Walking to Jalandhar Train Station

Navjot walked me to the Jalandhar Railway Station. We left at 5:15am. We walked at a brisk pace for about 45 minutes to reach the station at 6am. The train left at 6:15am. Although I rode this route a few times before either on rickshaw or autorickshaw, walking here provided the time to experience the route differently.


5:15-6am is a major transition time in India: everyone begins waking up. At 5:15 the dark sky and silent streets suggest a slumbering population. At this time I walked along the middle of the narrow roads, foggy-minded at the early hour, and thus strangely confident that these roads only belonged to Navjot and I. Twice Navjot asked me to come to the side and be aware of my surroundings: the first time I turned to see a noisy, nasty three-wheeler autorickshaw wheeling towards us. I rubbed my eyes, feeling a little worried because I didn't hear it. We continued on, and something stirred near me on a pile of sand on my left. A dog. I jumped a little. The dogs here seemed harmless, rarely did we find one with a leash, but still I did not want to appear threatening. The dog I had disturbed rested only a couple of feet away and I didn't even see it. Silence and stillness dulled my mind, it wanted a predictable environment.


After 20 minutes of walking, dawn awoke the birds, and scooters and motorcycles began using the roads. The environment stimulated my mind to a more alert state. But even then Navjot and I responded differently to our surroundings. Recent rains formed puddles and muddy footpaths along the roadsides, so Navjot and I continued
walking in the street. Although it is common for people here to walk in the street, as soon as I heard the engine of a motorcycle nearing us from behind, I would turn and check to make sure it would avoid us. Traffic became plentiful enough to keep my head turning regularly. Navjot kept his head forward, looking ahead the entire time.


"You sure trust the drivers here."


"Yeah, if we stay to the side of the road, the drivers will avoid us. We all (Indians) know this. We just don't walk in the middle of the street like you were doing earlier. I don't know why you do that."


"Yeah, I don't know either. I don't think people back in Michigan do that either. I must like the space."


A clanging bell announced our close proximity to the railway station. I had been listening for it, it had cued our arrival to the station on previous trips. This time, walking, I realized the bell ringing sounded much closer to me than the station, which was still a little ways ahead, though we could easily see the block letters, in English: Jalandhar Railway Station. I turned to my left and saw the ringing bell within the cleanest, most decorated building in the area: a Hindu temple. The rest of the buildings looked drab, old, decrepit. The surprising part to me was that since I had associated the bell sound with the station, I assumed the bell came from the station. I enjoyed the discovery; adjusting my truth with that of reality.


One more interesting sight caught my attention on the left, just as we crossed the last intersection, a few feet before the station entrance. A tall, narrow gateway. It looked more like a tiny bridge where people cross under the bridge, but never over it, for it was so tall and narrow. It also looked very ancient, older than the neglected slabs of concrete on the streetsides. Then I remembered reading that Jalandhar was one of the oldest cities in Punjab, and that it had 12 gateways to the city. This antique construction must have been one of them.


Business proceeded normally at the station. The previous day, the Shtabadi, the fast train I was taking, was held up for four hours by Sikhs protesting the candidacy of Jagdish Tytler, a politician who, (since the riots occured),
has been suspected of leading murderous riots against Sikhs in New Delhi after the assassination of Indira Ghandi in 1984, for the Lok Sabha, India's version of Parliament. Tytler had also been recently given a 'clean chit,' which means a clean bill of health, by India's Central Bureau of Investigation (like FBI). Navjot and his family was one of the Sikh families living in New Delhi when the assassination and riots occurred. They had to leave. Didi had to leave her nice school. Dad had to leave his business. Today, none of Navjot's family express interest in these events. Perhaps they have long given up on justice for Indians; they rarely discuss Indian politics at all; but all of them have made comments about how the American government does a much better job in serving its people: tax money is visibly used to improve the life of regular people, and money doesn't automatically buy you
out of every problem. I like knowing that this positive perspective exists after the Americans foolishly chose to endure at least four of the eight rock-bottom years of our previous administration.


Navjot and I sat on a bench on the train platform, and two child beggars approached. I tried not to make eye contact; that seems to make them more aggressive. Since I am white, beggars already tend to flock to me at train stations, busy chowks (roundabouts), and the Model Town shopping area. The beggars in India speak in a creepy, raspy-sounding, zombiesque monotone: "Give me money for food. I need to eat," etc. This morning the little child stood face-level from Navjot, just mere inches in front of him. He wheezed these requests to Navjot, who merely rested his chin on his hand in a classic "Thinking Man" pose, and serenely gazed across the tracks to a further platform. Knowing the child wouldn't understand me, I still neurotically protested: "Whoa! Personal space issues!" Even Navjot ignored that. The child gave up and moved to an Indian family; he got lucky, a middle-class looking lady handed him some change. As long as they keep getting money, people are going to continue to beg. It is one of the oldest human professions, along with prostitution.


The train ride passed pleasantly. I enjoyed a good breakfast of an aloo parantha, bread, and jam, and two cups of tea. I read the Hindustan Times. I talked to Navjot and Didi almost hourly; they were concerned as this was my first train trip alone in India. When I arrived in New Delhi, Didi, Vinay and I struggled to locate each other, and I finally chose to do the unthinkable: make my presence conspicuous. I stood on a raised curb in front of the noisy, busy, crowded station, tried to look calm, failed, instead I drummed my thighs nervously, and waited for
taxi-drivers and beggars to surround me. To my relief I remained undisturbed until I saw Didi a couple of minutes later. Meeting loved ones in unfamiliar places makes the discomforts and anxieties of travel worthwhile; the hugs and relieved smiles give me a great reward.