Top Bunk or Mykel's India Trip Entry 6

India Blog

October 19, 2018

I write this on my Chinese laptop lying on the top bunk of a triple level sleeper car traveling from Pune India to someplace whose name I forget. It’s noon, and I haven’t eaten today, though I have just taken my malaria medicine which includes the taped-on instruction: TAKE WITH FOOD. The car is filed with the noise of screaming people… girls… mainly ages 3 to 16… screaming, crying, chattering, nagging. It’s lucky that guns are illegal here.

I had been amazed at the deference shown to women in India. You’re not supposed to touch them… when you say hello or good bye you can hug them gently, but you can’t touch cheek to cheek. In commuter trains-- like in Japan-- women (with their children) have their own cars… sometimes their own trains. Frankly, I resented it.

Now, it suddenly occurs to me that there is an added benefit to women having their own place: QUIET ELSEWHERE!

As I write these words we pull into a station. the upper berth is the only one where it’s impossible to sit straight up. Even my 5’3” self cannot sit without twisting my neck into pain. Three guys-- early twenties-- have twisted themselves into the birth opposite me. Another sits in the top berth on the opposite side of the car. All with bent necks. A chiropractor’s dream car!

The guys are shouting at each other… in Marathi, I think… breaking into laughter… guy laughter… guffaws, belly laughs… a few giggles. More shouting… not in anger, but in eagerness to get their point across… tell a funnier story… Then the guffaws! Are they talking about me?

It’s awful! Worse than the girls… Ok, I get it. God is intervening. Showing me she’s pissed off…. teaching me a lesson in the equality of assholitude. What the fuck? I’m 70 years old and God is still teaching me lessons? Gimme a break!

Where last we left me… after an opening of the birth of a massive steaming pile of offal… the mother of all offals… we flashed back to my stay in Mumbai with Anant and his family (Aunt & Uncle) where

I’m staying for a few days.

Uncle is about 80 years old… in great shape… shorter than I am and more dexterous on the street. Aunt is like a Jewish mother… non-stop food with a dose of guilt if you don’t accept seconds… thirds… It’s a vegetarian household, and… as anyone with vegetarian friends know… vegetables mean cooking with… er... eating with gas. Add to that the non-stop spice… in everything… and you get a bellyfull of problems.

[NOTE: Here is the tension… the dialectic… of eating in India. The food is great! Even the vegetarian stuff. It’s eaten mostly with your right hand… the left hand reserved for dealing with the remains of the food AFTER it’s been digested. I have never had a bad-tasting meal in India.

BUT, my stomach, large and small intestines, and colon disagree. They rebel. They fight tooth and nail… spleen and liver… against any enjoyment of the of the spice-laden invaders. It’s the main tragedy of this trip… but there are others.]

Now, to continue with our tragic comedy… After breakfast, Anant’s uncle accompanies me to the bus station to catch bus number 85… aka ८५. He suggested it as an alternative to the city… more views of the cityscape. Today I have two goals: see the aquarium, change some money. [The Lonely Planet Guide says it’s easy. There are money changing stalls everywhere. The Lonely Planet Guide is wrong.]

Because of the oppressive Mumbai heat, the bus waiting areas (outside) are covered with a tin awning. Because of the angle of the sun, that tin only covers the last two rows of the area. Think airports, those lines that snake around ropes and poles on the way to security x-ray. We get on line at the stop for bus numbers बयालीस, चौ, रानवे and of course, ८५.

We stand in the shade of the tin roof, behind a long line of people waiting for bus ८५ or चौरानवे

or निन्यानवे As the buses come and go we slowly move up in line, until finally we're first and second. First position is directly under the sun... outside in the heat. Second position is slightly covered, but not shaded. Uncle takes first position.

And we wait. 10 minutes pass and it gets hotter. 20 minutes. 30 minutes.

"I think maybe we just missed a bus," says Uncle.

I nod.

40 minutes.

"Maybe I should ask at the front and check the schedule," he says, walking out into the sun and heading toward the front office.

I expect this will act like lighting a cigarette... encouraging the bus to come when I don't know how to pay for it, or where to sit, or how to get on. Uncle will be gone... at bus enquiry, and I will miss the bus. One trick in God's many bags of them is to remain unpredictable. If I can tell what her actions will be, I can prepare for them. So predictibly, the unpredictable happens and Uncle returns before the bus comes. He's sweating from the walk in the hot sun.

"Ten minutes," he says.

"Don't you want to come out of the hot sun?" I ask him.

"No, you stay there... the bus will be here soon..." he answers.

And it is.

"Remember," he says, "the women sit in the first six or seven rows on the right. The first six or seven rows on the left are reserved for the aged. You can sit there if you like."

I thank him, get on the bus and head into town.

Very slowly... Mumbai traffic is Bangkok traffic, New York traffic, Dakar traffic all rolled into 1... with curry sause added. It runs on horns... constant blasts from motorcycles, tuk tuks (called "auto rickshaws" or just "autos"). It runs on people running... the way to get across the highway... or any street is to play dodgem with the busses, motorcycles, and "autos."

It's a scramble with the result... so I'm told... that India has the highest pedestrian (or is it ALL street accidents) fatality rate in the world. The bus takes half an hour... to go a block. It isn't near the aquarium for 2 1/2 hours.

Google maps says the aquarium is 850 meters away. Google maps is usually right... but sometimes... In this case, I follow it. The sun beats hotter. Someone on the bus says it's 40^o. Translated into Fahrenheit , that's fuckin' hot!

I've been using the same handkerchief to blow my nose, wipe my hands after a hand-eaten meal, cough my GERD into, and wipe my face in the excessive heat. It's pretty rank.... but it's all I've got.

Walk this way… walk that way… turn in 20 meters… how far is that? The hankie grows stinkier.

STOP:

October 31,

So much has happened since that last story, that I don’t know where to begin… except here. On the top bunk of a double decker train, on the way from a border town (spitting distance to Pakistan) to Jaipur. The train was about 2 ½ hours late… poor Anant and his brother who accompanied me to the station got more than they bargained for…

So the 8:00 train to Jaipur leaves at 10:30. Right ahead of me are my cellmates… a couple maybe a few years younger than me with 4 suitcases, each a few sizes larger than my torso. They take up the whole compartment. In a few hours, they get everything situated… we have a where you from chat.

The man, “Where are you from?”

Me, “New York.”

The man, “Oh, the US! We’re going to Seattle.”

Me, “When?”

The man, “Seattle. Seattle. It’s in America.”

Me, “When are you going?”

The man, “My son works there… a very good job.”

Me, “I see.”

The man, “You know Seattle?”

Me, “Yes, but it’s very far from New York.”

The man, “Seattle, yes. It’s in America.”

I smile. The woman smiles and waves up at me.

Lights out… then the snoring begins. Earplugs… They don’t work. But somehow I manage to drift off to a dream-filled sleep, dreaming, for some reason, about lawns.

Not for long.

6AM The phone rings, not my phone, but the woman’s. (For some reason, cellphones here do not seem to have VIBRATE mode, but all ring on the loudest volume with a 30 second ringtone, supposed to bring up images of Bollywood.

The woman answer and shouts into the phone. This lasts about 10 minutes. Then she passes the phone to the man who shouts into it for another quarter hour. Then, they start a non-stop conversation… with each other... fastest chatter in the world… like it’s a TV game show where the one who can say the most in a fixed time wins a chance at a new washing machine.

I moan. Fart loudly. Nothing helps. They go on non-stop… I pound the wall, the volume of their conversation lowers... for bout 10 seconds. I fart loudly again. Get up to piss, not looking at them at all… realize we’re in the station and not allowed to piss until the train starts moving again… I return and climb up to my bunk. They continue to chatter. I stare at the woman. The guy is directly beneath me so I can’t see him.

Arms folded... the evilest eye I can give to the woman in the lower bunk. She sees me… Lowers her voice… a bit… her phone rings.

Flash to 9:30am

They have left now. But it’s already morning… no longer late night. The whole train car is awake.

--more later if I have time… maybe I can sleep for 10 minutes--

The Trains Mykel Goes to India Entry 3

Monday October 8

A week in India. I've decided to keep these reports small, singly focused, despite the time I have, things happen so fast, internet access is spotty, and life takes twisty turns.

I want to write about THE TRAINS. But before I do it I have to explain my first impression that Mumbai is in the same group as New York and Tokyo. Hot and sweaty in the summer.

Filled with people. A strange combination of helpful, careless, self-centered, beauty, and ugliness.

I’m staying in Borivali, a northern suburb of the city… about an hour and a half by train from the old town… where the tourists go… no tourists in Borivali.

As in Tokyo, most of the streets don’t have names… the buildings do. So, for example, I in the Bolivali section of Mumbai, in the AD Colony and in the Titanium Building. [Names changed slightly to protect my friends.] The autocab drivers that get you from place to place (think Tuk Tuk)… station to Titanium Google maps… they just plug in the name and find it with the press of DIRECTIONS button. This is India… tech capital of the world, right? Yeah right.

Maybe they’ll know AD Colony… but that’s a big area. Titanium? Isn’t that some Marvel super-hero?

But lets talk about the trains. Like in other countries, there are express and local trains. Some of the local trains START in Borivali. The express trains start who-know-where… Beijing? All trains have first and second class cars. The difference being the price and air conditioning. I have not (yet?) taken a first-class ride. Express and local trains are the same price.

You’ve probably seen pictures of the white-gloved guards in Tokyo whose job it is to stuff the people people into the cars… tight enough for the doors to close.

“We don’t need guards with white gloves,” says Karin, my hostess. “We stuff ourselves.”

The express trains are as full of people as any Odakyu rush-hour train… the only difference… the doors don’t close. So the train comes into the station with half a dozen upper body halves… hanging out… getting air conditioning from real air.

It’s my first trip downtown. Karin takes me to the station. Translates my needs to the railroad clerk. Churchgate Terminal, round trip for one, second class, which platform?

I hand her the money… around a dollar for the round-trip. I get a dot-matrix printed ticket, completely unreadable, except for the all-caps white on brown logo wishing me HAPPY JOURNEY. The picture is for a ticket to a different location, but they all look the same.


 

We’re off to track 9. Karin walks me to the track, confirms it’s the right place with the shoeshine boy, then asks, “Are you okay Mykel? Can you take it from here?”

“Of course,” I tell her. “I’m a New Yorker.”

She leaves and I wait. Not long… the train approaches. It’s packed… Japan packed, but with open doors… people hanging out… gasping for the polluted air of the station…. barely hanging on to the door frame… maybe there are no actual doors at all… just open spots for people to get on and off.

No one gets off.

There is absolutely no space… no one to push me in. No way I can add myself to the crowd… I let the train go.

Next train’s in a few minutes. The doors open… Yes! There’s some space… maybe even a seat… then I notice it. There are only women in this car…. beautiful women in saris, old women with faces as gnarled as their walking sticks… mothers with little kids (yes, some of them boys… but no older than 8 or 9 years old…. I can’t pass.) I’m in the women’s car. Just like in Japan, I suppose, the tightness of the quarters leads to some unwelcome tightness in the crotch of some random guy’s pants. Some extra lumps for the long ride… the girls would rather not. So that have their own car… this is it.

I get out of the car. All the others are as crowded as a poetic metaphorical sentence with way too many different words to be poetic or metaphorical in it. I wait for the next train… about 10 minutes… no I don’t.

Clutching my ticket, I decide to try to try something different. Take the local… It’ll take longer, but it’ll start from here. It should be empty when it starts, right? I ask half a dozen people, most of whom shrug and keep walking. Finally, I find the track… track 2 with one of those huge train stoppers on one end meaning exactly THE END OF THE LINE.

Yes! The train pulls in and I rush in with the others, snag a seat by the window. Right under a fan…. I take off my Bay Stars hat to enjoy the coolish air on the top of my head. The train fills almost to seating capacity… and then starts. The seat I’m sitting on is made for three people, as are most of the seats-- except the benches along the wall. I sit next to a chubby guy. Next to him is an attractive young woman… very sporty looking. Across from me is a white-shirted guy who put his briefcase in the overhead rack. Next to him is a tall skinny college-looking guy. Next to him is a slightly shlubby looking old man… with middle age spread long since spread.

Next stop the car fills more. Another businessman walks up to the seat across from me and-- with his ass-- bumps the slub on his arm. He pushes the others on the bench to slide down so he can get 6 inches of space to rest a single buttock on. The trip continues and I see this repeated… every stop… sometimes between stops. On one of the benches... the end guy… butted over to make a tiny bit of half-sitting space… Except my bench. No one butts the woman at the end of bench. No matter how crowded it gets, the woman has an invisible buffer around her than no one breaks. Separate cars… no ass bumping.. the women have it made here. Even when it gets crowded.

And it does get crowded… hanging out the door crowded…

You can’t imagine:

An hour and a half later, I’m in Churchgate.

No one checks the tickets… either on the way in or the way out.

On the way back I, find that I can’t really tell which trains are local and which are express. The station is filled with cryptic messages… at least the English versions are cryptic.

Okay, here comes the train… what luck! It must be a local. The car is pretty empty… One guy in the corner… with a cane… I sit on an empty bench, near the window. There is some shouting. Some tap tap tapping. Half a dozen blind guys walk in… single file… hands on a shoulder in front of them. Yeah, it’s the blind leading the blind… and they do it perfectly. Right to the back bench… where they sit in a single row and converse loudly in a language I don’t understand.

In totters an old man… looking much like a classic guru… long beard, white robes, and a heavy limp. A couple with a child sits on the bench in front of me. The man has no eyes… I don’t mean he’s blind… I mean he has no eyes. Two empty sockets… his wife and child lead him to the seat in front of me. I smile coochy coo style at the kid. Then notice that mom is missing a hand.

Note: those who know me well know that handicapped people do not freak me out. Actually, I enjoy their company and feel them to be some of the bravest people I know. My father lost an arm in the Second World War. He worked for an agency that found jobs for handicapped people… I used to visit him at the office near the Chrysler building. I grew up with handicapped people. Even now, one of the most important people in my life is blind. And yeah?

What freaks me out here is ME!! This is clearly the handicap car and here I am taking up space in it! I can’t move, because the other cars will be packed by now. I just have to sit here and feel guilty. I’m wondering if I should leave with a limp. Nobody says a word and I get off at my stop.

Whew!

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