On Friday we left for Sikkim from Sealdah station. Jyoti, Harish, Sandeep, Sujoy and Tanmoy speaking rapid fire Bengali into the night. Chennai Central had seemed dusty and old, but compared to Sealdah it is sparkling clean. I fought through a strong sewer stench to buy water and cookies (still sick enough to fear Indian fast-food).
After a send-off from Abu, we boarded the train. As I walked down the aisle I spotted the largest cockroach I have ever seen. At first I though it must be a lizard. I just hoped that it would stay at its end of the train and not crawl around me at night.
As the train left the station a Railway Guard carrying an old Enfield rifle told us to close the shutters on the window. Evidently there were concerns of people throwing rocks at the train. He was pointing at me when he told us this, not sure if the threat was against foreigners or the train in general. Later that night, with my feet hanging off the top bunk into the aisle, I felt a sharp scratch on my ankle, waking just in time to see the guard and his shouldered rifle walk by. The front sights had hit my ankle, but I had survived my first attack from this legendary weapon with barely a scratch.
The other notable event was a visit from Hijra, transgendered outcasts who practice a militant form of begging. There were two of them, one older, one younger. Both dressed in saris. The older would clap really loud and shout. She had a stack of rupee notes between the fingers of her left hand. Folded and arranged just as efficiently as a ticket taker on a bus. The Hijra focused their attention on Tanmoy, sensing either easy prey or willing recipient of blessing the confer with each donation. He held his ground at first, but on they returned the following morning. He gave into their clapping and shrieking, despite my verbal jabs that he wasn't getting enough out of the transaction.
I had read about the Hijra last month in "Traveller's Tales of India". William Dalrymple described them in detail. If I wasn't pecking this out on a Blackberry I would elaborate more.
As I write this we are in the jeep grinding out of NJP towards Rangpo, the Sikkim border post. I just found out that I don't yet have a permit to enter Sikkim. I am reading Dalrymple's "Xanadu" and last night started the chapter where he sneaks into a restricted zone in China. I am curious to see how his story ends, and curious about what parallels may exist.
That is a few hours in the future. For now I am going to stop typing and soak in how much the plains outside Shiliguri, with the mountains rising in the distance as a backdrop remind me of the fields and mountains near my childhood home in the mountain valleys of Utah.