hitchhiking. writing. being broke.

When Gandhi was asked why he travelled second-class train, he famously said because there was no third-. Gandhi’s class, or SC, transported last year 3x India’s population. It is how India travels. Spring turning, the agrarian nation eagerly took a week off, to go home to lob Holi colors & imbibe cannabis. I had to be in Varanasi. Travel was squatting room only. I could travel SC, sans confirmed ticket, if I waited in line overnight. 4am: I arrive, the line is thirty-deep. A watchman notes my name in a list. With our places ratified, passengers mingle, sow groups off fickle kinships: accents, faiths, destinations: laborers, clergy, peons holding place for bosses. The counter opens, frees a frenzy. The list is wielded to control chaos. Within an hour, we have waitlisted tickets, which offer two things- a place in line awaiting the train, a chance to squat anywhere we could in SC. I hold our place, as my group of tailors buys samosas, soda, smokes. A rumble, chatter, the train pulls. The line flocks to train-entrances. We press in, nest at the entrance. Some carriages will hold 4x more passengers than capacity. Enroute, the holy solicit our spot, we scuttle- the red Siva disciple packs a chillum, the green Islamic saint fires a beedi. They smoke & chant devotions, retreat. The high officials whose tickets their peons secured, could afford the bribed benches. The clergy displaces the bureaucracy, which yells at the laborers, who climb luggage racks, we hold the entrance. Hawkers board at every stop. Pav Baji in Pune, oranges in Nagpur, fried chilis in AP, a steady stream of chai. An hour to Varanasi, the clergy wake, boot us again, light up. We share a meal. Covered in grime, smoke, sweaty newsprint, we share stories, laugh. Thus end rapports that had served their time. SC stages in microcosm, the chaotic Indian experience: smells, class, red tape, deified clergy, India’s overcrowded everywhere. This is India on wheels