19 ~ Train Stories.

January 4

From Rishikesh to Varanasi, the train takes 14 hours, which, due to winter and fog, turned into 18. The distances in India are enormous, but luckily, the trains come with beds to sleep on, so it isn't too bad. Depending on the class you choose, there may be two or three bunks attached to the same "wall" on both sides of the compartment. The spaces are open; they are not private cabins. So, if you travel in third class, you share that cubicle with seven other people—above, below, in front, and beside you.

During the day, the middle bunk folds up, transforming into a backrest and allowing everyone on that same wall to give their backs a break and sit upright like a Homo sapiens sapiens, on a regular seat shared by the three sleeping beauties. Right in front, only 0.80 cm from their faces, are the three beings from the opposite bunks. As you can imagine, due to the long hours and the limited space, it becomes an inevitable opportunity to strike up conversations with your spatial neighbor, who, little by little throughout the journey, will become your new sibling.

If there's one thing Indians love, it's talking, especially if you're a tourist. The truth is, they are quite fascinated by people from other countries and are very curious. If you give them the chance, they will want to know you—your name, where you're from, and what you're doing in India. If you're a woman, the next question will obviously be whether you're married, and this will open philosophical and contemporary debates about life on both sides of the world, surely leaving both sides astonished. These conversations could last for hours if both parties are willing, covering all social, family, and cultural customs.

Conversations quickly become deep. You'll spend your time talking about life, death, karma, and religion, learning the history of all their gods if you wish.

As you can imagine, traveling by train is quite an experience. In fact, almost everything in India is an experience, so there would be no reason why trains should be an exception.

It's common to see large families running on the platform, desperate to get on and find space for their countless vacation suitcases in any available nook, unpacking several tupperware containers filled with colorful Indian food, and setting up beautiful, spiced traveling picnics. It's also easy to spot lost tourists trying to figure out which carriage they belong to, why the numerical signs aren't arranged in any logical order, and why those numbers change just as the train approaches—causing stampedes similar to the running of the bulls in Spain.

It's common to overhear the entire soap opera of a nearby passenger since using headphones in India is almost nonexistent, and people aren't bothered by external noise either. So, it's not just about getting to a destination—welcome to a cultural experience.

The bathroom is also communal, with options and preferences depending on nationality, and here we realize once again—if we hadn't already—that we are in India. The bathroom labeled Indian has a squat toilet on the floor, as is usual here. The one marked Western, on the other hand, reminds us of our scatological selectivity, offering a toilet elevated above the railway tracks, showcasing the advances of modern development.

Even butts have preferences. We Westerners are rarely taught that, according to our body's physiology, it is much easier, more recommended, and even ergonomically healthier to have a bowel movement while squatting. Western butts, however, couldn't care less about this discovery—at least not until their quadriceps grow as strong and muscular as those of an Indian. The truth is, we slowly start to adapt—partly out of necessity and partly for hygienic reasons. In the end, butts, like those who carry them, also survive and become less demanding.

I had never slept on a train before—at least not one with beds. There were many people watching videos on their phones at full volume, Indian style, but honestly, it felt beautiful. I woke up before anyone else and took advantage of the quiet dawn—a near treasure.

The soft morning light filtered through the window. I wrote in my notebook while admiring the rural landscapes and village life, letting my mind drift.

Everything had an old-world charm with a touch of vintage romanticism. It feels like being in a movie. And there I was, sitting cross-legged, isolated in my own little bubble thanks to a movable curtain, remembering how much I enjoy traveling this way. I remembered how much of a hippie I am—and how much of one I used to be. My teenage (and not-so-teenage) camping trips across the country. Hitchhiking. Traveling like a local. Sharing with people. Collecting stories. Europe had softened me a bit.

—You're a damn hippie. I don't know when you thought it would be any different.—Those were the words of a soul sister not long ago. Now, they came back to me as images and new old experiences.

They say the body has memory, and some things never change. All these feelings washed over me as I gazed out the train window—at the landscape and at my reflection on the glass, like a hologram. I was recognizing myself again.

I felt free.

Few things are as beautiful and satisfying as looking out of a window on wheels—moments that airline companies will never be able to take away from people like us. Romantic hippies with a sense of time.