Night Train to Jaipur, India (Aug 2008)

The train station is filthy, but I’m used to that by now. I’m an hour early, even though there’s no need for it and particularly in this country, but I’ve been hanging around Agra all day just waiting for this train. I’m nervous because I’ll arrive in Jaipur at midnight; despite my best efforts, I’ve arrived or departed almost every place I’ve been in India in the dead of night or the pre-dawn dark, flouting all the advice against a woman alone walking through town with a backpack in the dark. Sometimes it just has to be done, and this was the only train to Jaipur with seats available and so it is that I’m sitting in a train station on my backpack at 7pm with a flimsy paper cup full of warm chai tea.

I’m not sitting for long, though; almost as soon as I sit down a teenage boy comes over to me, gesturing to his now-vacant place on a bench. There are a couple of other boys that seem to be with him, and I accept his offer warily, having been unpleasantly harassed by a pack of teenage boys on a train platform in Pathankot last week. Nothing too terrible, they just swarmed around me gawping while I smoked a cigarette, asking a few broken questions about whether or not I drink or am married, which is really all code for “how much of a whore are you.” Not too terrible, but still nothing I’d care to repeat. So I’m a little wary accepting this kid’s offer, but he is beaming a beautiful open smile and being extremely courteous, so I relax a little.

He’s quiet for a few moments, mostly just stealing glances at me, and then the questions begin. Where am I from, where have I been in India, is it my first time in India, am I traveling alone, do I have any brothers or sisters, what is my profession. I have had this exact conversation countless times in the past few weeks; it would appear that English is taught primarily as an interrogation technique. Again, though, this kid is nice, and his questions aren’t aggressive, and he stops to tell me about himself as well. His English is pretty good, and he’s traveling alone too, headed home to some tiny town that I can’t pronounce and never heard of. He’s a student, and he shows me his textbooks, asking my thoughts on his biology homework (which is in English). The other boys get into the conversation as well, a spirited debate in Hindi that I don’t understand as they are asking him to ask me more questions.

He tells me that he has a sister, too, and that they’ve just celebrated Rikhi. Wait, I’ve heard of this, I just read about it in that huge Vikram Seth novel I just finished. It’s a holiday for siblings, which is the most important familial bond in Indian society; a day when brothers give their sisters ceremonial bracelets as gifts, pledging each year to care for their sisters throughout their lives, and the sisters give bracelets back, conveying a blessing on their brothers’ heads. It sounds like a lovely tradition, and he tells me a little more about it, and then ends by tying a simple bracelet around my wrist. I’m his sister too, now, and he’s given his pledge that he’ll look after me.

His train is coming soon, but before it does he asks to write something for me in my travel journal. I hand it over and loan him a pen, and he writes in both Hindi and English:

“My name is Pradeep.

I am live in Gwalior.

I wish for your golden future my dear stranger.”

And then my brother leaves to board his train back to Gwalior. The other boys have lost interest or melted away, and my train is delayed yet again so I’m still waiting here. I wander over and join a group of farangs sitting on their backpacks, and start chatting with an Australian guy who is also traveling by himself—he recognized me from earlier that day at the Agra Fort, when he saw me sitting in the midst of Moghul ruins under the only tree in the courtyard, writing in my journal. He’s going the opposite direction, as are the rest of the group around him, to Varanasi. He comments on how “brave” I am to be traveling alone. This is another conversation I’ve had over and over, and by now my stock reply is, “Well, it’s brave if I survive, and stupid if I die. We’ll see how it turns out.” As we talk, I realize he’s been scammed three times already and he’s only been in India for three days, and he has no idea what class of train ticket he has or which car to get into, or which track his train will be arriving on. I may have been ripped off by a rickshaw driver or two but I’m way more seasoned than this kid, and that comforts me.

My train arrives, and there’s a scramble to find my sleeper reservation. I’m comparing notes with some Czech tourists that are also headed my way, and we board the train quickly, our backpacks brushing against other passengers as they’re too wide for the aisle. I reserved a lower berth, and once I find my place I lean my pack against the corner and secure it with my cable lock, a move that is likely entirely unnecessary, but will at least keep it in place. In my compartment, the berth directly across from me is occupied by a smiling young man. I smile back but only a little, he starts to ask me his questions in English and I just shake my head. He’s nice enough but I’m tired of talking now, I’m tired of being what these people want me to be. I lean against my pack and stretch out on the grubby pad wrapped in light blue vinyl. Most of the families that are traveling on this train have brought sheets with them, or at least a lungi, but I’m filthy anyway from my day tooling around Agra in the heat and I just don’t care enough to dig out my sarong and spread it out.

The train is dark, all the compartment lights are off and the ones in the aisle, too. I’m a little concerned as to how I’ll know when we arrive; there are no announcements, and the station signs are primarily in Hindi. If it were a daytime train I’d know that someone would tell me, but most of these people are sleeping all the way to Jaisalmer. I read a little bit with my flashlight, but only a few pages, it was mostly to convince the guy across from me that I’m not up for conversation. He’s turned over on his berth and is dozing now. The train is flying across the countryside, full moon bright on the plains and occasional trees as we move into a more arid climate, the gateway to the Great Thar Desert. I’m lying down, looking up through the bars across the glassless windows and feeling the cool night breeze sweeping by. Watching that big, beautiful, bright moon, which is watching me back through the bars on the train window, a lone farang stretched out and at peace moving across India.