Excerpt from "Riding the Brahma Bull," by Douglas
Fogel.  Copyright 1995 by Douglas Fogel.  All rights
reserved.  No portion of this may be copied or
transmitted, in any way, in any form.

You are about to read about a train journey I took from
New Delhi to Pathenkot.  It wasn't very relaxing...


I was standing on platform one at New Delhi Station
waiting for the Shalimar Express.  However, I didn't
know that I was on the wrong platform.  I found this out
through an inquisitive young Indian man.

At first I was standoffish, not wanting to encourage a
conversation.  I was exhausted, in no mood to talk,
because I'd walked all the way from the Metropolis
totally encumbered with gear - everything I'd brought
with me from Kathmandu.

However, the Indian was persistent.  He kept asking me
where I was going.  Just to get him off my back, I told
him:  I was on my way to Dharamsala, by way of
Pathankot.

He said my train was on platform two.  I wasn't sure I
could believe him, but felt I should go there to
investigate.

Sure enough, the train was there.  Now I had to find the
first-class sleeping car.  As I walked down the line I
saw a guard, a Saddam Hussein look-alike, standing
nearby.  I asked him for directions.

He demanded to see my ticket.  After giving it careful
scrutiny, he told me to go toward the rear of the train.

I walked to the end of the line, but all I saw were
second-class cars.  Perplexed, I approached another
guard - another dead-ringer for Saddam (there are a lot
of them in India) - and asked where the first-class
sleeping car was.

He also insisted on seeing my ticket.  Satisfied that it
was genuine, he handed it back and told me to follow him
toward the front of the train.

As we walked, he warned that I must be careful because
this train was notorious for pickpockets and thieves.
He said I should have taken a bus.

I was spent by the time we reached the car, which was
nearly full.  However, I was surprised to find the last
compartment unoccupied.

It was half the size of a normal compartment, with one
long seat and a luggage rack above it.  I stowed my pack
there and stretched out.  However, I couldn't relax
because I had the uneasy feeling that I shouldn't be
here - the solitude was too good to be true.

A few minutes later, a big Sikh wearing combat fatigues
came in and gestured that he wanted to sit down.  I
reluctantly made room for him.

As the train departed, another man came in, a diminutive
Indian in his early thirties.  He was a lawyer who free-
lanced as a fortune teller.  Would I mind showing him my
right palm?

He examined it carefully, slowly tracing a finger over a
deep groove.  He was awestruck by it, as if it were the
eighth wonder of the world.

He finally said that I was destined for international
fame.  He'd noticed the groove in my palm from the
start; it practically jumped out at him.  He just *had*
to see it.

As I contemplated his prediction, the conductor came in
and asked for my ticket.  He studied it carefully for a
few moments before leaving with it.  I feared that my
premonition was about to be realized.

Sure enough, he came back and told me I was in the wrong
compartment.  He led me to another one.

My seat was next to a lean, handsome Kashmirian of about
twenty-five.  He smiled and said hello; he'd been
expecting me.

How, I asked, could he have been expecting me?

Because he'd checked the reservation list.  He'd seen my
name there, which was obviously the name of a foreigner.

I didn't know anything about a reservation list.  Where
was it?

He said there was a glass case on every platform, which
encased a reservation list for each train that was to
depart from that platform.  You were supposed to check
the list for your train to see which car you had been
assigned to.  Then you were supposed to go to your
assigned car and check another list, which was taped to
the side of the car.  That list gave your assigned
compartment and seat number.

A few minutes after his explanation, the Sikh and
lawyer/fortune teller entered.  They sat next to the
Kashmirian, as the berth across from us was occupied by
another man, who was stretched out asleep.  According to
the Kashmirian, we'd been booted out of our cozy cabin
because it was reserved for a member of the Indian
parliament.

The Kashmirian's name was Ahsan-ur-Rehman  He was from
Srinagar.  I told him I was considering a visit to
Kashmir, but was concerned about reports of violence.
Hardly a day went by without some account of bloodshed
between Kashmirian militants and the Indian army.  Howbad were things up there, really?

He said there was certainly fighting in Kashmir, but
that the situation wasn't as bad as the papers were
making it appear.  Most of the encounters were in
isolated valleys, far from Srinagar.  He assured me that
city was as safe as any in India.

Soon a porter came in and served us dinner.  We were
each given a metal plate containing several vegetarian
dishes, rice and chapatis -  these were thalis.  It was
a delicious meal.

After dinner, an Indian couple entered.  They were of
middle age.  She was homely and thin; he was a frail
amputee, with one arm.  They sat down in the berth
across from me.

In doing so they inadvertently grazed the feet of the
sleeping Indian man, who shot up and shouted at them.
Scared to death, they retreated hastily to the luggage
rack above them and lied down.  I don't think they moved
for the rest of the trip.

It was now eight p.m.  At this time of the evening,
there were only supposed to be four people in first-
class compartments, one for each sleeping berth.  Ours
had seven.  I asked Ahsan why there were so many people
here.

He shrugged and said, "Because this is India."
                         
                         * * *

Loud banging noises snapped me out of a fitful slumber.
I jumped up, thinking I'd slept through Pathankot.  The
Sikh motioned for me to lie back down and opened the
door.

On the other side was a heavy-set Indian man I
remembered having seen earlier.  He'd been by twice
before to see if there was room in our compartment.
Both times the man who had kicked the couple out of his
berth slammed the door in his face.

This time, though, the heavy-set man wasn't taking no
for an answer.  When the Sikh opened the door, he
jabbered angrily in Hindi and came in.  The Sikh didn't
try to stop him.

He had two large suitcases, which he stowed at the end
of the compartment.  Then he stretched out on the floor.

It was one in the morning.  We were due in Pathankot in
three hours.  I was tired, but couldn't relax.  All I
could think about was how disastrous it would be if I
overslept.  I tossed and turned for awhile before
drifting off uneasily.

A sudden stop jerked me awake.  I looked at my watch.
It was three-forty.  I suddenly realized that if we were
running ahead of schedule, we might already be in
Pathankot.  I opened the compartment door and walked out
into the corridor.

There was a skinny Indian man of about fifty sitting by
the exit.  I asked him if we were in Pathankot.  He said
we weren't, but would be in twenty minutes or so.

I talked to him for awhile.  He was also going to
Pathankot, his home town.  It was, he warned, not a
place to be careless.  That was especially true for a
prosperous looking Westerner like me because the station
was infested with thieves.

I thanked him for the advice and went back to my
compartment to retrieve my gear.  When I slid the door
open, the man on the floor sighed with annoyance.

I patted the berth where I'd been sleeping and told him
it was all his.  He couldn't believe this unexpected
good fortune and, as a gesture of gratitude, insisted on
helping me with my gear.  So as not to offend, I let him
drag my pack out to the corridor.

He said he'd been on trains or in train stations for the
past forty hours.  His journey had begun in Bombay.  He
was taking this train to the end of the line, to Jammu.
Then he apologized, saying he was too tired to talk
anymore.  He excused himself and returned to his
compartment.

I took my pack to the exit.  The man from Pathankot was
still there.  He said I should forego traveling in
first-class trains from now on because the Indian
government, which operated all rail travel in the
country, routinely oversold space on first-class trains
in an effort to induce people to use a new, more
expensive service, the air-conditioned first-class
sleeper.  If I wanted to travel by train, this was the
way to go.  Otherwise, the only sane modes of
transportation were deluxe buses and airplanes.

This guy was proving to be a wealth of information.  I
told him I was considering going to Kashmir.  What did
he think?

Under no circumstances, he said, should I travel there,
at least in the foreseeable future. They were fighting
in the streets of Srinagar.  I'd be better off going to
Jaisalmer, Mt. Abu or anywhere in southern India.

He stressed that he wanted foreign tourists to go home
with fond memories of his beloved country.  He
acknowledged that visitors often left with bad
impressions because they were overwhelmed by beggars,
cheats, and dishonest touts.  They, he said solemnly, do
not represent the real India.
                         
                         * * *

The shelters of last resort for India's homeless are the
country's seven thousand-plus train stations.  No matter
when you arrive at one, you always find scores of ragged
people sleeping on the platforms.  Often you see entire
families snuggled together, using soiled blankets and
communal body heat to keep warm.

I'd witnessed such scenes many times, but wasn't
prepared for the horror of Pathankot.  It was like some
terrible nether world.

The platform was packed with people lying motionless
under grimy garments.  Some slept uncovered, with filthy
flesh exposed.  They looked like rotting corpses.

Despite the hour, many were up - wraith-like, shadowy
figures huddled over makeshift fires of twigs and paper
scraps.

No one bothered to look up when our train pulled in. 
Their vacuous eyes said it all:  They had given up hope.
It was, I imagined, what the world would be like for
survivors of a nuclear holocaust.

The man from Pathankot led me out to the platform.
Carefully sidestepping the slumbering multitude, we made
our way to the station's waiting rooms, where ticketed
passengers were permitted to rest.

We walked to a door labeled "Women's First Class Waiting
Room."  He said I should go in and wait for half an
hour, then ask the station manager for directions to the
bus stand.  Before leaving, he admonished me not to talk
to anyone outside the station.

I went inside and was immediately chased out by an angry
old hag.  Couldn't I read that this room was reserved
for women?

Tired, frustrated, and a little nervous, I walked down
the platform to the next room.  The sign above the door
was in Hindi, but I could tell that this was also a
waiting room.  I entered and found it empty.

I leaned my pack against a wooden bench and sat down.  I
was glad to be alone.

A few minutes later, a noisy Indian family ruined my
solitude.  They set up camp at a large wooden table in
the middle of the room and began spreading out
provisions of tea and thalis.  I endured them for about
fifteen minutes before seeking out the station manager's
office.

It was a few doors down.  I entered and found myself in
a cramped, dirty cubbyhole.  No one was in sight.  The
only furniture was a small wooden table with chipped
green paint and, behind it, a folding chair.  A black
rotary telephone of Roaring Twenties vintage sat on the
table, as did several manila folders.  Behind the table
was an open door that provided a dim view of what seemed
like a storage room.

I called out.

No answer.

I tried again.

Silence.

I was about to yell a third time when a pudgy little man
in a faded white shirt appeared from the room.  I asked
him where the bus stand was.

He said it was about one kilometer away, just south of
town.  However, he said that it was unnecessary to go
there because buses regularly stopped in front of the
train station.  The first one was due at six.

That was more than an hour from now.  I couldn't bear to
return to the noisy Indian family, so I weaved around
the human wreckage on the platform and left the station.

As soon as I reached the street, an skinny old cycle-
rickshaw-wallah rode up to me.

"Hello, baba," he said.  "You are going to Dharamsala?"

I said yes.

"You want bus?"

I thought maybe I should go to the bus station now.  I
asked how much he wanted to take me there.

"Ten rupees, baba," he said.

I countered with five.  He agreed, patting the seat
behind him.

The ride through town was as depressing as the train
station.  Save for a few cows that foraged through
scattered mounds of garbage, there was little activity.
The few working street lamps cast a pale, sickly glow
over the main road.  On each side of it, beyond reach of
the meager light, lurked closed stores and shops that
seemed abandoned.

When we reached the bus station, I got out and handed
the rickshaw-wallah five rupees.  Trying to sound
assertive, he asked for ten.  However, I wouldn't oblige
and told him I was sick of having to argue about fares
after every rickshaw ride.  He smiled slyly at this; it
was a smile that said I couldn't blame him for trying.

The station was a small, concrete box of a building.
There was a large group of loitering young Indian men by
the entrance.  They stared at me, smirking in unison.

Ignoring them, I entered the station and walked to a
cubicle made of fencing.  There were several tellers
inside.  I bought a ticket from one and asked him what
berth the bus to Dharamsala left from.  He indifferently
pointed to one about twenty feet away.

It was empty, one of about ten.  Two of these were
occupied by idle buses, broken-down jalopies with
dented, rusted-out bodies and bald tires.  They looked
like survivors of a demolition derby.

I sat down on a bench and waited.  There were about
sixty other men, all Indians, milling about.  Another
dozen or so sat in a chai shop inside the station,
engaged in lively conversation.  Unlike the young men
outside, none of them paid any attention to me.

My bus arrived an hour later.  As soon as it backed into
its berth, I started to board.  However, the ticket-
taker blocked my way and said I had to put my pack on
the roof.

I didn't see why, as there were only a handful of people
inside, a few young Westerners.  Plus I was the only
person from this station going to Dharamsala.

However, I didn't feel like arguing.  I took my pack off
and zipped a nylon covering over the shoulder straps.
This made it look like a suitcase and, more importantly,
virtually eliminated the possibility of someone stepping
on the plastic waist buckle and breaking it - the main
reason, other than the fear of theft, that I didn't want
my pack on the roof.

But I couldn't carry it up the bus ladder this way.  It
was too heavy.  I would have to unzip the covering and
strap on the pack.  At that moment, it was the last
thing in the world I felt like doing.  I stared up at
the roof in dismay.

Just as I started to unzip the covering, I noticed that
the ticket-taker was involved in an animated
conversation with an old, thin Indian man.  I guessed
that he was a porter, so I waited to see if he would
offer to take up my pack.

My patience paid off.  The two men motioned for me to
give it to them.  I gladly obliged and watched them
struggle with it for a few seconds.  Then, to my
amazement, the ticket-taker picked it up and balanced it
on the porter's head, who, without so much as a grimace,
walked up the ladder and deposited it on the roof.

I knew this service wasn't free, so I gave him five
rupees.  To my surprise, he produced two rupees, fifty
paisa change.
                         * * *


Dear Reader,

Thanks for reading this excerpt of "Riding the Brahma
Bull."  If you enjoyed it and would like to read the
entire work, send a check or money order for $12.97 to:

Doug Fogel
P.O. Box 748
Aurora, OH  44202

In return, I'll send you a diskette of "Riding the Brahma Bull" in RTF format (most word processing
programs can read RTF - rich text format).  Make sure
you note on your check or money order, or on a separate
note, whether you have a PC or MAC so I can send you a
properly formatted diskette (if you have an older word
processing system that doesn't support RTF, I can send
you an ASCII, or text, file; just make sure that you
note somewhere on your payment or on a separate note
that you want your copy in ASCII).

Rather have a hard copy?  No problem!  Send in $15.97
and I'll send you a bound manuscript. 

Have questions or comments?  Write me via e-mail at
103657,2316, or at the above address, or call at
216-691-0479 (this number changes to 216-247-3870
after May 13).

Thanks!

Doug