Of course, life had been pretty easy in Goa, so that whole Indian train situation hadn’t improved; I was still a scared little Indo-train virgin. Added to that was the enormous apprehension of heading for North India, where I’d been led to expect a much more raw, intense breed of Indian most probably out to take me for a ride (talk about huge misjudgements and generalisations). Better still, I was heading for Bodh Gaya in Bihar, India’s poorest and most notorious state, a place that Indians from elsewhere regard with terror and contempt. “You’re going to Bihar? Oh my, why on earth? God help you, you’ll need it!” Perfect, thanks for the vote of confidence. Nonetheless, I was definitely going, as I was headed to a ten-day silent Vipassana meditation retreat in the Thai Monastery at Bodh Gaya, led by two renowned Western teachers, Christopher Titmuss and Radha Nicholson. Christopher has been leading this retreat since his time as a Buddhist monk in the seventies, some 30 years, and it is notoriously wonderful. Something deep within me knew I just had to be there, drawing me there like a gut magnet; I simply was not going to miss this.
So, confession time; I flew again. I had to stop overnight in Lucknow on the way to Patna, Bihar’s sorry capital (no, I wouldn’t, and didn’t, make this flying choice again), so didn’t really save myself any time in the process, but did make it there alive and well, easing myself into the very different vibe of northern India marginally more slowly. Getting out of Goa was mission enough, involving once again straddling a moped whilst fully backpack-laden, and then practically having to leap out of a moving bus at Goa airport, which apparently has no designated bus stop (anyway, judging by the looks I got, I should be in a tourist taxi not on a local bus, silly). After that I had the joy of a three-hour-long wait at Goa airport, the highlight of which was sharing my lunchtime with a Texan man who, after inviting me to share his table in a way that I couldn’t refuse, proceded to bark generalisations, judgements and self-obsession at me for forty five of the longest, most painful minutes of my life. Apparently he’s never learnt the meaning of ‘conversation’ or the potential interest in hearing another’s take on things. I donned my most noncommital face and tried to let it all waft passed me as I dug around in what has to be the world's most interesting bowl of hot and sour soup. Oh, those joyous, priceless traveller encounters.
Arriving into Lucknow lived up to my apprehensions; it was indeed like being abruptly smacked in the face. Emerging from Departures at 6pm I was faced with a frenzied crowd that made Trivandrum’s pre-dawn party seem like a school disco. Worse still, here they all wanted a piece of me, grabbing at me and my trolley, my armour as I tried to keep my cool and boldly penetrate the seething mass. False start. I didn’t last more than a couple of steps before getting totally overwhelmed, admitting (temporary) defeat and heading right back inside for a few restorative deep breaths. On round two I made it through, acquiring on the way no less than FIVE guys determined to push the trolley that I was desperately trying to keep a hold of (that’ll teach me to always WEAR the bloody backpack) towards the car of my self-designated taxi driver. Amidst all of this commotion, this colossal fuss over the simple deal of finding a cab to just get out of there, I lost every last remaining ounce of trust and connection to my deeper instinct; I was sure they were all out to get me for every penny I had. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Ultimately I didn’t have a lot of choice other than to get into the taxi and hope to be taken to my designated bed for the night; which, for a very fair price, was exactly where I ended up. That’ll teach me to judge a book by its cover on the basis of traveller scare stories. These guys were nothing more than simply absolutely DESPERATE for my business, so much so that they had to push and shove with all their might to win the fare of pushing my trolley about twenty paces (a total of about ten rupees – 12p).
Eyes glued to the window panes as we drove through the nighttime streets of Lucknow, I started to get my first taste of India North. Still only late-January, the weather was noticeably cooler up here and, though still pretty warm by British standards, the streets were filled with spindley figures huddled in brown and beige fabrics around street stoves, warming themselves as if it were a freezing December evening in Dickensian London. That said, as the temperatures dropped in the early hours and I discovered my coconut oil in a more familiarly British solidified form, I was pleased for the heaters and blankets in my room and my emergency thermals (which luckily I hadn’t yet managed to give away); what an unexpected surprise after the Goan tropics. After checking into my decidedly overpriced and (isn’t it always the way) unfriendly hotel, I took a walk to stock up on my wierd concept of essentials (ginger, lemon and honey, of course), only to confirm my impression that there are indeed no women in Lucknow, let alone white ones. This is a large, relatively modern (for Indian standards) Indian city, the capital of the state of Uttar Pradesh, and I didn’t see a single female on the streets, that night or the following morning. Wow. Nonetheless, despite the inevitable open-mouthed staring and shock-horror upon discovering that I was travelling alone (“you very bold lady!”), people were generally friendly and welcoming. I wish the same could be said for the hotel staff who were exactly the opposite, especially when they came barging into my room after I had exploded my bag all over it, frantically searching through everything for a mislaid key. Not that I knew this was what they were looking for, as the bell boy sadly spoke not a word of English, so just got about his searching business while I stood there confused, invaded and increasingly frustrated. Oh, the unfathomable Indian mentality that deems it totally fine to go rooting around customers’ private rooms at 9pm at night looking for a random lost key that might have ended up in another room. BIZARRE.
Arriving into Patna began surprisingly smoothly with no Lucknow-style airport craziness (perhaps because no tourist in their right mind would actually come here?). I easily found a taxi to take me to the ‘Government Rest Rooms’ who I had called ahead to make a reservation. When I arrived the beautiful, friendly boy at reception walked me up to the top of the prison-like tenement block and showed me to a dirty room with no windows and a sizeable mosquito cloud. Surveying the room and anticipating a freezing cold night of being mauled, I couldn’t quite believe he was asking 600 rupees for this room. I pointed out that it had no windows and that perhaps I might get a bit chilly, so he offered to show me a room in the next price category – 800 rupees. Intrigued as to what this would get me in this soulless place, I followed him down a floor to a room that seemed marginally cleaner, with the lights actually fitted to the walls, but still no windows. For ten pounds a night, you must be kidding! Going up another price level he showed me a room that did indeed have windows but was filthy and airless and, anyway, was in a total state of disarray with clothes, towels and bedding strewn all over as if the occupier had been suddenly interrupted. He was clearly as surprised as me at finding the room in this state and swiftly tried to put it back into respectable order. As I stood there contemplating my options I decided that I was not willing to pay these crazy prices for the worst accommodation I had seen yet in India. I was getting pretty good at my cheap, simple sleeps, but to pay some of the highest prices yet in this dump just seemed criminal. My beautiful host evidently didn’t see it that way. And he clearly wanted nothing other than for me to be happy there; when I first expressed my dissatisfaction he looked me straight in the eye, holding his hand to his heart, and said: “I want you to be happy because God is in you, like God is in me and in everything”. Wow, such genuine profundity...over a hotel room. I really felt bad rejecting his offers as he so wanted to make things right for me. But as I mulled it over I just couldn’t get my head around the place and the price, and was sure I could find something better elsewhere. When I politely said a definite ‘no’ and quietly left, he seemed both utterly baffled and personally offended. Or, perhaps, he just knew what I had in store a lot better than I did.
Had I known then what I know now I may well have settled for one of his meagre options. I headed outside and flagged down a cycle rickshaw and hopped aboard, asking to be taken to another of the places recommended in my ever-friendly (but often mistaken) Footprint Guide. On arrival at this guest house I clambered up the three flights of stairs to be greeted with stern looks over spectacles and a firm ‘No. Full’. Gee, that was friendly, thanks. Enquiring where else they might recommend, I interpreted a general wave in the best way I could. And so I wondered down the street trying guest house after hotel after guest house in the vain search for a room. Evidently the World Convention was taking place in Patna that week as there was not a bed to be had. As I carried on ambling along this busy, foreign road, somewhere in the middle of Patna, somewhere in the middle of Bihar, having no luck at finding a room, I became painfully aware of how I was the only tourist, let alone female white one, on the streets of Patna that night. Huddles of men and people-laden rickshaws stuck in the gridlock traffic were staring at me, but in the shy, retreating, unable-to-trust-their-own-eyes kind of way. It was unsettling and, though I was doing my best to KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON, deep in my belly I was starting to panic some.
And then he appeared, my Guardian Angel, again. In a different guise this time – older, taller, heavily bearded, and having swapped his Egyptian eyes for deeply Indian brown ones. Having watched me trek in and unluckily out of the various unwelcoming sleeping options, he finally came up to me and made me an offer. He knew of a guest house that would take me, for four hundred rupees. I would have to go in his cycle rickshaw with him, he would take me there. If I didn’t like it, no problem, no obligation. I didn’t have a whole lot of choice other than to trust this man, and anyway, I just did. Something about those deep eyes told me this guy was a goodun’, so I went with it and rode the wave. Bingo. Perfect little guest house, tucked down some side alley, blatantly not in possession of a license to host Western tourists but doing it regardless (thank the Lord). The bed sheets left an awful lot to be desired (God I love my silk sleeping liner) and I spent the first fifteen minutes fighting with a winning example of hilarious Indian plumbing (what’s the point of having a sink with a drainpipe which just empties itself all over the floor? Result: toothpaste feet), but other than that I was just grateful for the friendly, trustworthy welcome and a roof over my head. When I ventured out very briefly that night to let the parents know I was just about safely arrived in Bihar, I was received with a fairly friendly but generally totally bemused reaction. A woman out on the streets, let alone white Western one, is clearly a rare sight in these parts.
As is toilet paper or indeed paper tissues of any description – despite my best attempts at charades, nobody had a clue what I was talking about. I’d adapted pretty well to my squat toilets (even started to like them, in fact) but one addiction I was finding hard to lose was toilet paper. I’ve tried and tried the water-washing technique, and I’m alright if there’s a squirty hose (very rare in India) to aim and fire, but if I have to use the bucket and jug I just get totally soaked, clothes and all. I emerge from the cubicle looking like I’ve been for a swim to Australia and back (any technical advice very welcome), quite undignified. Nonetheless, having arrived in Bihar completely unprepared, it was time to get Indian and get splashing.
The following day I finally had that long-awaited date with the Indian trains. After an early yoga rise I was breakfasted and ready to walk out the door, aiming for the 9am train to Bodh Gaya. As I was bombing up the stairs to collect my bag I got the shock of my life bumping into another Western woman. We both looked at each other stunned before letting out that sigh of relief that speaks more than a thousand words, the kind of moment that can only happen between two people struggling through India alone: “I’ve made it this far, I’m up for the next leg and the whatever craziness it’s bound to bring...but boy is it nice to see someone else so clearly in the same boat!” It took Tatjana all of about 2 minutes to decide that the Bodh Gaya Meditation Retreat was exactly where she was headed to next (she’s a rather spontaneous person and, much like I was doing increasingly during this trip, was moving purely on gut instinct, taking up the opportunities as they fell into her path). A decision which I was eternally grateful for as it meant I was to be escorted, by an experienced trainette, to the station, through the chaos of the ticket queue and finally onto a train. Hoorah! Certificate please!
Having made it through some gloriously excrement-filled side streets (just what one wants to trudge through in one’s sandals shortly after breakfast), we had the joy of fighting our way through the main hall to the ticket queue. Singular. Of the ten or so queues at Patna station, only one was designated for us ‘women’, although apparently a good percentage of the men interpreted that as for ‘women and me’. Added to that was the fact that the queue didn’t move for an hour, thanks to the whole computer system crashing (so we discovered afterwards), so I had pretty much kissed goodbye to catching that 9am train. How utterly naive. When we did finally get onto the platform at 9.30am, the train was still nowhere in sight. Even when we finally boarded at 10am, it then sat there in the station for another hour and a half as people slowly got on...and off...and on again. Evidently no hurry, this train wasn’t going anywhere soon (what laughable little train geeks we were, sat there expectantly waiting for a vaguely on-time departure). Although I was somewhat apprehensive as to whether I would actually make it to Bodh Gaya in time to register for the retreat that afternoon, I was nonetheless happily entertained by the constant flow of food-and-other-random-items-sellers passing by me through the carriages. Perhaps the most notorious part of Indian train travel, I had been led to expect rank-looking plates of untouchable foods, but actually I was sorely tempted at many of the things on offer, particularly those big platters of fresh fruits and slices of white coconut (mmm...does anything look more pure or refreshing?). But, when it comes to sensory stimulation, it was the ears that got the biggest feast. Evidently part of the fun of selling your wares on Indian transport is in perfecting you own signature call, with its own distinct tone, pitch and rhythm, and barking it out full throttle (and certainly louder than the guy before you). Being on the receiving end of all of these, I would sit back, eyes closed, and revel in the crazy food-call soundscape, a glorious mix of individual rhythms, metres, scales and tones that, on some Charles Ivesian level, fitted into one unique whole. Of course, the chai sellers win hands down, for their amazing ability to create their own unique stamp-mark song out of a simple one-syllable word. During the various train journeys that followed over the coming weeks (yes, there were more) this became my prime occupation, spotting the difference between the chai chants and getting to know each cuppa by the sound of its ring. Perfect for wiling away hours and days on an Indian train.
As it was a relatively short hop from Patna to Bodh Gaya (only 5 hours or so, once we got moving) and Tatjana and I were both equally disorganised, we were in the unreserved section with every man, his brother and his dog/goat/chicken. What a hoot. Although Tatjana didn’t seem to see it this way, evidently quite worn down by the constant staring, the laser-like interest in your every mouthful, sentence, movement. At the time I was reading 'Autobiography of a Yogi' which the English-reading man on my left took a liking to; I only had to put it down for five seconds before he lifted it out of my hands for a less over-the-shoulder style read (no bother, I was glad for the break, it is quite epic). While I tried to exchange friendly comments with our (literally) very close new friends (not least because I was depending on them to tell me where to get off and help me lift down my heavyweight rucksack from its new home up on the high storage shelves), Tatjana most vehemently did the opposite, rebuffing any slight remark or question, no matter how innocent, with a cutting, aggressive reply. I couldn’t help but think there must be a bad experience lurking in there somewhere for her to have been so fiercely defensive to innocent friendly interest; or maybe I just haven’t yet got over my honeymoon phase with Indian behaviours and at some point I will lose all tolerance and openness to another set of social norms. There’s no question, to a Westerner it does feel invasive as your every move becomes carriage news of the week, but one does have a choice about how to handle it. Westerners – particularly female ones travelling ‘unaccompanied’ - are a rare sight on Bihar trains; and we all know what Indians do when they see something unusual and intriguing. Getting upset, aggressive and defensive isn’t going to make them stare any less, in fact it will make it worse, so you might as well just accept being the afternoon’s entertainment and put on a good show.
Arriving into Gaya station was close to what I had anticipated – a crazy scramble to jump, backpack-laden, down from the train and over the railway lines filled with emaciated children begging. We took a brief so-called ‘refuge’ in the Railway Retiring Rooms, splashing out (a whole five rupees) and treating ourselves to the first class ones; even there I had to work hard to keep from heaving. Welcome to Bihar proper, India’s poorest and most notorious state. We took a rickshaw the twenty-minute hop up the road to Bodh Gaya, little more than a village in essence but visited by millions every year because of its fame as the place where Gautama, sat underneath that celebrated Bodhi tree, attained Nirvana. There was me innocently thinking the tree would still be there in a field all alone, waiting for me to go and sit under and contemplate my navel; alas, no, it’s caged in iron railings and there’s a stonking great big temple right next to it. Not to mention the surrounding landscaped gardens and the bankloads of platforms for people to come and do their prostrations. And that’s just within the temple complex itself, which around which are the customary endless stalls selling mini-Buddhas and shortcuts to enlightenment, and chai-wallahs pushing sweet leaves of varying degrees of tastiness. Not that I was headed there just yet. My home for the next ten days or so was the Thai Monastery, set behind the beautiful Thai temple on the edge of Bodh Gaya. As our rickshaw pulled into the big ornamental gates and up to the doors of the glorious, glittering temple, I breathed an enormous sigh of relief at both the beauty and the energy of the place – it just exuded peace. Shanti, literally, on every level. There were a few monks pacing the lawn, presumably passing some hours in their daily walking meditation practise, and a few Westerners milling about. One ten-day retreat had just finished that morning, and some of the more hard-core meditators were staying on for part two. There couldn’t be a better advertisement for the retreat – people walking around vibrating peace, calm and contentment. I was inspired just looking at them.
We were given the guided tour, shown the ropes, including being introduced to the numerous systems in place to enable silent communal living, and taken to the eight-person dorms. Here we got to select our choice of one of the rather unappealling camp-beds, complete with filthy, low-slung mosquito net, something whose importance, at this stage, I ENORMOUSLY underestimated. Then it was time for a quick scout around Bodh Gaya to stock up on warm things (Bihar nights in February in a monastery campbed – chilly) and use up the last remaining power in our vocal chords before making it back to our self-imposed silent prison for 4.30pm. I had no idea really what to expect from the next ten days but I knew one thing – I was one hundred percent, most definitely, up for it. Amidst the chaos of India I’d been craving the chance to really turn inwards and get quiet, a chance to get a glimpse of and process what was actually going on for me. Here I was facing the luxury of ten days with nothing to do but this, and I sincerely couldn’t wait.
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