Second class sleeper marathon...

Traveling two days on second class sleeper is an interesting insight into the thoughts and feelings of a zoo exhibit.

For those of you who ghave seen slumdog millionaire - the train scenes are a perfect depiction (apart from the carriage from which the boys try and steal chappatis - thats first class - a world away from the train carriages we know!). The carriages are jostling with passengers and tradesman. There's a catching exuberance to the situation. The inhabitants of the bunks across us had the habit of sporadically bursting in the song while the remaining passengers (including us) made conductor type motions and clapped at each finale vocal. Tradesman of all shape and sizes pass through in a constant stream - we were offered, among others, coffee sugar, chai. samosas, byriani, plastic flashing wands, birds that tweet when you click your fingers, ratles, satchels, banana fry, oranges, necklaces, school atlasses, books on religion, maths problems and english grammar, and the largest selection of novelty plastic keyrings I ere did see!

One family in particular adopted us. The babies were beautiful, wobbly legged with big bashful brown eyes. Its astounding how many hours you can entertain a child while impersonating a monkey - seriously - hours! and my monkey impression isn' even hat good - oh, perhaps thats why they were laughing so hard...Inside the carriage the group of 12 watch our every move from the adjacent bunks. Their charm delights and grates. Food is passed and broken English forms shards of conversation. We are their guests. Every chai, biscuit and digestion tablet is on them, at their insistence. In return, each movement made by us, each item plucked from our sacks is scrutinised with rapt attention.

One of the group invites us to his home, insists our next India visit will include it.

The wives were kind but distant. Swathed in saris of lime and orange. Their dark hair coils lusciously down their backs. Each toe is decorated with silver and gemstones. Every meal time they would bring me foods and gesture me to sit with them, but they never spoke to me or each other. Women of the lower castes receive minimal education here, so while their English was limited, their eyes were kind.

And then there were the menfolk...the elder men personify exactly what I have found difficult with this country. They will address only the bearded one. The big daddy of the family was asking the twit about the differences between protestants and cathoics etc...The twit looks to me and I clarify the answer. Upon hearing my answer the old gent would turn straight back to the twit to continue his questions on the subject. Again, the twit looks to me for clarification. This cycle continues, circular.

We've encountered this time and time again. A local will introduce himself to the twit, and ignore me. He will ask questions about me to the twit while I am stood right next to him. My presence is neither looked upon, or acknowledged. Apart from when I have a cigarette - then they do stare! Being a member of the culturally oppressed gender has provided a real insight into the phrase "its cos I'm [insert minority group] innit".

Its the same when we are out and about in the night. Travelling as a Western women feels like being a high class prositute of the 1800s. You circulate in social circles that are usually open only to men. You drink where only men drink and you smoke among males only. And as I imagine happened to the prostitutes of that era, the men share with you things that their wives will never know, they laugh at the jokes that their wife should never make. And yet when they choose to, they will discount your company. They will knock down your presence to the status of unperson; ignorable and ignored.

What makes it really difficult, what causes your blood to boil and your heart to seethe, is when the man you love, your companion, fails to notice your demotion to unperson status. Is it ok now? OK now that we mingle only with men in the smoky bars of India? All the while the Western woman traversing the bars may be fun, she may banter and provoke the gaiety of laughter. Remember though, Indian men of the night; the Western woman is cheap, she is easy. She can be demeaned and harrassed as she walks alone. Is it ok then, for the man who loves her, to enjoy her only when he chooses? And when he does not; turn back to the crowd, laugh with your chromosatic kind. Fail to notice her strugle to make herself heard in every meeting. Don't notice that the friendship is directed only at you. It is not required that you know this.

The old gent turns the conversation from us for a moment. He holds his belly through his billowing white robe; chuckling and bantering Hindi. The twit leans over; "You could make it a 3 way conversation you know, you know more about this stuff".

"Perhaps, but it keeps getting diverted", my dry response finished, I turn to the window.

The gentleman begins to ask the twit about myself, "What sort of scientist is your wife", "What is the University she works at?"

The twit supplies the answers and looks to me. I barely nod my head in response. Frustratingly I feel the chip inchin deeper into my shoulder. How do you handle such situations? Cheerful demeanor? Struggle for your intelligence to be heard? Sullen withdrawal? I swing between both stances; peacefully playing my voice into their nervous system; then retracting into a cocoon of hedphones and writing. Oh the self assurance of men; that the man is worth speaking with alone. Together they can disseminate the wisdom afforded only by the Y chromosome.

The gent takes a break to share thoughts with his company. Up until now they have been enraptured by the sight of the two English folk. The twit leans in, "I'm trying to involve you, but I'm starting to see the one-sidedness of it all now".

Thank god. At last.

What a self exacerbating situation. Rejected through cultural presumptions, I withdraw. How can anything ever be changed?

We pull into a train station. Six young men beeline across the platform to our windows. They do not speak; content to silently stare through the bars at the twit and I.

"Hello" the twit nods. One nods back. One grabs another by the arm and hands fim to my window. I smile and nod, they return the nod and little else.

An hour before our journey ended, three trainee priests jumped onto our carriage. They bounded straight to us..."Hello madam - how are you today?" I almost dropped my book in surprise - a man addressing me as an equal - WOO HOO! The three lads were beautifully fresh faced, bedecked in yellow university shirts with wide brown eyes and gentle smiles. They had decided to become priests at the age of 17 and were three years into their 13 year training. We found they loved learning English so we rummaged through our backpacks to find a book to give them. Joseph scrammed and returned with 3 cds "These are my three favourite, please take them and remember us". He wrote me the following in my journal:
"Life is precious. See it differently. Make it different. Do not try to follow any ideal, but be an ideal".

And so our second class sleeper train marathon came to an end. As we gathered our bags the whole carriage jumped up to shake us by the hand and wave us goodbye. As we stepped off the train and made our way down the platform we heard a bellow "Wait, please sir, wait!". One of the papas had brought his two babies off the train to shake our hands goodbye. They gazed up at us wide eyed and beamed us goodbye.

And so we left, warmed by the enthusiasm for friendship, and re-astounded at the open spirit of the people of India.