Descent to the Gangetic Plain

We were welcomed to the state of West Bengal, in the town of Siliguri, by a barrage of auto-rickshaw (a three-wheeled motorized vehicle with a seat for the driver and two seats in back-looks like a three-wheeled motorcycle with a metal enclosure) drivers. We haggled the price down a bit and hit the road for New Jalpaiguri Railway Station (the closest to Darjeeling) where we arrived on time, but not after breaking down near a busy bazaar and waiting for the driver to finagle some magic with the engine. At the station we got our first taste of the crushing poverty that often proves too much for many a Western traveler; within minutes we were surrounded by skinny, barefoot children who looked like they may never have had a bath and some of whom didn't have any clothes on. A little girl of about six with no shoes, wearing a cheap brown dress with pink sequins followed us around for fifteen minutes after I, naively, gave money to a toddler with no pants or diaper. We learned our lesson that, however upsetting the situation, we cannot help them all and would have to choose our battles. This will be the last I write about the child beggars who you will find everywhere (though in smaller numbers up into the Western Himalayas), simply because it is heartbreaking to recall, but I will say that what is most upsetting, and upsetting to admit as well, is that these children don't seem like children (of course, my idea/image of children), but rather specters or shadows of children. There is  a blankness in their eyes and a realization that the only language they may speak, either in English or their own tongue, has to do with begging, simply because that is their only route to survival.  Of course, what we all want to do is scoop them up and whisk them away to a magical place to feed, clothe and bathe them, but that cannot be done in one day and I cannot be so arrogant to assume that a little money or one meal from me will change their life. What the real answer is is for wiser people than me to realize.

We were grateful to find our names on the reservation chart, meaning that we had made it up from "wait list" to "confirmed." The second class a/c car consists of open compartments of two sets of bunk bed style cots facing one another, and on the other side of the aisle rows of sets of bunk beds. We had our compartment to ourselves for the first few hours, save for a few cockroaches, a mouse and a healthy dusting of dirt on the floor, but after dark we were joined by two gentleman from Patna on their way home. Sleeping was aided by earplugs (one of the men was a snorer) and my scarf wrapped around my eyes as the men didn't turn the light off for several hours. We slept so soundly, in fact, that we awoke in a panic to find the men gone, thinking we had missed our stop, but realized it was the next station. On my way to the (squat, Indian style) toilet, I caught the front page of the Times of India  which reported the assassination of Osama bin Laden. I didn't know what to make of this, heading to a very Muslim city in a state known for kidnapping and murder, but was reassured by a phone call to my brother who reminded me that most Muslims hated bin Laden. And, true enough, the only trouble we had in Patna was the bothersome experience of buying a ticket to Gaya. Luckily, a gentleman pointed out the "ladies only" line which was shorter, and promised less groping than the all male general lines, however I still had to deal with a very pushy grandma in an orange sari.

Only realizing after the fact that our fifteen rupee tickets to Gaya were located in the unreserved sleeper class, we lined up to push our way through the mob to seats but to no avail. The seats were taken and we were left in the open area reserved for handicapped people. We found some newspaper to lay under our bags since the floor was filthy and I played with standing or squatting to decide which would be the most comfortable for the four hour journey. Some nice gentlemen noticed our predicament and made space on their bench for one of us and, the Bear, being an old-fashioned gent, allowed me to take the seat. I was amused to learn that one of those nice gentleman, Asif, sold Amway products and was on his way to Gaya to meet with some people in his scheme.

We journeyed through rice and wheat fields and the open car filled with men selling cucumbers with salt, a popular chickpea and vegetable snack wrapped in newspaper, lassi, chai, water, toothbrushes, children's toys and wallets. There was also an old man with an open wound and a blind man with a song. A little boy came through sweeping the floors with a broom, and looking for pay, until an older passenger grabbed him and yelled something in Hindi. I asked Asif to translate and he said the man told the boy he should be in school instead of begging. The temperature rose through the early morning hours to over 100 degrees and the air coming in through the open windows offered little reprieve.

Finally in Gaya we negotiated a fare with an auto rickshaw driver to Bodhgaya, eleven kilometers to the south, and endured the dusty, hot ride through the plains and over a dried up riverbed. Our first hotel choice was booked, and the second was overpriced, so we finally gave in to the driver's suggestion of a third hotel, despite the fact that we knew he would get a commission, but the rooms were cold and musty. We got out of that rickshaw as the driver became somewhat hostile when we didn't chose his hotel. Another rickshaw took us to the Deep Guesthouse where we were happily greeted by the friendly Ranjeet and his plain but clean and cheap rooms. And so began a day in another new city.