Varanasi Trip- Train Travel Tales

I am a citizen and resident of India- urban bred and generally privileged. I had heard that there are two countries residing in the same geographical space- India and Bharat. I started my sojourn of the social and religious festivals of India last year at the Kumbha Mela with an objective of exploring the soul of Bharat- through people-centric experience at these events. The 3-day Ganga Mahotsav (mega festival centered around the river Ganga) in Varanasi, culminating in the Dev Deepavali (God’s festival of lights) celebration on Kartik Purnima (full moon day of the 7th month of the Hindu calendar, coinciding with November-December of the English calendar), which this year was on November 10th, seemed to be the perfect opportunity for this year. So, I trawled the internet for background information on the oldest living city of the world that is Varanasi, and its older incarnation- Kashi. The outcome was a seven-page background note for the trip, including two pages on food- if you know me, you won’t be surprised at this. Some people eat to live, some others live to eat.


My people experience began earlier than I bargained for. The Doon Express had an unmistakable Varanasi destination profile, with foreign passengers starting to arrive at the platform. They arrived in small groups, but started to coalesce and ended up with a group of about a dozen men and women. Surely they had booked through a common travel agent or site, as their seats were assigned together too. I had talked to a sub-group of three when we were pouring over the reservation chart. The gentleman from France, sporting a large tribal design pendant and a saffron scarf with Ohm splattered all over it, said he keeps visiting India for the “people experience”, and this time he has brought his niece and her friend with him. They had stayed in a tribal village in Koraput district of Orissa for three weeks before heading for Varanasi. We had a nice conversation before heading for our coach when the train arrived. However his group members didn’t turn out to be quite as decent. Soon after the train started moving at 9 pm, the group started having “fun” and the celebration got louder as the night progressed. The secret of the exuberance was thinly concealed in the glass of “cola” they were sipping. Past 10 pm, some of them felt an urgent need for music, and connected an i-Pod with a portable speaker. The coach attendant and the ticket examiner of the coach were heard grumbling among themselves but dared not throw the rulebook at them. Around 11 pm, I stood up to use the bathroom and had to cross the party zone. My friend the Frenchman was seen resting in peace in his berth, but a brash young guy with a few ladies was keeping the pot boiling. Evidently the spiritual destination did not make me a philosopher yet, because I decided to confront the leader of the pack and ask why he was drinking, playing music loudly and whether he was aware of the railway travel rules. His answer was he is drinking a cola, smell if any is coming from somewhere else through the air-conditioning duct and he is not disturbing others as no one else is complaining. His dismissive and arrogant attitude sparked a late night parliamentary talent in me. The ticket examiner meanwhile had shuffled up behind me and nodded his head vigorously whenever I needed an affirmative nod from him. After a few minutes of loud and fast paced conversation on his knowledge of Open Container Law in his own country, and a politely threatening request for him to calm down and be more sensitive, his party was spoilt and the lights finally dimmed. The coach attendant and an Indian co-passenger later thanked me for standing up and dealing with the issue.
The rest of the journey was otherwise uneventful, except for constant movement of short-distance passengers which you should expect in a train that has multiple stops through states like Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. The only other interesting episode happened when the train reached Mughal Sarai the next morning. The train stops here for about half an hour. A few minutes before arrival, I was intrigued to see our coach attendant moving around wearing only a gamcha (Indian hand-woven towel). As soon as the train stopped, he quickly hopped out of the train from the non-platform side of the train, pulled out a hose that is used to refill water in the train toilets, and started bathing like an elephant, right under my window. It was certainly a regular affair, as he perfectly timed his shower, and even used a soap and worked out profuse amount of lather. When the train was about to roll again, he was back in the compartment, dressed and fresh as a daisy.

Arrived at Varanasi Junction at 11 am, hopped on to a rickshaw and headed on towards the old city in search of a hotel with basic amenity before embarking on the floatel of spirituality. More on that in the following posts.