Riding the Iron Tide

Travel by rail through India carries with it the perfume of romanticism, the spectre of the British raj. Boarding the train in busting Howrah station in Calcutta, I felt a sense of anticipation. I’ve always loved train travel, its peaceful sway and rhythm, watching the landscape flow by. This trip took me by train across the north of India from Calcutta to Gujarat (on the border with Pakistan). As you already know I stopped along the way in Bodhgaya and Varanasi but my ultimate destination was Ahmedabad where the beauty of ancient religion has turned ugly, producing religious pogroms and (recent) terrorist bombings. I was in Ahmedabad to do research on communal violence. It was only a week since forty-five bombs had been detonated in Ahmedabad, Surat, and Bangalore. I had a bit of trepidation at going into such a seemingly volatile situation, but first I had to get there and getting there is half the misery, I mean fun.

The train in India is society in microcosm. It is crowded and somewhat inefficient but the human variety is amazing: caste, religion, and a million other (often visible) marks of distinction. But, for the most part, coexistence happens. I’m sitting in the train car with a bunch of strangers who I will soon be sleeping next to. Across from me there is a woman with intricate, swirling Henna tattoos and a kid with a moustache who looks like he’s about fifteen. I secretly loathe him. There’s no way I could have grown a moustache at the age of fifteen (or thirty-one). Little prick. Yet he smiles every time I look at him, so he quickly wins me over. This doesn’t mean that I won’t secretly cut off his moustache while he’s sleeping...

Caste, that great categorizer of human purpose and potential, boarded the train with us. The poor (generally lower-caste) are confined to certain coaches and it’s not possible to walk throughout the train. I am standing in the gap between the coaches when a young man from third class bursts in with the harried look of a fox set upon by the hounds. The conductor indignantly chases him out and ferociously yanks a metal screen down between the carriages.

A couple of hours later, I watch as a mouse scurries under the sleeping berths. I almost tell the conductor but hold my breath, afraid that if I tell him that the mouse will soon be dead. For the rest of the trip the mouse and I live in a strange kind of symbiosis – he eats crumbs from my samosas (wrapped in the Times of India) and, in turn, he doesn’t chew my soap ;)

The first two legs of my train journey were relatively short but the last leg from Varanasi to Ahmedabad was a killer – 42 hours. In Bodhgaya I slept through my alarm and almost missed my train. I raced out of my room in the Bhutanese monastery, with my brain at least five steps behind my body, to tell my auto rickshaw driver to wait a few minutes so I could gather my stuff. When I returned the rickshaw was waiting but it was missing a wheel. This gave me a bad feeling.

Nonetheless I miraculously made it back onto the train and begin, what feels like, a strange sleepover with a fifty-five year old railway manager sharing my berth. After five minutes of conversation he tells me I should get married. Later that evening he hands me a slip of paper on which he has written (in squiggly Hindi text) “the greatest storm begins with the smallest wind.” I think this might still be related to my urgent need to shack up with an Indian woman but I’m not sure how exactly. I guess the perfect storm of matrimonial bliss begins with the smallest gesture? In Saskatchewan it’s often rye and coke followed by a 45 minute strip-tease (in the winter it takes us that long to remove our clothes – it’s worth the wait though as things get progressively sexier from Gortex to wool, to…I’m not telling). There is nothing quite so titillating as the first sight of frostbitten ears. In the Indian case the opening salvo is generally an initial cup of chai between two eager sets of parents.

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My arrival in Ahmedabad comes as a great relief (just too long on the train – there are only so many ways that you can shift in your seat, even if you are blessed with the flexibility of a yogi, which I clearly am not). Ahmedabad is a bustling city with a character entirely different from Calcutta. The Muslim presence is much more noticeable with a smattering of women in black Burkas and numerous elegant and elaborate old mosques and tombs. Ahmedabad is also defined by its ancient bolis – elaborate stone wells that look a bit like roman viaducts. The old city is divided into many “pols” (neighbourhoods) built around central courtyards dominated by a temple or mosque and a giant, ornate birdfeeder. Many old houses also have enclaves built into the walls especially for birds to shelter there. Maybe it’s because of the Jain influence (Jainism is a very pro-animal rights religion where orthodox priests wear masks on their faces so they don’t accidentally inhale any wayward insects). If I was a bird, I’d want to live in Ahmedabad.

The best thing about the life of a bird in Ahmedabad is that you probably won’t get eaten (most people are vegetarians). The food is totally different and wonderful. One meal I ate was potato patties stuffed with coconut and coriander, with fresh plum juice to drink. For dessert I savoured deep-fried pancakes topped with saffron syrup, crushed pistachios, and rose petals. Amazing!

But before we look at Gujarat through rose flavoured gustation it must be remembered that Ahmedabad has been gripped by communal violence in recent years. In a 2002 pogrom around 2000 Muslim Gujaratis were killed, often in exceptionally cruel fashion. More recently, around fifty people were killed in bombing blasts and scores were horribly injured. Gujarat is often said to be a “laboratory” for Hindu nationalist groups like the BJP, RSS, VHP and Bajrang Dal. These Hindu extremists espouse a version of Hinduism that is conservative and quietly admiring of Adolf Hitler and other fascists. It is also simultaneously bitterly envious and resentful towards Muslims. There is a lot of talk both of “iron will” and pumping iron (homophobia coexists, as it so often does, with homoerotic fixation with biceps and masculine brawn).

Ahmedabad was once Gandhi’s city but the Mohatma’s dream seems to be dying the same violent death that he did and in no place is this more apparent than in Ahmedabad. Communalism has eclipsed shared history, frayed the thread of community. Yet, even as the opponents of Gandhi continue to attack his legacy he remains a hero to most Indians. Visiting his sprawling ashram on the banks of the Sabarmati River I am reminded that he was an immensely courageous man. His bodily presence was diminutive but his spiritual force cast an immense shadow. There is a reason why he is now always called by the honorific “ji”. In Calcutta, a city with a history of communal riots, his mere presence prevented mass violence at partition. As the storm clouds gathered strength a mob assembled outside of his house. When they burst inside they found him sitting and weaving with a little girl by his side. They threatened him with bloody murder but he just sat there implacable and continued to weave. One of the leaders of the mob ran over to Gandhi and attempted to strike him but the little girl caught the blow. The mob disassembled in shame and the riots never happened. That was Gadhiji - a leader by example who was utterly fearless.

In spite of the all the talk of the death of Gandhi’s secular ideal everyday life continues in Ahmedabad. I visit a night market and it’s completely magical: crowds of people buying and selling colourful embroidered cloth adorned with fragments of mirrored glass. In the glow of the moon and kerosene lamps a camel strides past me. The short drive home by auto rickshaw weaves around delicate minarets, marble Jain temples, and towering Mughal gates. These are the inert artefacts of Gadhiji’s India but I wonder if his spirit lives on in the people? I hope so…