Around India in 80 Trains (44 page)

Worn out by the children, we slept soundly on train 74, the overnight Darjeeling Mail from New Jalpaiguri to Kolkata. The only train available out of Kolkata that week departed that very afternoon, so we made do with an indulgent breakfast at the Oberoi hotel and a wash in the luxury bathrooms, before boarding the Coromandel Express to Bhubaneswar. Throughout the four months I had remained very aware of the incidence of fatalities from train accidents, but had shoved the likelihood of a crash to the darkest corner of my mind and locked the door. However, in February 2009, within hours of the railway minister Lalu Prasad detailing the ‘steep reduction in the number of railway accidents’ during a parliamentary speech, the Coromandel Express had derailed 100km from Bhubaneswar leaving at least 15 people dead and more than 140 injured. Despite having escaped theft, injury, death and derailment in over 70 journeys, I incorporated the policy normally reserved for bus and taxi rides: I put my head down and went to sleep—waking at midnight as the heavily delayed train, number 75, rolled into the capital of Orissa.

The coastal town of Puri, like Dwarka, was one of the four
dhams
. It was home to the Jagannath temple, and was famous for its annual Rath Yatra festival when idols of the deities are placed on decorated chariots resembling temples and pulled through the streets by priests and devotees who flock from around the world for the privilege. It was from Lord Jagannath’s chariot that the term ‘juggernaut’ came into use. The 12
^th-
century temple complex was hidden behind walls, but its tiered centrepiece was elevated on a pedestal with a red flag waving from the tip. Much like the Royal Standard over Buckingham Palace, it indicated that the lord was in residence.

A two-hour trip on train 76, the Dhauli Express, brought us to the town, thronging with visitors to the temple. Halfway down the road a man ran up to us, jogging backwards to keep up, and pointed to a building next door.

‘Non-Hindus not allowed,’ he declared. ‘But you can take nice photos from Raghunandan library rooftop, best view, only 150 rupees.’

Passepartout glared at him. I flashed him a look that suggested that if he valued his life he would try his luck elsewhere. Familiar with the ritual, Passepartout took my handbag and water bottle and crossed over the road for a cigarette and a coffee. I kicked off my flip-flops and joined a queue that led to the entrance where a khaki-clothed guard sat on a stool. He put his hand out as I approached.

‘Naam?’

‘Monisha’

‘Gotram?’

I had learnt at Dwarka that this referred to lineage or clan. ‘Pala.’

He looked me up and down then beckoned me out of the queue with two fingers and led me to what seemed to be a ticket office. A balding man with a grey moustache sat inside the window shuffling paper. Without looking up he held out his hand.

‘ID card?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t have one.’

‘All Indians have ID card.’

‘I’m not an Indian resident.’

‘Where is your passport?’

‘I don’t have it on me.’

‘You are not a Hindu.’

My palms tingled. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You are not a real Hindu. Show your passport.’

Heat crawled up my neck. ‘My passport doesn’t have my religion on it.’

‘Show your passport.’

The tout from earlier was still hovering. He edged his way over and piped up. ‘Husband has passport,’ and pointed across the road.

The man peered out at Passepartout. ‘That white man is your husband? Then you are not a real Hindu. Hindus do not take another in marriage.’

A volcanic eruption of anger rose with such force that I did not even bother to correct him. ‘You show me where it says that a Hindu cannot marry someone who is not a Hindu.’

‘Even Indira Gandhi, Prime Minister of India was not allowed into temple,’ the tout said, with infuriating smugness. ‘She also took
another
as her husband.’

Passepartout, realising something was afoot, stubbed out his cigarette and hurried over. I took my passport from him and handed it to the man in the window. He examined my picture. Contorting his face into an expression of incredulity, he waved the passport at me.

‘Rajesh? What name is this? And British?’ He threw my passport at me and it bounced off my forehead and onto the floor. ‘Look at how you are dressed. You are not a Hindu. Get out!’

I looked down at my trousers, swinging low at the crotch, and the full-sleeved Fab India kurti. In normal circumstances I too would have been embarrassed to be caught in such a state of sartorial disaster, but the man had now stoked a fire that for four months, I had managed to contain.

‘What would you prefer I do? Come here wearing a sari, tailing behind my husband like a good Hindu? Or smear myself in ash and heap you with donations? You disgust me.’

Like moths to a flame, Indians love a good drama and many drifted across the road and came out of shops to watch the show. They circled, hand on hip, trying to secure a prime viewing spot—including the priest. One man looked me up and down and then poked the priest in the arm.

‘She is Hindu!’ he exclaimed.

In reply the guard slammed his stick across the back of his head.

‘You’re going to hit him now because he’s saying a truth you don’t want to hear?’ Passepartout demanded.

The priest, the guard and the fanatic behind the window started to laugh at me.

‘You’re a bunch of hypocrites!’ I shouted, half fearing they would douse me with kerosene and set me alight. I later found out that these were the same priests who had burnt an effigy of Srila Prabhupada, the Founder of the International Society of Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON), for celebrating the Rath Yatra festival on the wrong day in 2008. ‘You can take your temple and shove it up your arse for all I care. Do you think that your God isn’t watching you all right now?’

‘You are not a Hindu,’ the priest insisted.

‘Who the hell are you to tell me I’m not a Hindu? You’re so caught up with making money from your wasteful, pointless rituals, that you don’t even know why you do it, and what it means to be a good person. People like
you
are what is wrong with religion!’

‘At least everyone is welcome into a church.’ Passepartout added.

Reeling both from the accusations and from Passepartout’s defence of a church, I pushed through the crowd, my cheeks flaming and strode up the street, snatching a cigarette from Passepartout as he jogged alongside.

‘Come on, let’s at least go to the Konarak temple,’ he offered.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

I flagged down a rickshaw and we climbed in. ‘I think I’ve had enough of temples. For good.’

For the first time, Passepartout had nothing to say.

Slumped in a corner of the Puri Talcher passenger train, embracing my first real sunburn, I took out my logbook. I was still fuming and scraped 77 into the parchment as the ticket inspector arrived. Our passes had recently expired and we had been buying tickets, but having never met a ticket inspector on a passenger train, we had become casual. Hiding in the toilet was not an option that I was willing to entertain. He held out ringed fingers.

‘Where are your tickets?’

Passepartout tried to distract him with his camera. The inspector put down his clipboard, pulled his moustache with both hands and waved a pair of jazz hands, thrusting out one leg.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now where are your tickets?’

I swung my legs round and sat up, my shoulders sagging. ‘We haven’t got any.’

‘Would you like a fine?’

‘Not really.’

‘Do you think you can run quickly and avoid the ticket collectors in the station?’

‘Probably.’ I sat up. This was no ordinary inspector.

‘To be safe, let’s just give you the fine.’

Passepartout pulled out
`
500 for each of us. Once the inspector had gone he waved the inky foil at me.

‘Cheer up, it’s great! Imagine how fun that will look amid all our other stubs.’

I scowled. ‘I know, I might find it funny one day but right now I’m not in the mood.’

‘What’s the matter?’

I had a migraine. I had only ever had two in my life. One was when we were moving to India. I remember sitting on the back row of the Air Lanka plane with my forehead pressed against my palms while my mum asked the air hostess for Paracetamol. All she could reply was ‘see-tamole?’ ‘see-tamole?’ until I passed out from the pain and the lack of ‘see-tamole’. The other was when I messed up my A-level results and let down my parents. This new migraine was not the result of dehydration, nor was it due to a lack of food. This migraine was not induced by heat. This was something else. I turned to Passepartout.

‘Please don’t be upset, but I have to go and do something.’

‘What, when we get back to Bhubaneswar?’

‘No. I’m not sure where.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This has nothing to do with you, but can you just give me a week or so on my own?’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Not really. But it’s nothing that you can help with.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I don’t mind. I have friends whom I wanted to visit in Jaipur, I may head back up there again if you’re okay with that?’

‘Yes, that’s fine. I can meet you back in Chennai.’

He paused. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and finish the last three trains.’

‘On my own?’

‘You’ve done a hell of a lot more than me and I can spend this time playing catch-up.’

I frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with not finishing them together?’

‘Sure. There are a couple of places I’d quite like to see myself and I want to genuinely complete all 80 for my own satisfaction before we head back home.’ He smiled. ‘Besides I think this is something you need to finish by yourself.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Just promise me you will be all right on your own.’

20 | Losing My Religion

‘Ten days in complete silence? I could never do that, I’d go completely crazy.’

This was the typical response when I described the meditation course I was about to attend.

‘Why on Earth would you want to do that? No phone calls, no texts, no emails, no Facebook, no books, no writing materials and no iPods? And you can’t speak to anyone? Or even make eye contact? You’re insane. It sounds horrendous!’

To me, no communication with the outside world sounded like bliss. After almost four months, constantly on the move, a part of me had begun to go crazy. I had spent more nights contorted in a rocking berth than I had stretched out on a stationary bed. My back was filled with knots and the May heat was making me irrational and snappy. My thoughts were running riot. Snippets of conversation in my head had now swelled to constant jabbering, growing ever louder to drown out irritations from all around. It was once endearing—in the silly way that journalists on their first freebie to India describe ‘the smell of sweet chai and spices’—but the honking of horns, the stench of sandalwood and shit, and the close proximity of sweating skin had begun to batter my senses. I needed somewhere quiet, to sit still, to breathe.

I had no intention of embarking upon a spiritual journey and becoming the parody I readily mocked, but my militant atheist sidekick had dragged me down that path and dumped me at a crossroads. This society was built on religion, but over the previous months my faith had eroded. Observing the VIP queues at temples, the sale of spirituality, and surface displays of piety from the rich and famous—who, when not dodging tax, publicly fighting over money with their siblings or inciting religious riots, were sure to be photographed mollifying a statue with a handful of sweets—had steered me towards reconsidering its significance in my life. Whether or not God existed was not for me to answer, but what I did know was that placing responsibility for myself in the hands of an unknown entity was over. From all around I was being fed a variety of unappetising comments: ‘So sad you’ve lost hope.’ ‘Don’t worry, you’ll believe again.’ ‘Just pray to Hanuman and he will comfort you.’ ‘God has a plan.’ On the contrary, I was not sad at all. I was cheered. Stepping out onto India’s streets and looking down at the slums or up at The Oberoi was evidence enough that bad and good things happened to both bad and good people and the sooner I stopped looking for reasons, the more palatable life would become.