Muzaffapur
When we got to Muzaffapur the driver used the maps app on his phone to find the hotel but he had no luck at first. We got stuck on a suffocating, over-crowded street which was teeming with humanity and several other species. The car was sliding through mud around bullock carts and motor scooters and we went up and down several times until I started to worry he would throw up his hands and dump me somewhere but finally, after almost an hour, he located the street we were looking for and there was my hotel.
I felt so sorry for the driver who had exclaimed “All these problems are driving me crazy” half an hour before so I tipped him generously and apologised for the difficulties. He looked surprised but smiled as he took the money, gazed at me wonderingly and turned and drove away.
The hotel was in an old building which was being renovated. It had been closed for years and new owners were rebuilding and hiring out the surrounds for weddings. It wasn’t as nice as what I was used to but it was the state of the town which really shocked me.
In the searing heat I would venture out for half an hour or so and return drenched in sweat. I didn’t even get to take any photos, except of the hotel, so preoccupied was I with getting a fruit juice or something from the shops and making it home.
I did stop at an outdoor chai shop with a few benches laid out on the dirt and a bunch of locals enduring the heat. They were friendly enough, making space for me and asking where I was from. Their English didn’t go much further than that although a young man practiced a few phrases on me.
There was a commotion when an obviously eccentric local stole and drank the chai of another man while he wasn’t looking. When the rightful owner found his tea was gone he chased the thief off but there was laughter and bemused head-shaking as the chai wallah prepared a replacement.
Amongst the poor people in every place I visited there was a cheerful compassion lightened with humour and humility which was heart-warming and reassuring. Some things did not change, after all. The human spirit always stood out in Asia and it was still unbowed after all the changes and the reckless development and expansion as the population boomed ever onward. In my lifetime it had tripled. Still everybody seemed to have somewhere to stay and something to eat and drink.
Again I only wanted to move on. I was just passing through and this place was too hot for me to do anything. I booked a rickshaw for 5 am in the morning. I planned to go to the railway station and get a ticket to the border. My hosts had told me to take the earliest train as it was not nearly as packed as the later ones.
As we approched the station in the little rickshaw packed to overflowing with all my luggage I was expecting to come to a sleepy station with nobody around in dark pre-dawn tranquility. What I saw took my breath away. From a mile out there were numerous brightly-lit shops aready open and then the sea of humanity came into view. Thousand upon thousands were sleeping or milling around the station. It was like a small city, or a large refugee camp. There were families with luggage, single men with nothing, a parking lot full of rickshaws and crowds around all the ticket windows.
At first I didn’t know what to do. I was overwhelmed by the situation. My driver asked to see my ticket and I then remembered that I didn’t have one, expecting it to be a small matter, easily accomplished before the train arrived. He was appalled and started to realise the state I was in. As he was about to abandon me I pulled out two large banknotes and gave them to him, one for the fare and the other to encourage him to find me a porter. He considered the deal for a moment and suddenly took off.
While he was gone I found the ticket counters which all had long queues except for the second class window. I presented my passport and said ‘Raxaul, Raxaul’ and the official proceeded to print a ticket for me, while mumbling something I couldn’t understand but which didn’t sound totally affirmative. Whatever he gave me, I had hopes that it would legitimise my presence on a train heading north. At least I had tried to do the right thing.
When I found my rickshaw again the driver was standing there with a thickset, bristly little guy with a bushy moustache and a red towel wrapped around his head. He was businesslike and in no mood to bargain so I agreed to his terms, feeling sure that he was my only hope to find the correct platform and deposit me there with all my gear.
I was amazed and a little worried when he hoisted the first suitcase on his head and gestured to the driver to help him with the other one, which he placed on top of the first. All my worldly possessions were on his head, apart from the guitars which I carried, struggling to keep up with him. I couldn’t believe he could balance more than 40 kilos on his head, racing up and down staircases and through the crowd with alacrity.
He took me to a platform where a train was already waiting. The third class carriages were full to overflowing with people hanging out the doors and jostling aggressively for a position inside. Looking at them I wondered, if this was the early, less busy train, what must the later ones look like? I couldn’t see myself getting onto one of these carriages and again I was unsure what to do.
The porter gestured to me to wait while he disappeared. When he came back he led me onto a second-class air-conditioned carriage and found me a seat to myself by the window. Other passengers were waking up and sleepily ordering chai and adjusting things and preparing for the day. They paid little attention to me and I was starting to feel comfortable when the ticket warden arrived with his officious manner and tidy, freshly pressed navy blue uniform and asked to see my ticket. I couldn’t find it. I had a suspicion that it was not the right ticket for this carriage anyway, but he took off with a warning that if I had no ticket I would have to move to a third-class carriage, a fate I couldn’t imagine at that precise moment.
When he returned he was smiling. “Sit down” he said, waving me into place as he went on checking the other passengers. I didn’t know what he had found out about me. Perhaps he saw that I had paid a ticket from Pune and not used it? Or did he see the ticket I had purchased that morning, whatever that was for? Maybe he rang the ticket office and they got confused. I had no clue but I finally had a seat on an Indian train heading in the right direction and I was able to relax, feeling that I had once again battled through and found myself in a fortunate position, on a comfortable seat, surrounded by friendly people who, like me, were just trying to avoid the bureaucracy and get through another day in the pursuit of duty, comfort and peace of mind.
Travels to Nepal 