Failures to communicate

Here I am in Mumbai, formerly Bombay. The Indians have taken to giving places the original names they had before British colonialization. They must still be a little bitter, as they've gone one step farther and started re-naming things the British built, such as Victoria Station. Most people can't pronounce the new Indian name, so it's still mostly known as Victoria station, or the abbreviated "CST". It is, without a doubt, one of the most gorgeous train stations in existence, especially if you like the Victorian Neo-Gothic style of architecture, which I do. 
 
Conveniently, the pages for lodging in Mumbai/ Bombay are missing out of the used, travel-worn Lonely Planet I found at a youth hostel in Jordan, so I am left to falling back on what is usually a last resort option - ask an auto-rickshaw (aka "Took-took") driver where to go. Oddly for India, however, there are none in this city - only cabs. The guy I pick, based on a none-too-common grasp of the English language, will undoubtedly take me to a brother/ cousin/ friend's place and get a commission in return. He takes me to three pretty scary dives in pretty scary looking neighborhoods which are in my price-range before I settle on one. It has a private bathroom, though, which is nice as I have finally gotten a case of "tourista", which had me going to the bathroom on the train all last night, so I'm pretty bushed. (A word about Indian train toilets - actually, Indian toilets in general. They are basically holes in the ground/ floor, usually with a spigot and a small bucket nearby that you can use, along with your left hand, in lieu of toilet paper. If this sounds a bit unpleasant, consider that cleaning of these facilities isn't at all regular, and also try to imagine using one as the train shakes you back-and-forth.)
 
Still, after a shower (Again, on bathroom facilities - I've been traveling for four months now and can remember one shower curtain in that entire time. The water, which is never warm, simply goes everywhere. Upscale places sometimes provide a squeegee for the floor.) I go out to do some sight seeing. I catch a Bollywood matinee only to find it really isn't as crazy as I expected. Production values were as good as any romantic comedy back home, and it looked like it might have actually been pretty funny. Still, between the musical numbers and it being in Hindi, I leave during the intermission. Very 1950's. (The intermission and musicals, not the Hindi.) 
 
The next day I go immediately to CST (Victoria) train station to buy my ticket for the overnight train to Ahmadabad and am told that the train I need actually leaves from Central Station. This ends up being the easiest ticket transaction I have ever had here. Usually you stand in line with half of India’s 1.2 billion people hoping the train isn't full. Of course, it's not really a line so much as a mob all trying to push in front of whoever is at the ticket window, usually me. (Oh, and I've learned women have the privilege of doing this any time, any where, they please. It's really irritating when you see a father pushing his 12-year old daughter to the front of the line to get the ticket he needs.) The one thing I have to say is very nice, is that there is sometimes a "tourist" window, where you can usually secure a spot on the train because of the "tourist quota" of berths/ seats they leave free just for tourists. I sometimes feel bad about this exclusive privilege, then I remember the 12 year old girls father. So, after getting my ticket, I go to Central Station and leave my bag in the cloak room so I can pick it up right before I leave tonight. 
 
I take the ferry out to Elephanta Island, about 1 1/2 hours off the coast, and check out the cave temples. This part of India is littered with these things, and they are amazing. Like Petra, people over 1,000 years ago carved entire temples out of the granite mountains. I'm looking forward to Cave 16 at the site known as Ellora -it  may very well be one of the seven wonders of the world. It's massive - 200,000 tons of rock were removed by workers over the course of 100 years. Unlike Petra, there are incredibly intricate carvings of the rock inside and out. Thousands of small statues, designs, and other sculptures cover nearly every surface of the dark grey stone.    
 
On the way back to the city that night, I crack open the guide book to see exactly how to get there. It's just outside of Arangabad. Arangabad? Why doesn't that sound right? I look at my train ticket - crap! I have a ticket to Ahmadabad in the North, not Arangabad to the East! Panic starts to set in. I have to get back to the station ASAP and change, hopefully if it's not too late, my ticket. As soon as the boat docks, about 100 million bickering women all push to the edge of the boat so that they can cross to the deck of a second boat, which in turn is docked next to a third, which connects to the main dock, all with the same desperately overcrowded situation made worse by the fact that most of the women feel pretty uncomfortable making the hop between the two gently rocking boats. It's at this point I decide I'm making my own tourist window, and discreetly move to the back of the boat, behind the cabins, and make much more substantial leaps between the three ships. One of the deck hands starts to yell at me, but when I point at the mass of semi-hysterical women, and then my watch, he shrugs his shoulders, gives me a "Yeah, I guess I don't blame you." look and lends me a hand across. 
 
I get the first cab I can who doesn't try to rob me blind, and head to Central station. I now have about an hour before the train leaves, so I grab my bag and run around, stepping over some of the hundreds of sleeping Indians on the floor, (they can, and do, sleep anywhere) trying to find out the name and number of the train I need, hoping the reservation office is still open. (They like you to have that info in-hand, and are not very happy about time-wasting inquiries.) There's monitors in the station here, which helps, since they scroll back-and-forth between Hindi and English, but there's no train that I can find to Arangabad. I ask around, and finally find an man who tells me: "Impossible - that train leaves from CST in less than an hour - you don't have time." "Victoria?!" I ask semi-rhetorically. "Yes - You'll have to cancel this ticket for a refund and go tomorrow or take a bus." The prospect of staying in Bombay another day is about as appealing as risking my life once again riding with one of the insane Indian bus drivers. (Here, most roads are only two lanes - at least, in theory. A third lane always opens up in the middle for passing vehicles going far too fast, edging opposing traffic onto the shoulders, and swerving back into the appropriate lane only millimeters before a head-on collision. This includes, especially includes, the buses.)

Not accepting "no" as an answer, I run outside and flag another cab. 
"I'll give you 150 Rupees if you can get me to CST before 9:30."
"Victoria?"
"YES! Victoria."
"200 Rupees."
"175."
"180."
"FINE - 180! I'll even tip you if we make it in time."
"As you wish."
 
As we speed through the congested streets I have the same thoughts I usually do riding with these guys: What happens if we hit someone? Would we stop? What if we get hit? I also note that I kind-of like Bombay. I reminds me of Europe. Fill a small European City with 12.5 million people and half as many cows, and you might have Bombay.

We make it before the train is to leave, but now I know I don't have time now to do anything but find and board it, so I do in the hope that the ticket collector can help me out. Often, if a person buys a general ticket, they can pay on the train to upgrade to a different caste, er... class. I've never had a problem doing that before, but tonight is a little different. I don't, technically, have a ticket. Not to the right city, anyway, and the ticket collector, dressed in a the standard black suit, tells me the entire train is full. He doesn't seem happy, either, that he has to help me. So, when he charges me three times what a ticket should cost and gives me his seat, I figure I've just paid my first pseudo-bribe. I ask a fellow who watched this all happen, and he explains: "You are the responsibility of the Indian government while you are here. He has to help you. If I boarded without a ticket, it would be much different - there would be no place for me on this train."

As it is, there really isn't any place for ME, either. After a while, the locals, who know I shouldn't be in the ticket collectors berth, start joining me. One of a group of young ladies nearby explains this to me and tells me I should chase the one man who seems to be settling in, out. I try, but he simply says: "OK, OK... Here, here..." and points at the half of the bench near the window where I should lay down. I do, but between knowing the guy is laying millimeters away from me and being ticked-off about what I just paid to have a decent night sleep, which is now obviously not going to happen, I decide to sit with the young woman who speaks decent English. We exchange to typical pleasantries: 'Where are you from?" "Are you married?" (This is usually the second or third question you get everywhere from everyone south of Bombay. I even had a young man start a conversation with it before I even knew he was sitting next to me.) I tell her no. "Ohhh.... single and ready to mingle!"  The other girls laugh. We talk for a bit before she asks me a question I haven't heard yet in India: "Do you believe in ghosts?"

This single question results in one of the most bizarre experience I have here, which is saying something.