Soon, I was sitting between a desiccated, leathery grandmother, clutching a basket that reeked of fish too long in the sun and a small, ferociously dirty child whose nose ran for the entire duration of the journey. During breaks from wiping at her nose, she thought nothing of resting her hand on my pant leg, which was soon slick with mucus and filth. Our benefactor loudly explained that people were intimidated not only because of his size, but mostly because he could speak English. Even in 2001, this colonial hangover extends and even flourishes among India's poorest. I couldn’t help but think I was missing only a British accent, elephant gun and a solar topi hat. In the end, however, the meager modicum of comfort won out over my feelings of Western guilt.

Photograph by Nana Chen

Comfort was to be short lived, however. People continued to crowd on so that eventually, what had been a shockingly over-crowded berth became nightmarishly so. Endless elbows, faces, crotches, stained and dusty salwar kameez, saris, kurtas, even “taboo” feet were thrust in my face and legs, mashing my toes and messing my hair for most of the night.

Occasionally, the crowd would settle and sleep almost seemed possible. But then chanting and singing would erupt, as if on cue, and be taken up by most of the passengers. Was this a mantra for the coming Mela? A panacea for discomforts suffered? A popular tune? Or just a way to pass the time: an Indian 99 Bottles of Beer On the Wall? I'll never know and it could have been any or all of the above.

Food-wallahs slowly pushed their carts through the packed aisle, repetitively calling out their wares: “Chai, chai, chana masala, mithi pann, chai, chai.” Following them were the beggars. Some were so horribly deformed that they would just thrust a leprotic remnant of a limb at you in hopes that you'd pay to make them leave. After the beggars, came hijiras: men, usually eunuchs, who live and dress as women and make their living blessing newborns and newlyweds. During less auspicious times, they spend their time often being taunted and jeered, while they beg and sing to keep alive. Most normally garrulous Indians don’t seem to enjoy talking about them, and will change the subject more often than not should you raise it.

Every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of Jen-pei, virtually catatonic, staring at a fixed point in space. My attempts at conversation were met with silence. With each jolt of the train, a new body part or item of clothing would obscure him from view, so I soon gave up altogether and almost forgot him entirely.

All the while Mukesh, the large-mustached English-speaking Bihari (a state other Indians regard with distaste as it is one of the nation’s poorest and "contains bandits," they'll quickly divulge) shared the story of his various difficulties. He was an engineer, as a disproportionate number of Indians seem to be, and he spent his time commuting from his village to Calcutta, and occasionally Lucknow, trying to secure a job. In the meantime, he was living off of his parents, a fact that seemed to bother him quite a bit. Each time that I nodded off only to immediately snap back awake, Mukesh would be waiting, eager to continue our conversation.

His marriage predicament was particularly interesting. He was Muslim, but his "forward-thinking" father raised him in a secular way. He shaved his beard and was even — he deigned to share — uncircumcised. This put him at odds among both Hindus, who see him as hopelessly Muslim, and Muslims who find him physically inconsistent with their practices and beliefs. He explained that though he had many girlfriends, some of a commercial nature, he remained without prospects for marriage.

Finally, I did nod off for an hour or so, only to be woken again by Mukesh who couldn't leave without a proper goodbye. I groggily thanked him for his help, deflected his repeated insistences that we accompany him to his village, and wished him good luck in his efforts at securing employment and a suitable bride.

As a pink-orange sun rose above the flat Gangetic plain and temperatures rapidly climbed into the 40's, most of the train unloaded as some of the millions of pilgrims headed off for Allahabad. An hour or so later, we arrived in Varanasi, overwrought and exhausted. Shortly after finding a room, we parted to explore the city separately.

The City of Light, as Varanasi is also known, is one of the oldest continually inhabited cities on earth. The roads are a warren of dark winding passageways, slick with the ubiquitous holy cow shit and discarded refuse. While not as populous as Calcutta or Bombay (13 million and 16 million people, respectively), it seems more densely packed than either city. It is the holiest spot on earth for Hindus, as both Shiva's earthly domain and the preferred site to die. Apparently, if you die here, you’re released for eternity from the endless cycle of death and rebirth. The city flanks the enormous and filthy Ganges River. If you die on the "wrong" side of the Ganges, lore has it that you’re doomed to return as a donkey. People naturally exercise greater caution while there, and while one bank is sprawling Varanasi, the other is a muddy expanse, unbroken by even a hut.

The Ganges sees activity from before dawn to well after midnight. In the morning, the clothes-wallahs pound out laundry and lay it out to dry along the many ghats (steps) while others perform daily prayers and ablutions. The river is used for washing, teeth brushing, defecating, and a receptacle for the ashes of the dead. [Continue...]