Shimla was waking up, as were the folks on the benches in the waiting area of Shimla’s shabby Rivoli bus stand. The man at the ticket booth was ready at his post by six fifteen, but not willing to issue me a ticket until a quarter hour later. I have learned not to ask why anymore; he was printing out tickets for others. I am doing my utmost not to resist India, as confusing at it is at times. “Come back in fifteen minutes.” He firmly asserted. I saw my bus scrunched in between others. It wasn’t going to leave without me. “OK, thank you.” Killing the man with kindness and a smile had no impact. I went back to a steel bench, hugged my pack, and watched the rest of the residents of the bus ... read more

For the next thirty hours, my only goal was to get there. Even as the bus pulled away from Jaisalmer, I hadn’t confirmed where there was. Ticketed through to my transit point of Chandigarh, I knew I would not stay long. I had some ideas, a general direction. To Amritsar in Punjab? Back through Haryana to Haridwar in Uttarakhand? Only in transit would my next resting point reveal itself to me. It would depend on connections and how easily I could manage them. I was sure it was time to go north. My big connection was back in Bikaner, home of the Chhalanis, where I would board an overnight train. Bus personnel on the route between Jaisalmer and Bikaner spend the overnight on top of the vehicles’ roofs. Sipping my cup of morning tea at five ... read more

That there would no air-conditioned coaches on the desert rail line between Bikaner and Jaisalmer made little difference to me. So what? Why should it matter? It is a morning journey. I’ll be in a hotel room by mid-afternoon anyway. Except for the padding on the seats, there is little difference between traveling this train in second class or the inferior sleeper class. The masses jump on the hard wooden benches of the sleeper cars, as the empty train halts at Bikaner station twenty minutes before the seven-thirty a.m. departure. Moms supply padding to soften the blow between bench and bottom. Within a short time, sleeper class is bulging with passengers. Many of them have fallen asleep, uninterested in the morning routines at Bikaner’s railway station. Families and day workers climb down from one platform and ... read more

Mr. Chhalani and his son were there to meet me on the platform as promised. The father speaks in spurts. If you haven’t gotten to know him well enough, you’d think he has a crabby disposition. His deceptive irritability conceals an unconditional, yet forceful kindness. Hanging out with the entire Chhalani clan is an exercise in tag-team hospitality. Once one of them is done strangling you with generosity and consideration, he runs to the corner of the ring and slaps the hand of a brother or the lady of the house; on comes the next to smother you with more. In the end with the Chhalanis, resistance is futile. Their newly built, custom-designed mini mansion is indicative of the name they have made for themselves in Bikaner. Yellowing newsprint still sticks to walls above doorways where ... read more

There’s something to be said for a game named after an insect that takes the better part of a PhD to understand. Having shown the mildest of interest after watching from the sidelines for ten minutes, the eldest man looked at me and pointed the handle end of the bat at my chest. I was seated on some steps by the side of a water pump; my feet reaching over the open sewer ditch to the ripped asphalt. “Do you want to bat?” he asked me. I admit I hesitated. Fifteen years ago, I would not have. How hard could it be, anyway? I grew up playing baseball and was decent at it. I’ll show these Indians a thing or two on how to a hit a ball. I was confident. It had to be easier: ... read more