From the Sleeper Train to Pathankot to Dharamsala

Durga Shrine at Pathankot Station

It’s Saturday, on the train, about 7:20 am. Shantum said the train’s running a bit late and we should arrive around eight. Hey, it rhymes.

I woke up in the middle of the night really really needing to go pee, but I was reluctant to head for the toilet because a) someone had said it’s disgusting shortly after we climbed aboard, and b) I didn’t want to do it while the train was moving. I decided to at least wait till a good moment, when the train has come to a complete halt and seems to be staying that way for a few minutes. It was a long wait, but finally I went to the restroom and didn't think it was any more disgusting than last year's train toilet. Even after that, I had trouble falling back to sleep and lay watching out the window and mindfully breathing. Derelict buildings built right up against each other, like rowhouses, looked like a ghost town without any humans around them, or even stray dogs or cows.

Pathankot is a village that includes a train station and is on the way to Dharamsala. We arrive a bit late, and we go out and get into a total of five white cars.

At the Pathankot Station, we followed the porters’ trolleys and walked down a bustling street. Behind the station was a sort of small-scale square: a circular structure with a cartoonish elephant statue wearing a blue jacket and holding up a lamp. We passed that and saw pedestrians, dogs, and rickshaws passing by, and to the left were many parked cars in a row, in front of buildings. Some guys in beige uniforms stood near a vehicle and eyed us: soldiers. I breathed.

The porters strapped luggage onto the racks on top of white tourist cars while Shantum supervised; he told us to watch the porters get our bags and go to the car on which they strap your bag. So I watched carefully (despite my space case tendencies). I decided to climb into the car that held my suitcase; a central seat was pulled up, so I climbed in behind it to the back (third) row and settled down. On the dashboard sits a Ganesh picture propped up in a yellow plastic frame. During the drive, I took notes on things that Jagdish told us.

The other passengers are Rachel and James, a couple from England, and also Jagdish, sitting in the front seat to the left, next to the driver. We’re riding down Railroad Street, in Pathankot. “Accent on the A,” Jagdish explained.

Kashmir is extremely close to Dharamsala. Jagdish said that Pakistan Occupied Kashmir (P.O.K.) means that there’s fighting in Kashmir, sometimes. It reminds me of Northern Ireland. Each, India and Pakistan, claims they own that area. In Kashmir are beautiful houseboats on a lake, and from the houseboats hang flowers. People poling in small boats sell flowers and fruits to the houseboats. It sounds beautiful, but I doubt I’ll ever go there.

Pathankot is not much bigger than Dharamsala—it just has the railroad station and a military base; otherwise it’s the same size.

The Dalai Lama is the reason why China is unhappy with India. China attacked North India in 1962. Jagdish was born in 1970 (same year as me), so the attack was before he was born. Border disagreement continues between India and China. Nobody will come there, to the disagreeable part of the border; it’s considered a “No Man’s Land.” No woman’s land, I might add, by the sound of it.

We’re crossing a rocky riverbed. Chakki (with an accent on the “I”) is the name of the river. The dry riverbed consists of big rocks and two bridges cross it. One of the bridges is of brick and has collapsed in the center; we can see chunks of the bridge in the river. Hopefully it’ll be fixed before the next monsoon.

The Hindi alphabet has 52 letters. It is very complicated, like Tibetan. Actually, I think I have that backwards, since the Tibetan alphabet is based on Sanskrit.

I asked Jagdish why the trees along the roads are painted with white and sometimes red stripes, and he listed several reasons: 1) Reflects at night for vehicles, 2) Protects from insects, and 3) Beautification.

Eucalyptus—makes toys, the bark is used for paper. India still has a lot of handmade paper (I should know, after buying several journals in Varanasi last year). We see lots of eucalyptus at the side of the road, a narrow road flanked by many trees.

We stopped at a little hotel/restaurant called Mao Fort, where an archway lead to a driveway, and to the right of that was the building itself, with many potted plants out front. We entered through the front door, passed a desk behind which stood a turbaned guy and hung a couple of colorful Rajasthani puppets, and we climbed a flight of stairs. We walked up to the roof, and most of us walked to the edge of the flat roof and admired the view, with foothills in the distance.

Front entrance to Mao Fort

I wandered toward Shantum and a couple of people to whom he was talking about the pilgrimage, In the Footsteps of the Buddha, which I took last year. He patted me on the back and said, “Susan has Buddha miles.”

This conversation came to a break when numerous people, led by Lynn, moved to a location in the center of the roof and began practicing yoga. I promptly got in a back row and mimicked Lynn’s motions, as did most of the sangha. We afterwards approached chairs that were gathered in a big circle, and we had breakfast up there on the roof, outdoors surrounded by beauty. Oh, yes, a noisy generator was next door, so it wasn’t perfectly idyllic. We finished breakfast with herbal tea, which also happened to be for sale. A bunch of people bought some, and I got two boxes.

View from Mao Fort

“Dharamsala means sight of the dharma,” Shantum said. That’s appropriate, especially with the Dalai Lama living there. Shantum also said an airport is very near Dharamsala, but it’s extremely unreliable. Sometimes the planes go and sometimes not. He also said, “Dharamsala is the second most rained on place in India.” I had no idea.

While we were still at Mao Fort, Lynn said she and John wanted to go to Tibet, but they were advised against it. I said, “I don’t know which will be more dangerous, Kathmandu or Tibet. I’m going to both.” Lynn said, “You’re a very brave woman!”

Side view from the roof of Mao Fort. I didn't say it was a classy joint.

After our breakfast at Mao Fort, in cars: Jagdish sang lovely songs, mainly from a traditional play based on the Ramayana. In one song, the lyrics mean: “You are the beginning, you are the end. You are the best saint, Bharamsant.” The word “bharamsant” means oldest and holiest. It’s a very old song, with some words from Sanskrit. Jagdish had choir practice, auditions, and has quite a bit of singing experience. When he was a kid, he played Sita, because the production needed someone cute and shorter, and eventually he outgrew the role and played others, including Rama.

We’re riding a car in the Himalayan foothills, curving around and around on a luscious green mountain, seeing the view and listening to Jagdish sing. This is the life.

All the local people, from a total of ten villages, go to see the Ramayana play—at night, till midnight; the whole play is divided into ten days. Performers, such as Jagdish, already know the songs before the auditions; they’re prepared because they know the music from seeing the play. And Jagdish’s dad played Rama before, so he grew up with it in the environment. Some performers don’t even read notes. The performance lasts for four hours each night, for ten nights. That’s even longer than Wagner’s Ring cycle.

The Mahabharata is set seven thousand years before the Buddha’s time, and yet it has Buddhist themes, long before the Buddha. This is why Hindus say that the historic Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, was a reincarnation of Vishnu, as is Krishna. “If there’s fighting in the family, we say Mahabharata is happening in the family,” Jagdish said. So I grew up in one continuous Mahabharata. I don’t recommend it.

Jagdish played Sita and later Rama, but he started out playing a very small role. He played a woman whose husband just died. He had to bang his bangles of glass, so that they break, he had to cry, and he had to wipe away the crown from his head. When he did this, suddenly the audience and director were laughing, and he was nervous—really, his long wig came off with the crown! Even the “dead” husband lying on the stage floor was laughing. So Jagdish was a stage success and was asked to play Sita the next year.

The annual Ramayana play takes place between the end of October to the beginning of November, when the people have less work in the fields but not it’s not so very cold. Diwali is very holy, and it is a holiday that takes place for nine days in November.

Jagdish told us that Shantum doesn’t know much about the Mahayana, etc, and he said, “Shantum is only thirty-five percent Hindu.” He knows the books but doesn’t have the upbringing, is Western educated, very unlike Jagdish. Shantum has had mainly book learning rather than living it as Jagdish has. Shantum tends to be concerned when Jagdish doesn’t write stuff down after he says it: it’s stored in his head. Shantum is like a Brahman; he plays the role of protector; Jagdish is like Shakrya, the mother role.

Lots of monkeys sit on the side of the road, just by the cliff. They watch us with their heads moving back and forth, as if they’re watching a tennis match.

Jagdish told us a bit about Indian politics, too. Politicians exploit caste and are manipulative—they became commoners, but don’t have a lot of sense, knowledge. They are familiar with caste but don’t understand it, exploit it, power-tripping—day by day in the civil service, which doesn’t get good quality people. Businessmen follow this sort of system. Gee, that sounds strangely familiar. Some families understand and are giving their kids a good education. Some have such big power, if you say Untouchable to them, they can take you to court. If a son of a Brahman is poor, people help him; if a son of a Dalit is poor, people don’t want to help him.

When Jagdish was thirteen, his dad took him to a bookstore and told him he’d be working here, and he worked there and his dad gave him free pencils and notebooks and said these are free for your life. Later, Jagdish got a job working in a photography studio. (Monkeys at the side of the road are watching the vehicles and looking very cute.) Jagdish prepared the food for Shantum’s wedding; that’s how they met. He worked at a restaurant but was forced to leave and started his own restaurant.

In 2000, his sister’s husband died and her four children depended on Jagdish, and he insisted they study hard (and they have—they’re all hard workers). Also in 2000, Jagdish’s brother had a kidney problem, but he’s fine now. He got a transplant in 2002, got married in 2004, his dad donated his own kidney to his son and is seventy-eight years old now and in good health. He followed the doctor’s orders.

Untouchables lose their spirit because they are labeled Untouchable—so they say they’re poor, unemployed--instead of trying to get employment and work hard.

Brahman the teacher—you have to be a model. No alcohol, pure vegetarian. Who’s having a brain = a Brahman, not a class.

“Use dipper at night” means “Dim your headlights.” I asked Jagdish about this, and he explained. It’s a message I often see painted on the backs of colorful trucks, along with “Use Horn.”

The name “Jagdish” means “the honor of the universe.” It’s a traditional name, and first names are not caste-related. Surnames are caste-related and location-related. “Shantum” means peacefulness. “Chandramah” refers to the moon and is also a surname. “Chandani” means moonlight and is often used as a girl’s name. “Chand” is a Muslim man’s name.