"Baap re baap it's hot!" my apology to Varanasi

I have made an irreversible mistake.

I am still in Varanasi (that is not, in and of itself, the mistake); a fact which boggles the minds of most of my friends. Ok, all of my friends. Why? Well, because today it's a cool 108 degrees Fahrenheit. It's been this way for about 2 months now. True, there have been a couple of nice days, very recently in fact. About three days ago, some clouds came, and we all thought it was going to rain. We thought the monsoon was approaching its and our destiny; that soon the monsoon and we would consummate in a torrential downpour of ecstasy leaving our bodies soaking wet and our minds denumbed (ok, yes, I'm reading "Chasing the Monsoon" by a hyper-sexualized Mr. Alexander Frater and the carnal comparison lies with him - lying with India before him of course ;). But alas, it was not to be; a false alarm, an illusion, a perfect example of God's cruel sense of humor. I slept soundly that night, with dreams of the coming monsoon, but apart from a humidity that has made the heat even more intolerable, there has been no respite.

But I digress. For the point of this journal entry is not the intolerability of the heat, but the tolerability of it, and the mistake that has made it intolerable once again.

First, a word about the heat. Really, honestly, it's not as bad as people say. We've all heard Mark Twain's legendary quote: "In India, 'cold weather' is merely a conventional phrase and has come into use through the necessity of having some way to distinguish between weather which will melt a brass door-knob and weather which will only make it mushy." Nay nay, I say, Twain dost not knowe how to liveth within India. The truth is, it's hot. But you just have to know how to adapt to it. Like anything in life, once you adapt, you realize it isn't all that bad. I was here in Varanasi, in eastern UP, when it first started becoming this hot. I did not step off the Air India flight (who comes to India via Air India anymore??) and get smacked in the face by the thick pre-stewed heat boiled in the cauldron of Indira Gandhi International Airport. I did not leave air conditioned Starbucks for the overcrowded streets of Delhi where the burning exhaust from thousands of air conditioners sticking out of cement and steel apartment buildings serve to prove the point that it is possible to make hottest hotter. No, I was here in Varanasi - I bought a gamcha, or a long piece of cloth that I wrap over my face and head to protect it from the overbearing sunshine, and I wear pajamas, a t-shirt, and slippers everywhere I go. I schedule my day around the sunshine, I don't leave my apartment in the afternoon when the sun is at it's most oppressive, and I have food delivered to me (I pay him well!!) so that I don't walk around like a befuddled wandering foreigner who has no idea what he or she is doing in India. I also, and this one took pushing and some more pushing, made sure that I had what's called an "inverter" installed in our guest house. An inverter, and its battery along with it, is a small suitcase sized contraption that keeps the electricity going once it's cutoff by the city. The electricity is created by its battery, which is why you can only really power a few CFLs and a few fans from its power. You can power more of course, but that takes big expensive inverters which is beyond the capacity of your local neighborhood guest house.

The truth is - sometimes I forget that I am actually not the one at fault in these things - the manager told me that he had an inverter already working in the guest house when I first moved in. Of course, this was true, the only thing that he didn't tell me was that his inverter was only connected to the downstairs portion of the guest house - the part of the guest house that he lives in of course. To make a long story short, he bought a new inverter, and I've had a wonderful fan that has been working to keep the sweat away ever since.

So you see, it hasn't been that bad. It may still sound bad to you, but I assure you, staying in the shade, having a fan, and oh, of course, how could I forget to tell you that I sleep outside everyday! This is a joy that modernity, and the idea that things we invent will always be better than natural adaptive solutions, has truly taken away from us (by us, I mean westerners, many other people in the world would think of nothing else than to sleep outside under the stars during the hot seasons). A mosquito net is a must where I live, but sleeping on the roof under the starry skies, a cool refreshing breeze washing over your body letting you know how good it is to be alive; it's enough to give you a deep, profound sleep no "Sounds of Nature" CD could ever fabricate.

So, it's been all good, good, in fact. Sure, the past few weeks it's gotten even hotter, and once in a while when I am incapable of doing anything productive I lie down on my bed and end up waking up to a moist pillowcase and sheet that lets me know it's time to shift my body to an unsweatified portion of the sheet and turn over my pillow. But that's ok, that's the fun of living in India, and I seemed to be managing fine.

And then came the mistake. A few days ago, yesterday, in fact, my electricity had gone for most of the afternoon. As I am writing an article, and have been writing an article for the past month, I found it necessary to go to a cyber cafe to try and continue working - as it has been much of a month and I still haven't written anything and it's time to get serious, electricity or no electricity, charged laptop or no charged laptop. So I came to a cafe I used to frequent before I moved into my current guest house which has internet access. It was very hot, the kind of hot I don't mind mind you, and the owner of the cyber cafe and I repeatedly exchanged comments on how hot the weather was. I sat down, nonchalantly using the computer, and periodically scratching my left arm and afterwards flicking the resultant dirt that collected under my nails from scratching my left arm onto the floor of the cyber cafe. Then, something unbelievable happened. The electricity came back, and I realized that the manager of Satguru, the internet cafe, has a working air conditioner in his cafe.

It was like water on dry desert sand. I never knew that life could be so good. The cool air washed over me, a deep cleansing feeling of relief that was the materialistic equivalent of a holy dip in the Ganga river. I was a born again westerner; saw the truth, the light, and the riches of the promised land. I was whole again.

The whole experience only took 10 seconds; the cyber cafe only has 6 or so computers. But it was climactic. I returned to my online research with a new vigor, ready and able with all my mental energy focused on my soon to be materialized article. I spent another three hours in the internet cafe. And then, after at least 4 hours in front of a computer, I decided that the bill for using the computer had gotten high enough; besides my eyes were starting to hurt, and it was probably time to go back to my guest house. I paid my bill, exchanged a few friendly jokes with the owner, and then opened the door to go outside.

And then it hit me. Do you remember the description of stepping off of the flight into the dense, explosive heat of Indira Gandhi National Airport? Think that, mixed with the intense smell of just-killed and bloodied chickens from the slaughterhouse next door. I had never experienced heat/chicken smell like that. It hit me like a Big Papi homerun, an other dimension where heat in air does not exist, but heat as air does. It melted into my pores, clogged my brain cells disrupting normal lines of intracellular communication and transmorgifying me into some blob of ineffective pseudo-humanness. It was oppressive, malevolent, and just plain wrong. I had never known blazing heat like that before.

Or had I? The reader will be quick to remind me that in fact, I had not magically beamed up into another dimension, but in fact, was about two blocks away from my guest house where for the past 2 months, everything has been just fine. So what happened?

The answer my friend, is that adaption only works when you don't have any other choice. Well, I actually don't know how true that is (I always wondered why people from Alaska didn't migrate to sunny San Francisco or some place mild like that). But, the truth is, I had seen better, felt better, I had seen the trees for the forest, I had thought outside of the box, I had an out of body anthropological perspective of my presently past condition. And to be honest, one you've seen the light, there is no going back. I somehow managed to squish myself back home; upon the reaching of which I felt like I was going to melt. The heat seemed unnecessarily oppressive, like a crime committed by some masked outlaw that I would never be able to bring to justice. I knew I had made an irreversible mistake.

Varanasi has grown on me, and I have grown into its comfortable routine. I did not even notice the heat the past two months; or, I did notice, but I had grown to know it, to live with it, learn from it and be one with it. It enhanced my life, it did not detract from it, I swear. But now, like a first sexual experience, the air conditioning had changed my life irrevocably. The life I had once known is no more. AC has brazenly imposed its superiority into my life, and I cannot resist its tantalizing beauty, its sinning pristine-white exterior and its temptations of a life of luxury. I have seen the wealth of the new world, and the greed in me is too strong to turn back.

I am leaving Varanasi.

This is not a love letter, this is a self-bashing apology to the city that has been my friend for so long, to a friend so clearly unworthy of your love. But you must be able to understand. I am only looking for a better life, a place where everyday life is not such a struggle, a place where I can have a house to call my own. I know that I did not feel like I was struggling before, nor am I going to buy a house, but that is besides the point.

I am sad. But what can I say, the cool hills of Darjeeling, Sikkim, Lahauti and Spiti call me for a temperatory respite. That's right, I will not leave you forever, no, our love cannot be so easily tarnished, no matter how betrayed you may feel. I will be back - when it is cooler. And I will still be here for a few more days. I think that I will finish this article as soon as possible, as the motivation, along with the temperature, is at the highest it has ever been. Thus completing, I will leave. Until then, I will be doing my work in this AC-afied cyber cafe, where my adulterous self will find the achievement of its desire. I am sorry, Varanasi; for now, at least, we must bid adieu.

Mussoorie!

[The pictures I put up of Mussoorie are old ones, simply because I got in today, but I will take more pictures of course, and will get them to you shortly.]

Yo yo,

So Mussoorie has welcomed me with cold rain and cold winds, as if to say; "Go back, we don't want you here!" And I had heard that it has been beautiful weather for the past month...

I have arrived in Mussoorie, wearing two sweatpants, a shirt, fleece, and jacket, and it's probably colder in my room right now than outside. I think that's just the way it is going to be, the days will be warm and beautiful, but as soon as the sun goes down...

I don't know how I'm going to take it, but in the interests of education (learning Hindi), I have got to do it. I'm here instead of beautiful Kerala in southern India because the well-known "Landour Language School" is located here. It is an institution that has been teaching Hindi as well as other Northern Indian languages for many years. So this is the place to be for intense studying, and I'm here to get my game on.

I think I travel too much. Every time I come to the Himalayas, nature conquers mind and rationality, and I simply stand stupefied at the wonders in the natural world that lie beyond my ability to imagine. The Himalayas: this is the stuff that poetry is made of, the type of stuff that Robert Frost sublimed over, the perfect beauty that (must have - I think) helped give birth to the haiku. It's inexplicable and hard to capture in words; to put it simply, seeing is believing. I still feel that way, but the childlike wonder has definitely reduced. I'm not sure exactly why that is, but it was with me last year, and is much less now especially since I'm so preoccupied with achieving my goal of learning Hindi and ending my current career as a bum that likes to travel. When people in India ask me what I do for work, I go through this complicated explanation of how I am learning Hindi to help further my career, and I wish I could just say "I do so and so for work." I feel like some rich American that refuses to earn his way like the rest of the world's people. I am not, I tell you, I am not! But anyways, back to sublimation; I want the wonder back, I feel like I am missing out on the necessary human experience of being able to lose yourself in something bigger than you. For me, that thing is the Himalayas, and I don't think there's much in the world that is bigger than the Himalayas.

It's wonderful to be back, but I do wish I had some friends to share the experience with, simply because secrets are the most fun when shared with a few people, and Mussoorie, though well known and visited by Indian tourists - with bazaars and a hotel industry that seems to double in size every year, still feels like a well kept secret. Maybe it feels this way because of the lonely backdrop of the mountains, or maybe it's just that a town with one main road can never really contain that many permanent residents. Also, there is not the noise pollution of other places in India; cars are not allowed once you get into the main part of the city, and so a mysterious quietness that does not feel like India blankets the city. And Mussoorie seems ever conscious of it's spectacular natural beauty: on the road up into it I saw multiple signs promoting the planting of trees and references to Mussoorie's age old appellation "The Queen of the Hills." I have a feeling the British had something to do with that.

Please wish me luck in focusing on getting this Hindi done - it's way to easy to get caught up in the experience of another culture and forget your here to achieve some goal. Hope all is well with everyone!

Heading to Mussoorie in just a few days

Hey all,

I'm still in Faridabad, after looking for classes in Delhi. There is a school in Delhi, it's good but a little expensive. So I'm going to head up to Mussoorie for a little while to study and otherwise visit a place I definitely fell in love with, and then perhaps take some classes when I am back near Delhi again. I wanted to take classes in Delhi even though it can take up to two hours from Faridabad just to get into the city during rush hour (not to mention having to suffer through overcrowded buses), simply because I wanted to get the experience of the city, plus have a different challenge than last time (I stayed in Mussoorie my last trip to India last year). But oh well, that will have to wait.

Here are some pictures of what I have been up to since I arrived (not much to say the least, and I have this burning itch to get moving). First are some pictures of Diwali, which I celebrated in Faridabad: The first is a picture of a set up that my neighbor made, which includes some diyas as well as a picture of a deity, I believe Saraswati but I may be wrong, all of which was placed on top of a rangoli, which is a pattern made on the ground out of colored powder and chalk. She did a beautiful job. The second is a picture of a kid lighting a spinning firework thing.

I also went to Delhi to visit the East West Language School, the place I was thinking about taking classes, and ended up going on an archaeological tour of Mughal history simply because I got off on the wrong bus stop. Delhi is like that, full of hidden gems that are not really so hidden, ready to be appreciated by you and most likely you only. The first one is of a tomb of one of the Mughal Emperor Akbar's 9 ministers. The second one is of a woman doing yoga with the aid of the central part of the tomb.

I have "mobile internet" now, yes, you can get wireless internet in India for a start-up fee of 70 dollars and about 15 dollars a month. It's blazing fast in the major cities, and a little slow everywhere else (yes, I can go to a little village and use my internet - at least they say I can). And people say India is not connected :P So, I'll be in much better touch!

Aaaaand...he's back!

I'll try to put up more substantive posts this time, or at least something that is enjoyable to read. I arrived October 16th, Friday night, and of course, the very next day had to be Diwali. Diwali, for those of you who don't know, is a festival celebrating the arrival of the Ram back to his kingdom city of Ayodhya after a 14 year exile. Ram is the main character of the Ramayan, which is one of the main religious and spiritual texts of India (as well as cultural!) It was a triumpahnt return, after having rescued his kidnapped wife Sita from the evil clutches of Ravan, the king of Lanka. All of the Ayodha residents lit candles and "diyas," or little oil lamps made of clay to light Ram's way home, and exchanged sweets to celebrate the return. Now, the candles and diyas are accompanied by Christmas style lights, and tons of fireworks. By tons, let me just say that the commotion of all of India lighting fireworks from 6 pm to 12 am sounded like Europe circa 1942.

After that I got a fever, saw the doctor, fully recovered, and now I'm typing this post. It's good to be back in India. My neighbors have welcomed me back, and I have eaten dinners at their houses and even had some Foster's beer : ) The people are so wonderful to me, the culture is so friendly, many people in the market nearby have recognized me and given me smiles and handshakes that say "welcome back." On that personal side people are great, but of course, as many of you know, India is far underdeveloped compared to America, and that makes it hard for an American like me. The heat is not too bad, seeing as how I came in mid-October, but there's a lot of dust, things are not that neat and shiny, buildings can feel like dirty prisons lit with flourescent bulbs, the traffic and driving style brings me to the point of death every 2 minutes, and in general the environment is just tough to endure. Luckily, I've had 6 months of training when I came here from Japan about 1 year ago, so bring it on baby!

You know, Herman Melville once wrote that in order to write a mighty book, you need a mighty theme. Well, I've read lots of great books that I think do not necessarily have "mighty" themes, but it's funny how traveling gives me inspiration to write. It's like, something interesting is going on, and now I have write about it. Here's to inspiration!

Much love, till next time.

Servitude

I hate to be the one who is always criticizing, and never appreciating. Certainly, no matter where one lives, there is that which you love, and that which you don't. The same with America, the same with India, the same with Japan. Perhaps it's my nature to complain too much, perhaps I should write more about what I love about India, but, well, everybody likes to complain. Here's one thing I just can't get over India. If there is a stray Indian who passes over this post, I'd like to here what you think.


Servitude. What is servitude? Every word, every action, has two ways of being interpreted, and two ways of being carried out. Understanding servitude in one way, one can carry it out with a sense of helping others and doing good in the world. Understood in community, it is helping something bigger than ourselves, helping the functioning of community and society by doing service for it, maybe volunteering to teach kids, helping out with community events, being part of the neighborhood watch group. That is selfless service, nobody can do it all the time, but everybody can do it once in a while. That is something that needs to be educated, it certainly never came naturally to me. It was only with maturity, when I realized that if it wasn't for service; anything from free buses for First Night on Boston's New Year Eve, to help with college applications at the Copley library, that I realized the immense importance of it. That is the type of service that is taught and learned from the society that one lives in, and often takes place within the context of religion.

While there is this type of service, good for the soul and certainly good for society, there is another type of service, found all too often in the world, which is exploitative, and rather mean.

That is the service that I have seen here in India all too often. In India, those without money are treated very different than those with money. One you must talk to with respect, and with fairness. The other, you must talk to with disrespect, and often, unfairness. They are the laborers in India, and they serve those, not just physically but also mentally, which are wealthier. They are the rickshaw drivers, the clothes washers, the house cleaners, the waiters (it’s very annoying to see a little 8 year old kid saying to a man of 30 years “Hey you! Bring the water, make sure it’s cold, I’ll only drink it if it’s cold, and bring it fast!), the roadside tailors. It’s very annoying to watch how they are treated. Some of it is just India, in this culture, people don’t waste time with formalities, and sometimes I view that as refreshing. People treat you honestly; I can't really recall ever feeling like someone was fake to me. But some of it is that whole coolie attitude, that whole thing called status. People who are the rickshaw drivers are poor, they have low status, and therefore, they are a different class of people. For me, it comes out as a glaring double standard, an identifiable social wrong. It’s something like racism, or sexism, where someone is treated differently just because of their skin color or sex. If you talk to most Indians today, they will certainly tell you that the caste system is almost non-existent. That is a lie. I don’t know enough about the social demographics of India to speak about it comprehensively here, but I have volunteered in the southern state of Andhra Pradesh in India and have worked with people of lower castes being denied access to barber shops, the sale of their goods, and even admission into schools, because of their caste. What castes are the people who drive the cycle rickshas in Agra, who clean the dishes (often kids) at roadside dhabas (small restaurants) on GT road, or who sell the hair clips and cosmetic goods on makeshift tables in the local town markets I have no idea. But at this point, even if you are not facing this disrespect because you are a lower caste, you are facing it because you are a poor worker.

It’s classism, and it’s ever strong and rampant here in India.
CIassism is found all over the world. It’s certainly found in America, people do hold low opinions of others simply because they are less wealthy. But those people in America, at least not in the workplace, cannot be treated as if their life is valueless. I was always taught to respect people for their hard work, no matter what type of work it is that’s being done. Yet even if a person doesn't respect people for that, they certainly can’t get away with treating them as less than them in work transactions. In India, those working in service are usually barked orders at, they do not have much power, and due to the lack of their wealth and education (know your rights man!) they can't refuse or fight back. You can see the sting in them when addressed like dogs, they want to say something, but they have to think long-term, they have to make that dollar, and the one barking is the one with the dollar. To sum it up, here, the people in the “serving” professions ARE the servants, and they are treated, with the curt replies and loud voices, as if they are of a lesser race. It’s a bit ridiculous, for someone who has been ingrained with the idea that all people are equal, when obviously, in India, they are not.

Varanasi

As Mark Twain so succinctly described, this town is definitely old, and it bears the marks of it. There are old gali’s, old buildings that are pressed up against each other, dangerously vying for space and balance, even the people look old. Old not in the physical sense, but old in the sense of tradition, as if I could have came here 200 years ago and seen the people doing the same thing; painting their feet red, chewing gulps of pan, talking in an accent steeped in the days of yore. It’s a nice feeling. For me, this means that people are also a little bit friendlier. The occasional rickshaw driver will be overaggressive, and the occasional phulwallah (fruit-seller) will try to charge a little bit extra, but for the most part, no one has made me feel too uncomfortable (helped in some part I am sure by the cold stare I am able to mask my face with), and the rat race effect that has hit Delhi, Mussoorie, and other places I’ve been, has yet to bless Varanasi with its progressiveness. To be honest, for me, it is a relaxing place.

I like it. So far in India, besides my familial home in Punjab, I have not been able to let my head down, take it easy, and pretty much not worry as much as I have been able to in Varanasi. It almost seems like people are here for a different purpose. To the eye, it doesn’t seem like this bastion of Hindu culture is at all a bastion, but like a city that is still trying to be a village – a city that happens to be on the ganga, and a city where one can take a bath and milk some cows. But it does not have the typical glorifying attributes, such as Rome, Venice, New York, that I expect of a city that is proclaimed to be the center of a nations culture. I certainly have not heard anybody in Varanasi say that. It humbly makes no proclamation, but shows it’s depth upon a longer stay. On my third floor room in Rahul’s Guest House, the sounds of the tabla, sitar, and other instruments the names of which I am just learning waft out of my neighbors’ rooms. They are people who have come from all over, for the most part, Europe, and who are learning here in Varanasi. Nowhere have a seen a sign which says “Become a famous sitar player here!” nowhere have a seen culture turned into some marketable phenomenon. It’s nice, but perhaps a little bit sad for the people who are teaching – they could be making a lot more money.

Varanasi’s spirituality is somewhat like the fog that settles over the ganga and greets you in the morning. It is there, but in an unobtrusive way. It is not goal oriented, but meaning oriented, it is humble, a spirituality that is lived for the sake of living, not for the sake of where it will get you. It’s nice, it’s allowed me to relax, and allowed me to feel a little bit of a headache, something I didn’t realize I had until I got here. India, its fast autorickshas blaring at the impossible, its hustle and bustle to stay alive, and for many, to get rich, seems to take a few moments to breathe in Varanasi, and perhaps take a bath. It is a town that should be a village, and while this will not be noticeable in the main town, with all the rickshas and people plying the roads en masse, it is noticeable in its outskirts and in its quiet gulleys. It’s noticeable in Lanka, where many people seem to still, at least mentally, be living in the village. And, of course, it’s noticeable in the cows which crowd assi ghat, the non-inward non-outward I-don’t-know-where-you’re-looking-mr.-cow stares and unconcerned-over-salivating-mastication of which I always seem to get a kick out of as I make my way back home.

Though I have been here for over a week, these are still first impressions. I have yet to venture out of Assi ghat much more, and see what exactly Varanasi is made out of. There is something special here, perhaps it is spirituality. The best part for me is, while there seems to be something of Varanasi in the rest of the India which I have read and traveled in, there doesn’t seem to be something of the rest of India in Varanasi. It stands special, something different, and something that certainly attracts visitors here over and over again. Of course, the development in India is far behind, and yes, the city and the river are dirty, but looking past that, the ghats do not proclaim its virtue; the river does not advertise its history, its spirituality. Perhaps that is what is best about India, it is still a culture that is living its culture, the ganga cannot be packaged into a museum nor can it be scraped off and put in a glass bottle. It always renews itself. India has yet to place is culture in a plastic sterile bottle, and while I hope and pray for its quick development, while I hope people start treating the ganga better and taking better care of it, I hope that is never bottles up its culture.

A belated post - 1st class, Indian Style!

So, I apologize for writing about something three weeks after it happened, perhaps it makes my writing a bit more disingenuous, but I have to post about our first class train ride from Dehra Dun to Punjab. There are many other students who while away their time at Landour Language School, the school which brought me to the wonderful hill station of Mussoorie - which is perhaps the one good thing that the British left in India. There are two clowns in particular which I became friends with. One is Becky, who is actually a vestige of what happens when people take over other countries, their own people become like the people they are taking over! Suckers. Actually, one should read "White Mughals," by William Dalrymple, also the author of "The Last Mughal," (the man likes Mughals, what can I say), to gain a more in depth understanding of just how Indianized many British were before a reactionary movement (which was also sadly a religious; i.e. Christian movement) sent them into imperial pride, racism and further segregration. But back to the protagonists of our story. Becky is British, but wants to be Indian (I'm just kidding Becky, but you know it's true). Her mother was also visiting. Kelly is from my country, good old America, and is proof of how strong an influence over-excited dancing Indian people in Bollywood movies can have on people across the world. Watching Bollywood movies is just mesmerizing, eventually you want to be like them. I'm just kidding, both are wonderful people, love India, and I am proud to know them.

I invited them to stay with my family in Punjab, or, "the Poonjaab," as our colonial friend Becky likes to call it, and they hastily agreed. We booked a first class train ride from Dehra Dun to Amritsar, where my mama and mami live (uncle and aunt on my mom's side). The train was scheduled to set out at 6:00 am sharp. We were tired, we were distraught. Well, I was fine, I was leaving from Mussoorie, only an hour away, but Becky, her mom, and Kelly had been traveling around Uttarakhand, the state where Mussoorie is located, for about 2 weeks. I expected them to be tired, worn out, and a little crabby. I was not expecting them to be as grimy as they were when I saw them though. When I saw all three carrying their luggage, Becky and her mom equipped with proper backpacking gear, fit for the occasion, and Kelly with a big suitcase and a bright blue sari, completely unfit for the occasion, I was quite taken aback. If I had to guess, they hadn't showered in a few days, nor had they changed their clothes, or even their socks. "Well," I thought, "at least we have first class to look forward to."

Aaaah, but India is full of surprises. Sometimes wonderful, sometimes not so wonderful. First, a little history. When we booked our trains, all the more well-known trains were full. Eventually, we found a train that was going our direction. We booked first class, as we thought it would be easiest since we didn't know which train we were taking. Now, on the Indian Rail website, you can book first class, but you can book it with or without something called "AC." AC means that it's closed windows, and heated, which helps with keeping out the freezing night air.

We booked it without AC, simply because we neglected to notice it. A valuable lesson learned. Never book overnight trains in the cold northern part of India without AC. First class just means closed compartment, i.e., you can close the door, and people can't come into your compartment, and there are 4 beds. Now it's time for pictures. You have to see it to believe it.

It was the most grungy, grimy, nasty, cold, miserable place I have ever been. The explanation goes as follows. The Amritsar Death Express, as I have fondly named it, is a ridiculously old train, and it doesn't really HAVE first class anymore. What I mean is, the first class that we stayed in dated back probably 30 years at least; there was no glass in the windows, there was such a thick layer of grime on the upper beds that I chose to sleep in a different cabin, it was freezing because of the dense fog and cold air, it was miserable. We had no idea. Before we got on the train, we saw the passenger list posted on the outside of it. We were happy because we were the only 4 people on the first class train. Yay! Privacy! More like, Yay! Stupidity! All the other Indians knew what first class without AC really meant, and none of them decided to take it, which explained why the whole dibba was deserted. Please, just take a look at Becky's face, and that will explain it all.

We arrived late, left late, I must have slept about 2 hours the whole night. When I finally did manage to sleep, I woke up because my feet were freezing, since even though I had my socks and my shoes on, the fog managed to seep through it all and basically drench my feet. I was miserable, and it was quite an experience for me, one that I don't ever want to repeat. While we laughed about it later, and we will forever laugh about it, there is one thing for sure, I am never traveling non-AC ever again, even if it "first class."