Indara Junction, a long whistle stop on the 5:50a.m. train from Varanasi to Gorakhpur.  A second class, open seating railway car.  Thankfully, eight of the sixteen fans in this half of the car are working.  Two army officers in khaki uniforms chat animatedly.  A boy walks through the railway car with a large metal teapot in one hand and a basket of small clay cups in the other.  The officers buy a cup, enjoy the tea, then throw the cup at the passing scenery outside the window.  Pottery cracks, Earth returns to Earth.

 

The men continue to chat.  Now a man, younger in appearance than the experiences his wrinkles bespeak, enters the car.  He also carries a large metal teapot and a basket of disposable earthen cups, and sings the one-word tea song: "Chai! Chai! Chai!"  The military men order more chai and take their time agreeing on a price with the chai man, who looks disapprovingly at the change they place in his hand.  They add a few more coins, and the chai seller moves on.

A young woman holds her healthy-eyed child and wears many symbols of marriage -- red and gold bangles on each arm, toe rings, feet dyed red and red vermilion powder coloring the part in her hair.

We ride the rails past wheat fields ... clay huts ... villagers squinting in the sun and leaning on long walking sticks, tending herds of ox ... piles of dung patties drying in the sun ... stagnant pools of water ... an irrigation canal ... and green trees.  The heat is building, both in the day and in the steamy month of April, heading towards the steamier month of May.  I'm headed for Nepal, the Himalayas and relief from the heat.

Gorakhpur is a busy transit point rather than a relaxing place in which to spend time.  I catch a cycle rickshaw to the post office to mail a stack of letters, which draws many curious eyes, and many offers to help.  Then the sweating rickshaw driver pedals through the sun-baked streets to the bus terminal, where a bus is sputtering exhaust, preparing to leave for Sunauli, a border outpost on the Nepal/India border.  I climb atop the bus to lock my backpack to the roof, then climb back down and find a seat.

Rattle, jangle, clatter along, engine revs and radio blasts.  We stop for tea at a collection of roadside stalls.  The road is lined with farms.  Our final stop is Sunauli, where I catch a rickshaw to the porous border.