Onslaught and Stowaway

I'm positive it was illegal, and it had to happen in Bombay.

The beautiful post-colonial city was shining in the sunset, glowing. Like vines, the people of this land reclaimed a city built on top of them, without their permission; the tea remains, but markets and bazaars flourish - raw cinnamon bark, ginger, fish, prawns, and pineapple pierce the night air and our noses like scimitars. The moon reaches over the tops of crumbling, English-concession architecture, casting shadows on the sari-clad women who work the stoves and sweat for their children within. I pocketed some cinnamon for 5 rupees and left for the train station.

It said platform fifteen but forgot to include that it was to be an utter madhouse, a zoo, a metropolis gone insane in the heat and humidity. (There were, in fact, riots that very same day in Bombay - Jr. doctors went on strike over something or another, people died in hospital transfers and from lack of treatment.) The train was late, and when it did arrive, the surge was unreal. Waves of suitcase-carrying Indians crashed upon the ticket collectors, and aimed themselves in wedge-shaped crowds toward the traincar doors.

Looking in, one could see dark shadows and faded bulbs highlight heads jutting out at awkward angles, four feet above where they should have been. People rode shoulders; people fought; old women were knocked down screaming; children cried out for parents.

I panicked. My ticket read W/L 482 - in other words: waiting list at # 482. In even other words: Iain, you are screwed. I showed it to a collector, who shrugged, laughed, looked at me like we had met at Ypres during the First World War and threatened him with a toy gun, and told me, "That's a waiting list ticket. Go to the general carriage." I turned around to this particular carriage (described above) and panicked some more.

I ran back up the platform to the English couple I had met earlier (I made sure to pack my charm and humility.) My fair, non-Indian skin, got me into the carriage without a problem. The English couple's bunkmates were a rather homely Brit and a slight, bright-smiling Aussie. It was promptly agreed that I should stow myself away.

The camo-wearing Indian soldier patrolling the car probably would have disagreed. But to my fortune, while I was pursuing fruitlessly W/L 482 the ticket collectors of that particular first class carriage had already passed. I laid out bedding and got ready for bed, but had to go to the bathroom.

I emerge from our curtained cabin to the soldier (carrying a gun by the way, but in that tin-pot dictatorship, fake-looking kind of way, if you get my meaning). He points at me and motions me forward. My heart, at this point, was somewhere in my esophagus attempting to choke me or escape or explode under pressure, or something.

Then I realize that in my freezing, I had failed to pop a piece of cinnamon in my mouth. To my surprise, it was this he wanted. I hand it over with the sort of awkwardness inherent in giving flowers to a prom date, and wait. He cracks it in two, and throws half in his mouth. He then points to his nose and mumbles something about sinuses. I shake his hand, pat him on the shoulder, and off he goes.

I woke up the next morning, with my head stuffed under the Aussie's bunk and my feet under the Brits' - so that the only visible portion of me was a blanket covered knee or two - feeling refreshed. Apparently, I had the best sleep in the cabin. And it was both free and illegal: two things I am not used to accomplishing, especially at the same time though I suppose they often accompany one another.

I stepped onto the platform at the Karmali Train Station in Goa, India, with the sun shining. I flashed W/L 482 to the guard, who waved me by, and walked out into a new province, with new friends, sporting a grin that would make any mother on earth slap me outright.