North to South on the Bangalore Rajdhani Express (Delhi-Bangalore, November 28-30, 2008)

My train is scheduled to depart from Delhi's H. Nizamuddin station at 20:50, and arrive two days, or about 34 hours later, at Bangalore CYJN at 6:35. I will spend two nights on the train, which I am excited for. I love train rides, and I've just started The Kite Runner, so I have an excellent read for the ride. Once I am on the train, I discover that all my meals were include in the ticket price, as this is how the Rajdhani Express caters to its passengers. We are continuously being fed meals of rice, dhal (lentils), subji (cooked vegetables), curd, a sweet, pani (water) and a juice box. In between meals, there are snacks--chai and biscuits, bread with butter and jam. It is difficult to be bored when continuously served culinary surprises.

Along the ride I meet a Pakistani-American man who is about my age. He is in India with a group of Muslims that do service projects. He had already spent some time in an impoverished community in India, and he will eventually head to Bangladesh and Pakistan. I am jealous because he paid the same price as me and got a Bangladeshi and Pakistani visas that last several years, I suppose because he plans to return to these places to do service work and visit family. We talk for a while about values and religion. He tells me about his wife, how they met and fell deeply in love, how she respects his decision to leave for a while and do these service projects, how they have very open communication. When he is in the US, he does IT work for large corporations. It seems good for him.

Later, I join the Muslim-American man in his cabin and meet his two Uzbekistani cabin mates. They are a couple; the man is of Russian heritage, and the woman of Uzbek heritage, but both citizens of Uzbekistan. They are traveling in India to meet a religious teacher they have been following, especially the man. I think the woman works for the Uzbek government, and I cannot recall the man's line of work, but he seems very intelligent. We talk about Uzbek culture and history, Russian culture, and the future of the Russian federation as it relates to Uzbekistan and other former satellite states. The man seems to be very interested in conspiracy theories and the impact of Christian/Western mythology on the development of the world.

I also finish reading The Kite Runner on the train. I am thankful for the time to read. Several times the book makes me cry as I lay in my bunk, hopeful that my Indian cabin mates don't see the tears.

In my last hour or so on the train, I make friends with my cabin mates so that they can help me find a taxi or rickshaw at a decent rate. The group of young men find a ride for me and try to get a good rate, as I stand back so that hopefully the driver will not realize he is taking a white person that he should be charging more.

I thank the men and head off to the Swami Vivekananda Yoga Anusandhana Samsthana (SVYASA) center in Bangalore. It is early morning and the streets are surprisingly calm. My first impressions of Bangalore, and of the South, are positive. It seems like a smaller, more navigable city than Delhi. But maybe this is only because it is morning. We drive past some impoverished areas, and then finally find the SVYASA office.

Thanksgiving and Terrorism (Gurgaon, November 25-28, 2008)

I take a taxi from Old Delhi to Austin's Google guesthouse in Gurgaon. It is the first time I have had to get a cab from Delhi, and I bargain hard just to get the maximum price Austin told me I should pay. Because evening is falling, I will not be able to find a better price. I get to Austin's at night. I'm sure Aarif greeted me and told me the staff missed me.

I inform Austin that I'm planning to stay in India a bit longer, and thankfully he is okay that I will leave my things in his room while I travel. We plan to celebrate Thanksgiving at his guesthouse, and he will invite some of his friends to the celebration. I also reserve my train ticket from Delhi to Bangalore, where I will attend the one-month Yoga Instructor's Course (YIC) at the Swami Vivekananda Yoga Anusandhana Samsthana ashram called Prashanti Kutiram (which, I think, means abode of peace). SVYASA is a yoga university based in Bangalore, but the ashram is in nearby Jigani. There is also a yoga hospital (arogyadhama) on campus, where research is conducted on the healing effects of yoga for a number of physical and mental ailments.

One evening, Austin and I go to his acquaintance's apartment for a party with a bunch of Indians and ex-pats. I don't think Austin knows the host as well as he knows some of his co-workers at the party. I'm quite awkward all-around, because I really don't know anybody. I am thrust into the kind of ex-pat life I saw in Hong Kong, and I don't really like it.

Austin and I plan for Thanksgiving. I spend most of the day at the Internet cafe while he is at work. We meet up and Manbir takes us to grocery stores that tend to have Western fare. Austin finds a smoked turkey that is more like a processed lunch meat than the real bird. I can't remember what else we find, but I know we cannot find pumpkin pie filling. We might also have mashed potatoes. The guesthouse cooks will make our American food, and also Indian food in case the Indian guests don't like the American dishes. We are fortunate to find some nice pastries at a bakery, and these will suffice instead of pumpkin pie.

I learn that on Thanksgiving day, there has been a huge terrorist attack at two expensive hotels in Mumbai. After Thanksgiving dinner, I call home to talk to the family. I tell my mom that I have decided to stay about three months longer in India, and she is worried. She said she was doing so well with my being gone, until she heard about the Mumbai blast. Now she wants me to come home. I assure her that when I am in the ashram, I will not be mobile for an entire month, and I will be in the middle of nowhere, a place not likely to be attacked. She finally says it is okay for me to stay. I talk to everyone, especially Andrew.

I take the next day to finish laundry and pack, and Manbir brings me to the Delhi train station for my 34-hour train to Bangalore on the Bangalore Rajdhani Express.

Hot to Cool (Delhi to Shimla, Himachal Pradesh, September 11-13, 2008)

It takes a few days for me to decide on my next destination. I have three options:
1) Rajasthan
2) Himachal Pradesh
3) traveling east through Varanasi, Bodhgaya, Kolkata and then into Bangladesh

Letting the weather guide me, I decide on Himachal Pradesh, which is cooler than the thick heat I have been experiencing in Delhi, and would experience in Rajasthan or traveling east to Bangladesh. On the advice of a train ticket salesman I meet at an Internet cafe, I devise my route: I will go from Delhi to Shimla to Dharamsala/McLeod Ganj to Amritsar to Delhi.

The first destination on this leg of my journey, Shimla, was the official summer capitol of the British Raj in India. Until the British arrived, there was nothing at Shimla but a sleepy forest glade known as Shyamala (a local name for Kali). Every summer until 1939, the entire government of India fled here from the sweltering heat of the plains. When the Kalka-Shimla railway line was constructed in 1903, Shimla's status as India's premier hill station was assured. British influence is seen in the Anglican church (Christ Church), Viceregal Lodge, nearby golf course, and buildings such as Town Hall, post office, Offices of the Accountant General an Rothney Castle.

Leaving Delhi, I take a 4 hour train to Kalka and then a 5 hour toy train to Shimla. The toy train takes us through green mountain ranges, a foretaste of the approaching landscape in Shimla and Dharamsala. Though a welcome change from the chaos of the city, the highlight of the train ride is not the landscape but the people I meet. I am fortunate to sit next to a very kind Sikh family from Punjab with two cute children, one girl and one boy. The father is constantly pointing out the window to show them the train engine or one of the 103 tunnels we go through. They graciously offer to share their chips and aloo paratha (potato-stuffed bread) with me and buy me chai (black tea, milk and lots of sugar). The father communicates with me the best that he can, and I drop a few of the Hindi phrases I have learned, asking his daughter what her name is, and sharing mine. Immediately, I feel more at ease about my first independent journey in India.

At the Shimla train station, I meet two men from England and ask if they would like to share a taxi into town so that I don't have to pay for one myself. Instead, we decide to walk and are led by one of many workers who probably get commission for recommending hotels to us. This situation is nearly unavoidable. I bargain hard and settle on the Woodland Hotel, which turns out to be far from everything and up a steep hill, a bit dirty and musty. It is far from ideal, but I convince myself it is "rustic."

Where there is bad, there is also good. Although the hotel is not so great, I have the fortune of meeting four young men from Delhi--Ashu, Sandeep, Ravi and Ajay. They are best friends, traveling together for about a week in the north. Shimla is their last stop before heading back to Delhi. They try to teach me some Hindi, and I absorb a little. They say a Hindi phrase I have seen used by Indian tourist agencies. It translates to mean roughly, "In India, a foreigner is a God." Though I have heard it used, I have yet to see how it plays out in practice...

The next day, they ask if I would like to travel with them around Shimla as they have a car. I jump at the opportunity, as hiring a taxi would be too expensive, and it's nice to have company when traveling alone.

Our first stop is a lookout point (possibly called Mashobra, though I can't recall) from which we can see the Himalayan mountains peeking through the thick fog that comes during this time of year. The path to the lookout point is steep and much of it is covered in mud generated from the heavy foot traffic of Indian tourists and ponies. I insist I can make it, but the boys haggle with some locals and about halfway up I am offered a pony and a bumpy ride. They say the locals are doing "social service" by offering me a free ride. We hop in the car again, and listen to Bollywood music. Ashu and I both love song from "Bachna Ae Hasino" and sing along (or, in my case, hum).

After the lookout point, we continue on to Naldehra, where the boys want to see a golf course-apparently one of the world's highest. I am less interested in this, but it turns out to be located near a beautiful cedar forest. We walk through this en route to two small Hindu temples, one located nearly on the golf course. The boys take a break for some entertaining pictures of acrobatic tricks on the green--a variation of the jumping pictures that Austin's group of friends performs as they travel. Some things, it seems, are universal. We have a nice lunch with a view of the mountains. All four boys are vegetarian, as am I. Though not all Indians are vegetarian, vegetarianism is completely acceptable here and nearly every restaurant has many vegetarian options. After experiencing the normalcy of vegetarianism in India, for the first time in my life I realize how abnormal it feels to be vegetarian back in the states.

After Naldehra, we drive back toward Shimla. The road is rough, narrow, and on the edge of a mountain. But Ashu is a skilled driver, as are all drivers here. The last stop before Shimla is Jakhu Temple, Shimla's most famous temple, dedicated to the monkey god, Hanuman. Appropriately, hundreds of rhesus macaques loiter around harassing devotees for prasad (food offerings). Two of the boys rent sticks at the temple entrance to scare away the monkeys. I had seen a few temples before coming to Shimla, but I had not expected to go through Hindu rituals upon coming here. I follow as the boys lead. There is a very young girl, maybe six years old, sitting on the floor and keeping rhythm on her drum. Another rhythm instrument is played by a man in the corner, and different men hammer on loud bells hanging from the ceiling. Inside a small, separate room is a shrine and a man administering incense around a deity. The boys are very serious, separating from each other to pray or bow onto the floor. I fold my hands but keep my eyes wide open, taking in all that is happening. At the end of the ceremony, we each approach the priest and he dabs the middle of our foreheads with thick orange paint. He also gives us a sweet, cereal-like substance to eat as we leave the temple. Though benign at all other Hindu temples, at this particular place the combination of food and monkeys proves risky--as soon as I exit, a monkey quickly grabs for my pants. I scream, realizing I should have stuffed the cereal in my mouth, and one of the boys bangs his stick on the ground. The monkey retreats, I fill my mouth with sweet substance, and we leave.

We drive back to the hotel in the dark, tired and happy after our day.

The next day is less memorable, as the boys head back to Delhi and I am alone. I walk around Shimla and find the bus stand to ensure I will get a bus that evening for Dharamsala. En route, I drop into Shimla's Gurudwara (a gurudwara is a Sikh temple) and am led around by the temple's very inviting religious leader. I walk around to occupy my time. Then I make the tiring climb up to my hotel (the cheapest places, I have learned, are the most out-of-the-way), grab my bag, have a bite to eat, walk to the bus stand once more, and find my bus.