised for, and it got painfully heavy after two minutes.  Give it a try sometime.

The arm-raising baba came over to speak to the travelers after the puja was finished, casually leaning his upraised arm against a tent pillar to rest it. Seemed a little bit like cheating, but who was I to judge?  

Marco introduced us to his friend Manu, who had just arrived in Varanasi. Manu was a world-famous chillum maker, selling handmade chillums for up to 200 euros apiece. His chillums were pieces of art, uniquely designed and perfectly fitted. Comparisons simply couldn't be made with the cheap ceramic chillum we had encountered the night before.  

Manu was quite a character, and had been to Varanasi numerous times.  He provided further clarity on various things I didn't understand. Apparently, not all the 'holy men' in Varanasi were actually bona fide sadhus. Many were fraudulent and adopted the appearance of an ascetic in order to receive gifts and alms. Others enjoyed being treated with reverence while leading a ‘lazy lifestyle’, doing no real work. It was a rule of thumb that if the baba asked you for money, he was a fake.

After breaking bread with Marco and Manu, we returned to our guesthouse for siesta.  

Burning Ghat

It was dusk when we came alive again. On our way back along the embankment, Diego and I stopped at a burning ghat to watch the rituals. Four separate pyres were burning, and we now knew that each contained a human body being cremated. We sat and watched the fires in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. As I stared into one of the fires, I reached out to the soul that had been inside the body, wondering where they were now, what kind of life they led.  




This led to musings of why we're here and where we all go when we die. For thousands of years, this very spot would have been the threshold between life and death, where untold thousands had been released from human suffering. All the babas and sadhus we'd encountered were focusing on spiritual development beyond the confines of the human body. I wondered if perhaps some of them had achieved a state similar to the soul after death. 

There were no conclusions to be drawn here, only stray thoughts drifting up from my mind, like the smoke from the fires.  To rise and dissipate into the air of Varanasi.

The Young Baba


We returned to the tent of our baba, who we found entertaining other visitors. Sitting down, we joined the circle, and I studied the baba more closely. If I had to guess, he was no more than 20 years old. Given what I’d heard about the requirements to become a baba, he must have left his family as a young child to pursue the ascetic life.

There were times when he would withdraw to himself, sitting outside the circle, lost in his own world. I contemplated how it must be a lonely life, being revered as a living saint, with everyone appealing for a blessing or fearful of your curses. Watching the Hindu pilgrims interacting with him, it didn’t seem like there was much dialogue beyond this. 

It would be different to have embarked on the path of a sadhu in adulthood, after experiencing a ‘normal’ life and choosing to renounce it. Our baba would not have had a normal upbringing, with childhood friends, schooling, and a mother. Either he had some kind of divine inspiration early on and chose to be a sadhu, or the life chose him. Maybe his family was very poor and could not provide for him; this was the case for some of the novices studying to be Buddhist monks. I had no way of knowing.  

It did help to explain the drastic difference in his behavior towards other Hindus, compared to us foreigners. We existed outside of the religion and culture that governed his world, and therefore not bound to it. It was possible that because of this, he could find in us what he would never otherwise encounter: friends.

Naoto and the Tabla

Of the baba’s visitors, the most interesting was a Japanese man in his 30's, with long flowing hair. He had beautifully upright posture, and emanated a wave of calm. Treating the baba with the utmost respect, he would kneel with his head to the floor when asking for a blessing. His disposition was one of humility and religious reverence, which obviously wasn't feigned (like Marco). His name was Naoto, and he had been living in Varanasi for a few years. He was also a musician, and behind him stood a large instrument case with an intricate lock.  

I was hoping to obtain more information about our baba, and since there were translators present, I sought to inquire about his life. However, his answers were either too vague or escaped my understanding. In my frustration and eagerness to understand, I pushed the questioning further. Until Naoto laid a hand on my shoulder, gently chiding me for being too aggressive with my forward-leaning stance. He motioned for me to sit upright and regain my balance.  In other words, "shanti shanti".  

Embarrassed, I adjusted my posture immediately. This ended my questions, as I let go of the urgent need to know. Instead, I focused on inner peace and stillness, to be present in the moment. It was a lesson that I was to be reminded of, again and again. 

After some time, the discussion turned to Naoto's instrument, the tabla. He had been playing it for years, and moved here to Varanasi in order to master it. The tabla was clearly his prized possession, the expensive-looking case and lock standing in stark contrast to the tattered clothes he wore. We all implored him to play for us, and he finally agreed, secretly opening the padlock and taking two drums out of the case.

  

What followed was a mesmerizing performance: Naoto lost himself in the music, his hands taking on a life of their own as they hammered, stroked, tapped and caressed the two drums. His whole body melted into a trance-like state, swaying and jerking with the rhythms like a charmed cobra. The tabla quickly became my newest favorite instrument. It was hard to imagine that so many distinct and musical sounds could be made from two drums. We all sat enchanted, as if we were the snakes and Naoto was the piper. We were so caught up, that when the music abruptly ended and Naoto put the tabla away, an empty void was left in the atmosphere.

Distinguishing The Babas

After a few days in Varanasi, we were getting used to the sights on the embankment that initially were so overwhelming. The first time we walked through, it was like another plane of existence. The second day was still disorienting, but already a lot less shocking than the first, especially since the Shivaratri stampede was a one-off event. By the third and fourth time we walked through, we'd been exposed to everything (in more ways than one), and outlandish became the new normal.  I was surprised at how fast I adapted to it all, and started to believe that I could adapt to anything.  

  

Soon we were able to pick out the relative importance of the babas by their location on the embankment, and recognized which tent housed the sadhus who only ever hosted attractive Western women. We held our breaths coming up to the 'weeping wall', where the urine leaked down to the river, and tried not to step on the stinking wet trails. One ghat in particular attracted swarms of gnats and insects that flew into every open cavity, so we covered our faces with our shirts while passing by.

The "Weeping Wall"

As we acclimated to Varanasi, we began figuring out that some of the babas were not actually babas at all. There was a distinct element of fake to them, and much could be judged by their looks. Some had large bellies, not in line with the life of a starving, wandering ascetic. Lack of full body ash and dreadlocks did not necessarily mean one wasn't a baba, but a certain appearance came with the lifestyle that needed to pass the test of common sense.  If they did not look 'hardened' enough to have been living off the earth, and instead looked like they belonged at a manual job or an office, then there was a good chance that they were counterfeit.  

One so-called baba called us over as we were walking by. We tried to avoid him, but he was insistent. He asked Diego where he was from, and Diego replied, "Italy."  

"Ah Italy, good.  Italy need to pay, money money."  

Diego refused, so the ‘baba’ turned and asked me the same question. I said, "Hong Kong," knowing that he would have never heard of it. This proved to be true, because he responded with a confused "Ah…" forgetting in the process to also ask me for money. While he hesitated, we beat a hasty retreat. Later we realized that we both had yellow ash on our foreheads. Without our knowing or wanting it, the fake baba had 'blessed' us.

We made it a point to visit our own baba on a daily basis. He was always happy to see us, along with the various new friends we'd bring to him. Ever since I had let go of my questioning when Naoto was around, I made no further enquiries into the baba's life. I stopped wondering whether this young man had actually attained some form of enlightenment, stopped scrutinizing his expressions and movements for signs. Instead, we treated the baba like a friend, with whom we would hang out once or twice a day.  I gave him props constantly, which he delighted in. 

We even shared a running inside joke. The baba, Diego and I were all happily unmarried, and were thus united in making fun of all married men. Once, as we sat on the mats in the baba's tent, a pair of older European men walked by, gruffly ignoring our baba when he said hello to them. He turned to us and gave a reason for their rudeness: "Married."  We enjoyed a hearty laugh. 

A nearby baba tried to capture our attention with an elaborate sword dance, inviting us over to sit with him instead.  But we stayed true to our baba, and did not sit with another.

Narrow Escape

The time had come to decide the next move. Diego was headed south to Gokharna, where he had left his bag and things at one Rasta Café on Om Beach. He was also meeting an Israeli girl there to pursue a possible romance. During our time traveling together, Diego had continuously talked about how Om Beach was the best place in India.  

There was always a sparkle in his eyes whenever Om Beach was mentioned, and since he'd been traveling the country for months on end on two separate tours, I figured the man knew what he was talking about. I chose to go with the flow and follow Diego to this enchanting place. Time on a beach definitely sounded necessary.  

We embarked from the guesthouse forty minutes before our train's departure. When we went to buy our tickets, it had taken about half an hour to and from the train station, so there was ample time. Diego didn't want to take the more expensive auto rickshaw, so we hopped on a bicycle rickshaw and were on our way.  

We made steady progress through the streets of the city at first, until we became hopelessly stuck in traffic gridlock. In line with traffic behavior I'd seen elsewhere on the subcontinent, drivers battled for inches of forward movement, filling in any possible gap before someone else did. In this case, it led to a vehicular jigsaw in which nobody could move in any direction.  

Diego and I nervously sat while waiting for traffic to open up. A few blocks up ahead traffic was moving, so it was a matter of getting to the end of this street. We waited and waited, and hope came in the form of a traffic policeman, who had apparently identified that one old rickshaw driver was jamming everyone up.  

One choice slap to the old man's face convinced him of the need to move, and this opened up a few feet for everyone to progress forward.  Then standstill, again.  

At this point we were twenty minutes away from train departure, and a decision needed to be made.  We abandoned our rickshaw, paid our driver a token fee, and proceed through the traffic jam on foot.

Diego had an easier time, because he only had one bag. I had to manage two, include the bulky bag on my back, but I was determined not to slow us down any more. We jogged down the street, weaving through the vehicles where necessary, but mostly keeping to the side streets. A few long minutes later, we had bypassed the entire street, and were back on a (relatively) open road. It was time to hop on another vehicle. We saw auto rickshaws available, but once again frugality won out and we hopped in with a second bicycle rickshaw.

This turned out to be a bad move. The driver of this rickshaw was ancient, and he pumped his thin, tired legs as best he could, but we moved at a speed way too slow for our liking. We tried to convince the driver of our urgency, but he was unfazed. He even stopped to bicker with some other rickshaw drivers on the street, and we had to yell at him to continue moving.  

Finally, we saw the train station a few blocks ahead, through another traffic jam. The rickshaw driver was also noticeably slowing down. So as soon as we stopped at a red light, we handed him the money, jumped off the rickshaw and ran. This time there was more space between the cars for us to speed through, though with more moving traffic came more danger.  Being weighed down as I was, I fell in behind Diego and followed his lead through the fray, trying not to get run over while keeping up.

Once we were on the grounds of the train station, Diego broke into full sprint, and by this time my lungs were burning. The twenty kilos I was carrying felt like a ton, and my legs were lead as I struggled to follow the pale bald pate charging ahead. At least our frantic pace moved the crowds aside as we ran through the station, trying to find our platform.  

I was seeing stars by the time we reached the platform.  

The train was long gone…we’d missed it by ten minutes.