It had been a month since the Government of India announced the issuance of new 500 rupee and 2’000 rupee notes. When I came back to New Delhi, I was overwhelmed by an increasing number of people in a long line snaked around the ATM. They were quiet and seemed to be used to such a circumstance.
At New Delhi railroad station, I was able to 2 sleeper-trains’ tickets: from New Dehlhi to Varanasi, from Varanasi to Kolkata, using 2’000 rupee notes. I felt better than I had been; I imagined that, in Dashashwamedh Ghat, the main ghat in Varanasi, I waded through Ganges river and did my morning ablutions with local people, terrible smell drifting by cows. In some way, I might have tried to assimilate into India or sought something stimulating.
That evening I waited for the sleeper train to Varanasi, but it had not come. To check the monitor, I went back to the inside station square. It said the train was delayed for three hours. I sighed, banged my backpack down and killed time reading a book on a bench. Three hours later, I got to my feet and walked to the platform again. One train after another were passing by me in the darkness.
I looked at the monitor: five hours delay. It was past midnight; I was tired. In the square, hundreds of people in blankets lay on their own sheets, as if they knew it was normal that the trains was late. I made my way through them to find a space, where I lay down with no blanket: my head put on my backpack. Human heat somewhat kept me from the cold.
Before daylight, I picked myself up and trudged toward the platform. I awaited the train, meanwhile my stomach was getting worse. (During my stay in India, I had suffered from chills, vomiting and diarrhea.) I rushed upstairs to the restroom. The toilet was clogged with stools; the floor was littered with used toilet papers and a poop-like stain. I avoided stepping on, doubling over; it was time I thought about going home by plane.
On the other hand, I dreamed of seeing morning sun rising with mysterious phenomenon, flourishing life and death in Varanasi. I regained control of myself and hurried back to the platform to find that a freight train had stopped.
The new day had started. Paharganj close to the station, the main market place where I wandered around every night, was always in chaos―the bustle of cycles, motorbikes and rickshaws. This area could not help being filthy: in murky air, people whose clothes were not washed milling around the streets, the cows everywhere, the array of the run-down buildings. But, here was authentic Indian style I wanted to blend into.
I wanted to inhale deeply, but it could be better not to do. I was thirsty and needed some food. As I walked down the street, the scent of steaming soup filled the street connecting a narrow little alley. I tracked the smell, there being a man making thick, milky broths in the giant pot surrounded by local people. Something there was vibrant with me; I had the soup and got warm from inside. And then I stopped by my favorite stall. As the vendor offered me samosas on a paper, I stared at his black hands that looked unwashed, but found myself devouring them over a cup of chai.
When I went back to the inside station square, there was a hum of voices; the people was up and ate breakfast brought from home. I lay down in an empty space and basked in the morning sun dozing off. After a while I got a little cold, woke up and sat up. Outside the sun rose higher, brightening the street and in front of me was a family in dainty ethnic dress.
The exactness of that time was what had worried me. “Excuse me,” I showed my ticket to the head of the family who looked like a father. “Do you know when the train will arrive? I’ve been waiting for it since last night.” “I don’t know. This is India. But it comes.” He tipped his head slightly; I exhaled, not saying anything.
The delay was further seven hours, then five hours, I was forced to think of another way while I enjoyed another night in Paharganj. Then five hours, as I wandered down the dimly lit platform, a young white couple spoke to me; we were in exactly the same situation. The affable young man, Argentine, told me that the train would come this morning.
It was not until the morning of two days later that the train arrived. I threw my backpacks to the side upper bunk, climbed in, and sat on hanging my legs. I saw an old man dressed in wearing white rags walking up the aisle― his long, shaggy beard touched the bottle strapped to his waist. As most passengers bought chai from him, so I did too. I took a sip of it to calm myself.
I had lain on the bunk. Looking out through the window, I mulled the rest of my trip over, and while I started to feel chilly―the sickening chill I had suffered from came back to me. I pulled the window down but it was very stiff. No matter how hard I tried, there was a gap 1cm from the windowsill. The draft from the gap chilled me to the marrow; the hard mat put too much strain on my entire body. I shivered with no blanket, trying not to cry, and in order to release from torture I hoped to get off to sleep.
Suddenly I sensed something touching my hair and woke up; I thought someone had walked past me, trying to sleep again. After a while, I overheard nearby teenagers, who may well be interested in my Asian appearance, giggling; I ignored them. The next moment I felt someone picked a few strand of my hair, the chuckle turned into a laugh, which became amplified. Sitting up half, I turned to them and said, “Hey, don’t touch.”
Although most of them exchanged a smirk, the boss of them was gazing my hair with a thoughtful expression and said, “Your hairstyle is very cool.” I was a little taken aback, for it was not humiliation, rather admiration. Thanks to not washing my greasy hair and rolling over a lot, it looked like spiky hair with a wax.
Owing to long stop intervals, I was three days behind schedule when I got to Varanasi station: I had nothing but stay in my hostel to be going to Kolkata the next afternoon. I was still in bad shape and was about to collapse. After I got off the train, I staggered down the platform, wanting to Iie wrapped in a lot of blankets right away. The rickshaws in array had paused outside the ticket gate; I was approaching the driver nearest me.
We reached a compromise at 100 rupees. I leaned against the back of the rickshaw, hoping he went straight to my hostel. Varanasi was a lawless area of sorts―bicycles often cut in, motorbikes running toward us as if to dodge the bullet; the men stripped to the waist sat in the middle of the road, vendors wheeling their iron cart loaded fruits or vegetables across the road. The shabby houses and the shacks were the reflection of their poorly manner. What was in disorder made me forget that I had been sick.
When I got out of the rickshaw in front of my hostel, he said, “Five hundred.” “What? You said one hundred.” I failed to tolerate his unfaithfulness and thrust 100 rupees at him. He shrank back, shook his head and was speaking something in Hindi. A hostel staff, approaching us, became aware of the fuss, intervened between him and me and saw that I paid the original price.
This time I reserved “a single room” whose price was relatively low, though I always did a shared room. I told him I was sick and wanted to go to bed straight away, and so he handed me far more blankets. I followed him up the stairs by the reception desk. We reached a floor and turned the corner to climb the next flight, walking past a few Westerners who lounged on the sofas―this process seemed to go on endlessly. I noticed that sun’s shaft fell on the end of the flight that led up to a door.
He opened it to me and said, “In there.” I felt a strange sense because I caught a glimpse of concrete through the door. Crossing the threshold of it, I saw something of the shapes of a dozen triangular dimensions. There was full of sunshine and I had a view of the town.
I got into the one of them and put the extra blankets I hold on the blanket that was there. Slipping beneath them, I curled up and felt myself falling into an exhausted sleep. What they call “a single room” was the most comfortable “private room” ever. Dead silence seemed to alleviate all the tensions of the days―out of cash, the card fraud, the train delay and food poisoning―even though I had never call a tent “a single room.”