The British, who counted India as part of their imperial empire from the early 19th century until Indian Independence on August 15th, 1947, affected Indian culture for better and for worse.  Their legacy is most enduring in cricket, bureaucracy, and the railroad.

The railroad, at least, can be considered a contribution.

I'm riding backwards, and will be doing so for the next 16 hours in a cramped train from Delhi bound for Udaipur in the western state of Rajasthan.

Click here for the sounds of the train track, the wind coming in the train window, and the song of a man performing on a dholak, a two-sided folk drum, on the train.  You'll need Real Player to hear the sounds; it's a quick download if you don't have it yet.  To go off this site to download the latest free version of Real Player, click here.

Freeze-frame moments from everyday life flash past the window.  Extreme poverty on the outskirts of Delhi, decaying buildings and children running about among piles of garbage.  Farmland.  Beautiful women in brightly colored saris who wrap a scarf into a large ring, which they place on their head as a base to hold a large round bowl filled with what they carry.  They walk with a proud poise and an innate sense of balance.

This second class railway car has six sleepers to a compartment.  During the day, with the middle sleeper berth folded out of the way, three people sit in each of the two facing lower berths, at least in theory. Reality often puts as many people as can squeeze onto and around the seat.  Yet within this teeming mass of humanity, I see none of the tensions present in a New York City subway at rush hour.  People play cards, share stories, animatedly discuss issues, and move towards their destination on the world's largest railway system.

I am watched -- every time I grab for something or do something, interested eyes follow my movements.  I watch the watchers as they watch me -- anything to break the space, bust out of the confines.  Two Japanese women are sharing one of the upper berth sleepers, and their bearded, bandannaed Japanese travelling companion sits across from me.  Some English-speaking traveler is above me, and I count seven Indians seated about.  Indians are completely at ease with many people in their immediate vicinity.  Their sense of personal space seems nowhere near as defined as my own. I need to adapt, break out of the confinement of my own sense of personal space.

I feel a vague fogginess in my head. I also feel depressed, and the sadness seems to come from an external source, not from within.  I sense it's the Lariam I'm taking to prevent malaria.  The potential side-effects of Lariam, generically referred to as mefloquine, exist and are much-feared.  They run the gamut from headaches, depression and vivid, often violent dreams to panic attacks and liver damage.  I consider ceasing my weekly Lariam pill and risking malaria rather than suffering from these side effects, and three weeks later, I do just that.

Onwards into the night, the clack of the passing tracks is a soothing rhythm broken only by occasional stops at towns along the route.  The train rests, and the silence is quickly filled with shuffling feet and vendors hawking what they can to the passengers before we move on again.  They pass through the train cars laden with sodas, fried snacks and chai.  Chai is a mixture of black tea, cardamom, ginger and other spices, and milk.  It is advertised with a sing-song "Chai! Chai! Chai!"

Click here to hear this and other sounds from the train station.

A woman holding her infant comes up to the train window and holds out her hand with a sense of urgency, hoping for a few rupees to feed her child.  And then the whistle blows.  The train moves slowly out of the station, struggling to build momentum.  Before long, the rhythm of the tracks returns.

The sun rises.  By midmorning, the train slows, approaching Udaipur.  Collect belongings, clothes used as a pillow, conversation pieces dug out of "The Bag" from somewhere beneath the dirty socks.  Heave UP ... steady ... step down off the train, bracing the knees for the shock of the weight.  Waddle along like a turtle encumbered with its shell.

The script is written, has been acted out many times before.  Rickshaw drivers offer to relieve you of your overweight burden; why not take a load off and be whisked in pedal-powered luxury to your destination?  If you don't have a specific destination, they can often suggest a hotel where their commission awaits.  Some even board the train at the penultimate stop to chat up likely prospects.

I choose pedal-powered luxury over encumbered turtledom, and even have a destination, the Jheel Guest House, a recommendation from a friend.

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