At the New Delhi Train Station I found my way to platform #9. It was full – crowded with people like the rest of Delhi and everyone trying to squeeze into the shade. The train rolled in just on time at four pm. I was astounded to see people hopping on the train as it was still moving, slowly coming to a stop. They were stampeding for the doors, shoving each other out of the way to push into the narrow doorway of the light blue rail car with bars appearing on the windows. I could see through those barred windows as I walked along the length of the train, looking for my car, S4. And I was so glad I wasn’t riding in their class – all crammed in like cattle, battling for the window seats to be near the fresh air. My ticket was for a second class sleeper car. The Indian man at

the Foreigners Ticket Office on the second floor of the train station had assured me (just before he asked me to come back next time at two pm when he takes his break so we could have tea together!). I pictured, of course, the same type of ticket and ride I was given a few months before in Malaysia on my way to Kuala Lampur. I rode in an air conditioned car with two sets of full length-wise bunks on each side of the wide aisle. The bunks had nice clean white sheets and a pillow and also there was a window to watch the countryside go by. I walked the entire length of the long train – a row of identical dingy light blue cars with bars that people were jammed into. I finally asked a pleasant looking man who told me S4 was about six cars back the way I had come. Incredulously I said that must be wrong as my ticket was air-conditioned second class. And he looked at me amused and said that second class wasn’t air conditioned. And the AC didn’t really matter to me at all – it was the realization that my car was one of those horrible cars. But there it was posted on a piece of white paper on the outside. Printed were S4 and a list of passenger names including mine which stood out among the list of all Indian sounding names. How funny it looked on there. On board I climbed and then peered around the corner down the narrow aisle packed with Indian men. And in I dove, not really believing but hoping it would get better somehow. I still just could not believe I had bought a ticket for THIS car. And then I felt bad. It was good enough for all of them, wasn’t it? Halfway through I found the seat marked #35 UB – upper bunk. One very narrow blue vinyl bunk above another of the same without pillow or sheets was lengthwise along the car wall on my left. Jutting out from the wall to my right were two more pairs of similar little bunks. The only window was in the area between the two lower bunks on my right – the barred one. The place was packed with Indian men. Three were on my bunk, crammed in without headroom so their shoulders hunched over and sitting crossed legged to avoid hanging their dirty feet down in the faces of those five men on the bunk below. The other bunks were identically crowded except for on the end near the aisle where one man was literally sitting on another’s lap. And they looked as if they felt rather comfortable and this was normal and not at all distressing. Of course, all were staring at me, the single white woman with her nice black Eagle Creek backpack. I started to lock it to the ladder before climbing up, but was told in half sign language that it had to go up there with me. I handed it up and it disappeared, smashed into the back corner. And one man moved for me so I had a third of my narrow blue vinyl bunk without sheets or pillow. And it was to be a twelve hour ride – unbelievable!! I began to feel panicky. I could get out now. I could find a different way to Dharamsala. I should leave before it was too late to return to safety – well, relative safety. Or no, I could accept it with grace and consider it part of the true Indian experience. I could just hope it wasn’t as bad as it seemed to be at that moment. And I chose to stay. And as the train left the station bad went to worse. The ceiling fans about 15” in diameter encased in black metal were about six inches away and blowing dust in my face, making me sneeze and itch. The best thing about the fans was that they made good shoe rests as the teenager next to me pointed out. So, up went my shoes. At least the fan was keeping the mugginess and the heat down some. But then a man on the lengthwise bunk lit up a cigarette. Dust and cigarette smoke blowing in my face made it difficult to breathe, made my throat and nose itch terribly, and made me sneeze repeatedly. Snot was running and there was no Kleenex as my bag had gone to the shadows. Oh god, I thought, and what if I have to use the bathroom in the next twelve hours?! But I tried to settle in. And I was glad I had brought along a novel – a gift from one of the nurses at the hospital just before I left. It was a nice mystery and it was good to be able to bury my face behind to avoid all those brown eyes staring my direction. Every once in a while one of the men would try to make conversation in very bad and broken English with thick 7-11 clerk accents. And eventually my book was finished and I realized they had changed places so that the one that spoke the best English was sitting on the bunk next to me. He sat crossed legged facing me, gleam in his eye and getting very close. He asked where I was from, where I was going, how I liked India and Indian people. A man on the facing bunk tried to speak broken English to me through the ceiling fan that made his voice vibrate, making him even more difficult to understand. He offered me some warm food he had just purchased from the vendor walking the length of the train hawking his goods. It was a flakey pastry filled with mashed potato and spices and I took a taste at his insistence. It was quite good but a little too spicy for me. He seemed disappointed and offended that I wouldn’t take more. Later he offered me some chai tea which I also refused. They really were just curious and trying to be nice and I was feeling more comfortable. I scrunched down and leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “You sleep?” my bunkmate asked. And I said yes, that I was very tired. And without asking he moved for me to another seat that had opened up while I was reading at a stop along the way. And I used my backpack that had been reproduced as a pillow. And I curled up facing the wall without a cover. And as I drifted off to sleep I heard, “You want sex, American?” in that melodic Indian 7-11 accent, this time with perfect English.