The Varanasi Ganja Express moves at 40 miles an hour across Delhi’s urban sprawl towards Varanasi. We board amidst a phalanx of porters cutting a path through a Red Sea of humanity. We are the entertainment for a sea of brown faces occupying chunks of space that make my tiny airline seat from a few nights ago look luxurious.
Railroad stations are part homeless shelter, part disease vector, part commercial empire and part transit hub. There are large numbers of people in khaki uniforms who don’t seem to be the militia or the constabulary. Getting anywhere involves violating a space that would be personal in the USA.
We fuss, rush, stop, negotiate, move again. Progress is slow but the experience is full. We reach our appointed rail car. Not quite first class but air conditioned.
The berths are cubicles with seating and fold down beds along three walls, Eight people occupy a room 60% of the size of my daughter Kate’s new dormitory 4room at UC Santa Cruz. We collapse onto stiff benches. The luggage buries us and brands us as rich tourists.
You either sleep or sit. The berths allow no middle ground when they are full. Exhausted, we fold out the beds climb in and let the train rock us to sleep. As night comes on, so does the air conditioning..
I get one of the top bunks. About six feet off the ground with two and a half feet of headspace, it’s a three sided coffin. Packed in to the space with some bags, I hug the firm naugahyde looking for a reprieve. What seemed like it would be torture looks like a 12 hour respite,
I’m surprised that my claustrophobia stays packed in my duffle.
The car gently sways, we stop to let faster trains pass. I worry about my berthmates. As I struggle to get comfortable, it must seem from below like it is raining my belongings.. A pillow, a shoe, another shoe. Each time a piece of me gets launched into space, a tired non-complaining hand returns it.
About 3am, I head to the head. It’s western looking, an aluminum lou with a thin plastic seat. There is a tin cup full of water on the floor. (Later, I realize that it is for hygiene in a world without toilet paper. I resolve to use more hand sanitizer and never touch anything with my left hand again.). The toilet opens directly onto the trackbed.
I am glad that I don’t have to walk down those railroad tracks.
At 5:30, the coffee and tea men roam the narrow corridors. “Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee” they say with a decreasing sound that remionds mean of the train whistle Doppler effect..
We leave the train in the holy city of Varanasi (Benares). Porters and more porters haul our belongings on their hears. We settle into the Hotel Indi with a quick refresher and an Indian breakfast.
