english journal 8 (1/08) the gunnery washington, connecticut

In DimapurI was fast asleep when I felt something begin to shake my feet which were hanging offthe edge of my bunk. It was the Hijras, a tribe of fancifully dressed transsexuals native to trainstations across India. Even in modern day their supposed power over fertility and futuremarriages is believed to be true. It was my turn to pay up. Shifting his weight to his right footunder a sequined sari and lifting a henna painted hand, I, in my undying quest to live as anIndian, crusaded for a two rupee piece within my pocket. Rolling back under my railroad issuewool blanket, I fell asleep as the train again rattled itself up to speed along the tracks.Three to ten hours later I still couldn’t quite sleep and sat awake in the open boardinggate of the train as it shambled deeper into the Bengal. Looking out into the moonlitcountryside a thousand small fires dotted the fields, to each a few mildly cold and hungrysugarcane farmers. Sobering; a sea of candles.The train would slow down and pass by these crossroads where the inter-villageroadways happened to cross the railroad. The roads in between the villages have sprung up asan effect of jeeps burning the pathways into the dusty soil rather than by the governmentconstruction, as with railroad crossing gates along these roads. The train now began to slide byone of such stations and I looked on at the collection of villagers in jeeps and mulling around onfoot and bikes waiting for the train to pass. It was a strange mix of moonlight and firelight thatwas cast upon the faces of the grey-shawled and jagged toothed farmers making the midnightjourney from one village to the next. Strange how even in the dark, I could see their yellowedeyes look back in some askew nutrient deficiency, not accusingly, but in question.I arrived in Guahati Nagaland expecting elephants and sugarcane, to find a starvingurban setting not unlike old Delhi, apart from the greater East Asian presence. I strafed my waythrough stifling sidewalk crowds and quickly into the nearest restaurant. I hadn’t seen anotherwesterner in weeks, excepting the three other Caucasians I was traveling with. Guahati wasunsafe at night, it’s a city ruled by petty gangs and territory lords, full of prostitution andstruggling farmers. I ate some ice cream and wandered back to my hotel, treading on stampedsugarcane rinds and old newspaper the whole way, walking in the electric shadow of run-downhigh rise apartments festooned with adds in Hindi. People here mysteriously have a pastime forsnapping photos of any foreigner. Long after the women had been forced to retreat indoors Istill remained outside rather unsafely as gangs began to gather and light their trash-fires inalleyways, chewing betel. An Asian phenomenon, a strange stimulant in the form of a toothhostilenut served with red dye and pickled sugar wrapped in a leaf. You can immediatelyrecognize a betel chewer by their red and eroded teeth and highly receded gum-line. They’remostly the shadier members of society and simply the bored. As I saw the traffic and familiesall but disappear I knew it was time to be getting back to my hotel room.The room was spacious, empty, and stained heavily with betel, everywhere, the walls,the shower, bed sheets, couch. I presumed the couch to be the least of all evils and slept therefor a hearty six hours, in full dress as I had taken to after a month of living out of a train.Showers are a curious thing. Everyone in India enjoys a hot shower; however, in a singlebuilding, rarely is there a room with more than a minute and a half of hot water. It has becomea custom to fill up a bucket with what hot water exists and then to use a smaller ladle to spoonEnglish Journal 8 (January 2008) 21