After a diligent hunt to make sure we were on the right platform, we took the train to Shantiniketan. In the words of our host’s daughter when I asked her whether she wouldn’t rather fly long distances than take a train, “the train is nice in a different way.”
Men jumped on at each station toting huge aluminum kettles. “Chai-coffee, chai-coffee-chai!” they called down the aisles. In one three hour train ride, I had at least 30 opportunities to drink a steaming plastic cupful of sweet, milky tea or instant coffee, not to mention the samosas, muri (a snack mix of puffed rice, beans, lentils and peanuts), pulp fiction and trivia books, handkerchiefs, and other sundry goods on offer. The doors of the train stayed open the entire way and hawkers strolled off at the last minute as it rolled away from a station.
A barefooted saddhu in orange pajamas sat with his legs dangling outside the train. He started to talk loudly with us, but we had no idea what he was saying. Boys crawled under the seats with rags, cleaning the floors and asking for pay. A contortionist cleared the aisle and performed along it. A Baul came around singing and playing an ektara as the forests and rice fields of West Bengal sped by.
In Shantiniketan we had a wonderfully relaxing time. So relaxing (and so long ago) that there’s not much to write. We took walks around the area and visited a local market where we saw another group of Bauls perform. That night we celebrated the festival of lights with a barbecue and fireworks. Fireflies lit the warm night sky four months after we thought we’d seen the last for the year.
