My peaceful slumber was shaken by a slow droning noise. This noise wasn’t the train wheels noisily and steadily going along the track as we sped along the countryside. No, this noise is almost more pervasive in the Indian train system. A simple soundtrack to bring you straight from a fantastic dream into the reality of the present.

“Chai! Chai! Chai! Chai! Chai!”

Indian chai salesmen have developed a droning announcement as they walk through the train cabins. Other train salesmen, such as coffee, vegetable cutlets, water, other beverages, each of them have a somewhat distinctive call as they wander the length of the train. However, none are as otherworldly as the droning, monotone “chai-chai-chai-chai” of the traveling chai salesmen.

I must have leaned out of my bunk to watch the salesman approach my end of the sleeper car, because as soon as he made it to me, he stopped and asked, in perfect British English, “Would you like some chai, sir?”

Indian sleeper trains are everything I was told Indian train travel wasn’t. They’re clean, friendly, reasonably safe, and have reserved seating. Outside of the fact that you have to book train travel somewhat in advance (compared to Europe), the sleeper trains are the ideal way to travel medium to long distances in India. There aren’t any cabins or closed doors; each sleeper bunk is open to the aisle, and this makes for quite the lively atmosphere at times.

Hot cup of chai in hand (and 6 rupees poorer), I climbed down from my bunk to find Dave engrossed in Lonely Planet India. We had the aisle seats, so there were two levels, a bed on each, with the bottom level folding up to form two chairs and a small table. Across from the aisle seats was the 6-pack: three bunks on either side of a small shared space, the middle bunk folding down to create the backrest of the bottom bunk, forming three seats on each side.

When I had started my mid-afternoon nap, the entire train was deep in a mid afternoon nap. However, within the 5 minutes after I woke up, the 6-pack across from mine had become THE party destination for a large group of traveling Indian businessmen, with no fewer than 12 men crowded into the space for six. They were holding newspapers and talking in a continuous stream of loud Hindi or Malayalam.

After a while of trying to mentally compete with the businessmen by reading books, we eventually gave up and decided to play a game of cards. But these weren’t just ordinary cards. These were Barack Obama playing cards, the backs of each card emblazoned with his smiling mug, purchased in the patriotic insanity of Dulles International Airport. We started playing a variation of Crazy 8’s called crazy eight countdown, where instead of winning when you run out of cards, you draw 7, then 6, and all the way down to 1 before you win. Not quite an intellectually intensive game, but its an easy way to pass the time. Across the cabin, much note was made of our card playing, with constant stares and much banter centered around the isolated recognizable word “Obama”.

After a game or two, we put the deck down and returned to reading guidebooks and/or staring out the window towards the moving Maharashtra countryside. The man opposite the aisle from me was staring intently at the deck, and eventually asked if he could look at it.

Each card has an associated Democrat or Democratic supporter caricature, such as Hillary, Al Gore, Jon Stewart, Oprah or the Big B himself. The first businessman rifled through the set, occasionally laughing at one he recognized and passing the card to a friend. Eventually the card perusing occupied all six of the remaining businessman’s attention.

I noticed one man with a peculiar expression holding one card. He looked a mixture of hurt and confused, and turned to me and asked, “Why did they make George Bush a joker?!” He was holding one of the two jokers, the first being W, the second being John McCain.

“A lot of people in the US don’t really like George Bush.”

“Well, I like George Bush!!” he stated as defensively and as conclusively as he could. Several of his friends stifled some, but not all, of their laughter.

I was leaning into the aisle at this point, and turned to my right to see two girls staring at me from the next compartment. They were around my age, and were wearing deep maroon and red saris, respectively. I turned to my left to see if they were looking past me. Empty hallway. I turned to the right again to find the same stares, this time with smiles attached. I repeated my left-right head turn routine several more times, to ever increasing smiles, before they finally got embarrassed and disappeared.

Dave had entered into a guidebook discussion with the businessmen about our future plans. They had been interested in the Lonely Planet descriptions of Fort Cochi, Kerala, their home town, but had moved quickly onto critiquing our planned route south. We were going to Arembol, one of the larger hippie beaches in Goa. We had booked the train further south than we needed, and they told us to get off at a more northern station so as not to waste our time. However, since we didn’t know what time the train was scheduled to roll through the station, we waited for the next stop to find out what station we were near, and therefor how many we had left.

The train slowed into a small station, and neither of us could see a station sign from our side of the train. The train doors normally stay open on either end of each train car, so I got up and walked to one end of our car to try looking out the other side of the train. When I came to the door, I was greeted by a very confused Indian man, a closed door, and loud pounding and unintelligible shouting from the other side.

The Indian man was trying to open the door, but something was blocking the way. I noticed a little latch at the top corner of the door that falls down when it closes, and motioned to the Indian man to let me try. I managed to get the latch up, and pry open the massive door, to find a very angry 60 year old British man holding a large bag.

“Bloody hell! Thank god we have focking caucasians around ‘ere or this focking country would fall apart!”

He climbed up onto the train and pushed past the somewhat stunned Indian man and myself to the compartment next to mine. I managed to spurt something about “To be fair I didn’t know what I was doing either”, but I don’t think he heard me or cared. I leaned out the door, confirmed the station, and started to return to my cabin, sharing a raised eyebrows head-bob with the Indian man.

The Brit had booted one of the Indian girls from his reserved seat, and had forced the family they were traveling with to massively reorganize their belongings so he could have his bag directly underneath him. When I started to pass through the cabin, most of the family and the two girls looked at me with expressions ranging from “Help us” to “I would not judge you if you punched him”. I gave them the most reassuring head-bob I could, and managed to parlay a bump in the track into a good shoulder jostle of the Brit.

Less than twenty minutes later, the train started to slow, and Dave and I picked up our packs and headed to the end of our train car. I opened the door, and we spilled out into the cool air of the train station. Alongside us, and with the apparently sole intent of seeing us off, were half a dozen business men, one of the chai sellers, several children, mothers and fathers, and the two girls from the next compartment. We shook multitudes of hands, received last minute directions, advice and fingers pointed at maps, and as we walked away caught several blown kisses.

The key to Indian train travel is remembering the main mantra about travel in general: it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.

There are two India’s, according to Balram Halwai, Aravind Adiga’s protagonist in the book, The White Tiger. The first India is that of the Light, that of wealth, technology, education. The Light flows from the coasts inward, and is embodied in the Taj Mahal, New Delhi, cosmopolitan Mumbai, the beaches, the majestic deserts and the paradise of India. The second India is that of the Darkness, that of poverty, disease, ignorance. The Darkness flows outward from its source, the Ganges, and is embodied by Old Delhi, Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and, in Mumbai, the slum of Dharavi.

Purportedly Asia’s largest slum, Dharavi is home to over 1 million people spread over just two thirds of a square mile. It’s not a tourist location in any sense of the word. People generally don’t go here of their own volition. Dharavi and the other parts of the Darkness represent the India that scares, shocks and drives away tourist dollars, and doesn’t tend to be pushed or mentioned by tourism companies or travel brochures. However, it’s an integral part of India, and Dave and I had to go.

Through some fellow travelers (and Lonely Planet) we heard of a company that offers tours through Dharavi, and donates most of the profits to non-profit groups working in the Mumbai slums. We met at a train station and took a 3 hour walking tour along with 16 other tourists from all over the world. They broke us up into groups of 6 plus a guide so as to be as inconspicuous as possible.

We weren’t allowed to take any pictures, a requirement that became more welcome the longer we walked through the alleyways. There were too many incredible things to take pictures of, too many incredible things to shield your eyes from, too many things to remember and too many things to forget. Dharavi was emotionally exhausting, and has been very, very hard to explain. The following are six pictures, in words, of what I remember when I think back to those three hours.

Picture 1: In a barely lit alleyway, there is frail, elderly man scrubbing the inside of a paint can. The paint can was scavenged from a construction site in another part of Mumbai, and he’s scrubbing the inside with a wet rag trying to get as much dried paint out as he can. He kneels in a pool of paint-water on a thin and flimsy pair of flip flops. On either side of him are 50 or so paint cans he has or will soon scrub to finish. A young boy is carrying four paint cans over to stack them on the “yet to be cleaned” pile.

Picture 2: A two year old girl stands on a pile of trash next to a drainage gutter. She’s not wearing shoes, and her cloths are stained grey from dust. Behind her are several elderly women looking towards the camera warily. On all sides are squalor and filth, trash and alleyways. She’s smiling as bright as anyone has ever smiled, and has extended her tiny hand to shake mine.

Picture 3: Two middle aged men toil in a giant room inside a makeshift factory, melting aluminum into bars. They wear no masks, have no ventilation system, aren’t using gloves, and will be responsible for their own health if they hurt themselves on the job. To the right are a giant stack of salvaged aluminum cans, and to the left a towering stand of finished bars. The two men are staring at the camera, one wiping his brow from the dead-of-winter 100+ degree heat.

Picture 4: Framed by a small doorway into their home, a couple with a small child lay on the floor to escape the afternoon heat. There is no furniture, just a multicolored carpet or rag on the floor. The man wears no shirt or shoes, the woman wears a brilliantly colored sari, and the child is asleep between them. On the ceiling is a television playing Tom and Jerry. The entire house appears to be about 8 feet by 10 feet, and in front is a running stream of whitish water that smells of paint.

Picture 5: A young man talks in a cell phone in front of a street food vendor. Behind him are three incredibly lean men carrying hundreds of pounds of steel beams through an alleyway no more than 3 feet wide. The young man is talking in a mixture of English and non-English and is gesturing widely. Behind him several diseased dogs sniff the refuse pile next to the food vendor, which is selling potato pakoras.

Picture 6: In the foreground are two young girls playing with tattered barbie dolls. Both are talking happily as they play amidst a landscape of trash. In the background is a tremendous mountain of refuse that serves as the areas open air toilet, and several grown men squat defecating, looking into the distance.

Dharavi, like much of India, displays the best and worst of humanity side by side. Sweatshops where the workers sleep below their tables to make dollars a month, just up the street from the baker who offers up a breakfast pastry to me just so he can see the look of enjoyment on my face when I eat it.

Before I arrived, I promised myself that I’d drink deeply from the glass that is India, that I’d take in the bitter with the sweet. Overall Dharavi might have been bitter, but I will always remember the sweet.

I inhale deeply, and feel apricot flavored smoke fill my lungs. I focus on the palace, the lake and the distant ducks, all seen through small tendrils of smoke wisping away from the hookah as I pass it left. I exhale slowly through my nose, and briefly contemplate what it might be like to be a dragon.

We’re nearing the end of our extended stay in Udaipur, a palace filled town in southern Rajasthan. We had taken a train from nearby Jaipur, and had originally planned on only staying a day or two. However, Indian trains appear to need actual advanced notice to book a ticket, as the earliest we could leave was four days after arriving. In several days we’ll catch an 18 hour sleeper train to Mumbai.

India feels very big.

Surrounded by hills, Udaipur most prominently centers around Lake Pichola, which contains the lakeside City Palace and the two island palaces Jagniwas Island and Jagmandir Island. Many of locations in Udaipur were used as filming locations for the James Bond flick, Octopussy. We were pleasantly surprised to find a hookah bar on Jagmandir.

Clockwise on my left sits Sandra from Germany, Stephanie from the Phillipines, and Dave from Indiana. We met the two girls during breakfast the previous day at our lake view guest house. They were taking a break from working in Shanghai to get away from the Chinese New Year. It turns out both of them also worked for Evalueserve, and Sandra was friends with several of our interpretors from our in time in Abheypur.

India feels very small.

We pay our bill and stroll through the gardens on Jagmandir under the most perfect of blue skies. We had seen a single cloud in the four days we’d been in Rajasthan, and it didn’t have the temerity to stay very long. The sun was warm, the nights and evenings cool, and the air clear of the smog that seemed to infest Delhi and Jaipur.

My hands in my pockets, I slip off my sandals and stand in the perfectly manicured green grass, staring out over the lake into the hills to the west. Later that night the sun will set over these hills, and I will drink sweet lassi and listen to traveler stories on a balcony of our guest house. Tomorrow me and Dave plan on hiking through a wildlife reserve to the Monsoon Palace, a fantastic complex at the very top of one of those hills.

India feels … just right.

Part one: Delhi

We walk from our hotel through some shady markets to the New Delhi train station. Dodging monkeys, rickshaws and the occasional elephant, we attempt to make our way to the other side via an train station overpass so we can purchase a round trip ticket to Agra for the next day.

We’re intercepted by a man flashing an official looking ID who tells us we can’t go in that way without a ticket (he doesn’t ask anyone else for their tickets). We explain what we’re trying to do, and demonstrating a surprising amount of knowledge of the Lonely Planet India book, he deftly points us to the tourist information office in Connaught Place, where we’re told we can book the tickets. He offers to book us an autorickshaw, we politely decline, then walk over to the government autorickshaw stand to avoid getting ripped off too much. Unknown to us, he sends a friend to intercept our chosen rickshaw.

This friend then plays the part of rickshaw boss man, and after explaining to him where we want to go (LP book again), he organizes a rickshaw to take us there, and also comes along for the ride. We drive at breakneck speeds through the absolute insanity of Delhi traffic as he makes chit chat. The cab drives to the right block, then pulls suddenly into a small courtyard, we pay, and then are ferried by an outsider into the office. The smooth talking tour operator explains that everything is booked except for some very, very expensive buses. We’re shown fake webpages and government documents, and are assured that there is no cheaper fare. We leave, much to their dismay, and notice the actual Tourist office 100 ft from where we were dropped off.

This type of commission based scam is pretty common, apparently. The hustlers who got us to the fake tourist office each get commissions for bringing us there, and the tour operators have a full collection of tools to convince you to buy a 500%+ marked up fare. We were still in sleepy-and-honest-Abheypur mode, and didn’t make the connection that we were being had until after putting all the pieces together.

The next day we’re in the same block, and Dave stops to take a picture of our would-be-scammers office. The tour operator is escorting two tourists inside, sees us and charges. “Is there a problem?!” “No, no problem,” we chuckle. “No problem? Then leave!” He retreats to guard his tourists, who are very confused why we are laughing so hard.

Part two: Agra

After a stress free sunrise trip to the beautiful Taj Mahal, where we managed to beat not only the tourists but the associated Indian hustlers, we head to the nearby Agra Fort. The tour guides swarm us as soon as we start approaching the gate.

“You want tour? I very knowledgeable. 100 rupees.”

“I show you all the best sites, only 150 rupees.”

Seven tour guides are summarily dismissed with hand motions, cold shoulders and stern comments of “Shanti! Nay!” (“Quiet / Peace!! No!”, I think). After ignoring my repeated demands for his silence, the eighth says, “Sir, how can you appreciate such a beautiful fort if you do not have a guide?”

This strikes a chord in me, and I turn to face him for the first time.

“When I go to the forest, I can enjoy and appreciate the trees in silence and by myself. When I go to the mountains, I can appreciate them in silence and by myself. And, in the same way, me and my friend plan on enjoying and appreciating this fort in silence and by ourselves.”

No longer smiling, he stares at me for a moment, mumbles “I see”, then just walks away.

Part three: Jaipur

“20! 20! This beautiful elephant for 20!”

“20 rupees? Sure, I’ll buy it for 20 rupees.” (40 cents)

Blank stare. “Dollars sir. 20 dollars.” (1000 rupees)

“No way. I’ll buy it for 20 rupees.”

“Not possible. 800 rupees.”

“Not possible. 20 rupees.”

“700 rupees.”

We cross the street, at least 5 merchants and hustlers in tow.

“600 rupees, for you, my friend.”

I frown at him. We make it to our car and our driver Ashok jumps up and unlocks the doors.

“500 rupees.”

“20 rupees. I’ll buy two for 40.”

“No sir, 500 rupees.”

I’m trying to close the door, but his body is halfway inside.

“400 rupees!” he pleads.

“20 rupees or get out of my car!” I am physically trying to push him out.

“Not possible! 350 rupees!” he shouts as he resists my pushing.

On the other side of the car, Dave is repeatedly closing the door on a merchant with a similar green elephant.

“300 rupees!”

“Not possible!” I shout as I kick him in the chest in an attempt to close the door. Eventually the kicking works and he backs off enough I can shut the door. Dave has the merchants arm pinned in the door and a green elephant in his lap.

“Look, unless you take the elephant, we’re going to leave. Take it if you want it, I’m not giving you 200 rupees,” he says in between door slams.

Somewhere, through all the noise, my merchant says “50 rupees!”

Dave’s eyes light up. “50 rupees?? Fuck, I’ll buy one for 50 rupees.” He pulls out a note and stuffs it in the merchants hand.

The merchant scowls. “100 rupees.”

“No! You said 50. Fine, give me back the money.” The merchant refuses to let go of the money, and we eventually manage to shut the door and drive away. Watching us go are several very dour green elephant salesman.

Epilogue

Indian hustlers are pushy, persistent and pervasive. They also lie through their teeth about anything and everything. I in turn tell them I’m French, Canadian or South African, that I only paid 50 rupees for the same rickshaw ride yesterday (after having just arrived in a new town), that “Je ne parle pas anglais, je suis francais!” and that I will need to see how many push ups they can do, because “I have already bought one of everything in the market and I need four strong men to carry my suitcase, as it is the size of a cow”.