Day Sixteen: Bikaner / Rat Temple

Day Sixteen:  January 3, 2012

Who could have expected an overnight train in India would be deadly freezing? Literally deadly freezing.

J is from Buffalo, the snow capital of the United States, born and raised to have thicker blood which can conquer cold weather better. As he was slumbering in the “freezer” train, I was pouting. My tropical thin blood did not serve me well.

I sat from 10pm to 4am, eyes wide open, body shivering, teeth chattering.

It was the first time, after two weeks of travel, I had a chance to pray and ponder upon this trip, if not life. For the past weeks, we have been sucked by the mayhem of India, of getting this train ticket or that bus ticket, of negotiating with relentless rickshaw drivers, and of moving from one guest house to another and of gazillion minor things that a trip as such entails. There is little time for me to slow down to think. All my brain cells and energy are pretty much drained before dusk, and at night all I could manage was to hit my sack.

Most of my previous trips have been rather reflective. I travel slow. I travel to places to contemplate. I travel to think about life. But this trip has been different–India leaves little room to thinkers, unless you shut yourself in an ashram. So in the frosty train, I took adventure of my sleeplessness–recalling things to give thanks to in 2011; pondering upon things I wish for 2012. I spent some time to pray a bit, plan a bit, wondering what this trip was about, for I myself, and for us.

We met in Spain more than four years ago, and have taken a handful of extensive trips ever since, visited each other’s hometown, developed a strong friendship and affection for each other. This Indian trip is initiated by me, after a 2-year “separation”—a trip we both agree to take in order to find a more sustainable way to relate and to make some life choices.

To nourish a relationship, perhaps it’s better to go somewhere less insane and more humane. India seems to be not the best choice. Yet, I believe there’s a time for everything. Whatever decisions we are to make – any environment will help to make that at the right time. Perhaps the somewhat difficult India will bring out the best and worst of us and will show us eventually the very truth we are seeking.

One can survive well in a green house; but to test one’s endurance, the little potted plant may eventually need to get out of protective shell.

After some deep moments of thoughts, alone in coldness, I saw J wake up.

He’s also freezing.

“India is a great place to test one’s endurance,” he said. “It’s better to be two than one. At least, physically it feels warmer. Emotionally there’s some support to help face whatever difficulties there are,” I said. We wrapped around each other to stay warm until the freezer inched its way to Bikaner.

We chose to come to Bikaner not for any sight-seeing. Bikaner is a junction for us to reach Amritsar, where the famous Golden Temple of the Sikhs is located.

We checked into a place fairly close to the train station. Slept to reclaim some humanity. When we woke up at around noon, the pending issue was to get tickets to Amritsar. Our priority was a train from Bikaner to Jalandhar City, half an hour from Amritsar.

Battling in train station is nothing less than a great expedition. Indian Railway has a very sophisticated yet user-unfriendly and sometimes unnecessarily bureaucratic system. (To be also fair, if you reserve things online, it should save you a lot of hassles, something we have not managed while on the road).

To get tickets, one has to go to the reservation office to line up. Once you line up, you will realize the ticket officer at the counter won’t serve you unless you fill in a form. To fill in a form, you then go to the inquiry booth and start to pen down all the information, e.g. train number, your home address (why on earth do they need that?). Sometimes the inquiry booth is empty, which means you can’t find out the train number or related information to fill in the form. But without filling in the form, you can’t go to reserve tickets. Therefore you go around asking everyone possible to get enough information to fill in the form. By the time you have the form filled, you have to line up again. Present your form. If you’re lucky, you will be talking with someone who speaks heavily accented yet understandable English. Most of the time the replies are: “full”, “full”, “full.” When you want to inquire about the next train, or any other possible trains, you will be asked to “Go to inquiry to fill in forms.” Then you go through the brutal rituals again to fill in a stack of forms for any possible trains (of any possible combination, timing, forms of trains). Line up again, ask again. “Full” is often a pending verdict for you. Yet the fact that the train is “full” may not necessarily mean there are no seats available or possible though. Indian trains are often astronomically overbooked. There’s a waiting list up to a hundred people. You can buy a ticket on waiting list, and cancellation happens very often and you may well end up having a seat. However, no one can tell you for sure how the waiting list works really.

J and I painfully did all the ordeals and got two tickets on waiting list.

“How likely would the tickets be confirmed?” I asked.

The man behind the counter bobbed his head, shrugged his shoulders, a mixture of gesture that means “how can I know.”

“What time can I come and find out?”

He bobbed his head again, shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe four, maybe three.”

Then I started to ask around and find out more information. Ten people I had asked gave me ten very different answers.

By four, I was back to the insane train station, trying to see if our tickets could be confirmed.

The answer was a brutal “no.”

We looked at each other, and said, “Bus which means?”

After a few sickening and nauseous bus rides, we had very grim hopes and zero desire on taking buses no matter how “deluxe” Indian agents claim those buses were. However, we didn’t want to get stuck in Bikaner either. Bus was the only option left.

By five, we figured out the bus to Jalandhar City was full as well.

We flipped open LP, our traveling bible, and found another town to reach, Lubiana, about 3 hours from Amritsar.

Finally, we got two tickets to Lubiana. “Guess, it can be worse.” J, by nature, has a very positive and happy personality. In India, he often uses this phrase to make everything nicer and lighter.

With the whole day squandered on battling in train station and bus bureau, we decided to do something fun — visiting one place in Bikaner, dubbed the Holy Rat Temple.

Hinduism is a religion that embraces many ideologies, deities and animals. It’s fairly common to see cows roaming around in towns and cities as they are revered by Hindus. The so-called Rat Temple is situated in a small village about 45 minutes of bus ride from Bikaner, a temple in/famous for hosting and worshipping rats. Rats are free to roam around and fed with fresh milk and goodies daily.

We asked the man who sold us the bus ticket to Lubiana, “We have 3 hours before we catch the bus to Lubiana. Is it enough to see Rat Temple?”

“Yes, yes, why not,” he bobbed his head, the “why not” was loaded with Indian sentiments, thick like the yak milky smell in a Hindu temple.

Some other Indians came along, suggesting bus arrangement.

“What time is the last bus back to Bikaner?” J asked. We didn’t want to get stuck in a village and miss the bus to Lubiana.

“Many buses, every five minutes. 7 o’clock, 8 o’clock, 9 o’clock, 10 o’clock. No problem.”

Having collected the information, we went to Gogo Gate Bus Station and got onto the bus to the Rat Temple. It cost 20 Rupees. “Now, we should be at Rat Temple at 6:15pm. Let’s be quick and do it in half and hour. Get back to bus by 6:45pm. Run back to Bikaner for the bus at 8:30pm,” I proposed.

The night started to sink and there was no sign of the temple. Other passengers assured us that it’s coming. “Dooorraaa,” J, personificing the voice of Holy Rat. I laughed my head off. “Doooorraaaaaaa.” As if the “Holy Rat” was calling upon my pilgrimage to his holy temple.

When we arrived the village where the temple was, it’s 6:15pm. I asked about bus to make sure we could manage the time well. The man who was washing his bus said, “Bus. Bikaner. Last bus.”

“Last bus? No bus after?”

“No. Last bus to Bikaner.”

“When is it leaving?”

“Five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

Our chins dropped, but shortly after we put our chins back. It’s part of the skill of touring India: people give you information about anything even they have no ideas what they are talking about. You need to prepare to narrow the huge gap between what people say and what reality is.

At time like this, quick decision was needed to be made. “Run into the temple, don’t dawdle. Take pictures. I will keep the bus for you,” I told J, reminding him to take his “rat socks.”

Hindu temples require visitors and worshippers to remove their shoes before entering the temples, so we had brought thicker socks, planning to visit the Holy Rat Temple lest our toes would be nibbled by rats.

J disappeared right away, rat socks in hand. I sat in the bus, looking at the driver, sipping his chai. 5 minutes of Indian standard can mean anything from practically 5 minutes to forever 5 minutes. In my heart I just hoped that the driver would linger in his chai forever (which might not be impossible). I also know J well. He can get so carried away by things and likes risk everything to the last possible second. Long before a glimpse of J’s shadow, the bus started to pull away. I shouted to the driver, “5 minutes. Friend is coming. 5 minutes.”

Other passengers bobbed their heads, reassuring me that I could relax and they would wait for my friend. Finally J appeared, right before the bus really had to move on. Panting madly, he jumped on the bus, and said, “I figure 5 minutes Indian time means 15 minutes.”

Holy Rat Temple

All holy rats enjoying their milky dinner. Photo taken by J.

On our way back, the bus conductor wanted to charge us 100 rupees per person, seeing that we were foreigners. It should only be 20. Everyone was paying 20. On our way here, we only paid 20.

“100 rupees,” he insisted.

“But it should only be 20.” We went to ask individual passengers kindly informed us the rate was 20. We insisted on paying only 20, and the conductor left us alone.

That’s typical India. You need a lot of patience and tolerance when people bluntly and openly try to rid you off. Whether it’s a local bus conductor, a street hawker, a travel agent, a hotelier, a random stranger.

We got back to Bikaner and dashed to the station on time to catch a 10-hour bus ride to Lubiana.

We didn’t get sleeper seats as they were all sold out. I looked at my hopelessly-unwilling-to-recline-and-dust-and-dirt-covered seat and plunged into a despair. “I think things suck a little bit because I didn’t visit the Holy Rat,” I said to J, “I cannot do another bus ride like this after this one.”

“Tolerance training,” he said, while comfortably reclining on his seat.

We were both pooped. After two weeks of India, we have learned to give up comfort, sanitation, and personal space. Once we learn to give them all up, things are not so bad.
In exhaustion and excruciating back pain, we arrived Lubiani, semi-sane, totally insanitary. We have not had a shower for days and were covered by dirt and dust, generously and perpetually offered by Indian buses, roads, and towns.

Bus from Lubiana to Amritsar. J dutifully studying the traveler's bible, LP.