the Neurosis of Coming Home

In trying to get to the place of the Buddha’s enlightenment, I ended up in the lowest class of the Maharasthra Express, traveling from Katmandu to the tiny Indian town of Bodh Gaya. The train was packed tighter than cows driving to the American slaughter-house, or, worse, chickens sitting layer upon layer with beaks, feathers, and claws sticking out of their cages here and there. Similarly, arms, heads, whole bodies even, stuck out of our Standard Passenger car, with as many people as could possibly fit and then some clinging to the hurtling engine.

Somehow, luckily, a few roaming vendors managed to board the train and belt out their wares in their best frantic, high-pitched, and utterly incomprehensible Hindi. I managed to procure a delicious 12-rupee box of mango juice.

But none of these small comforts before the mad dash to actually board the train.
Although I would come to understand the frenzy of Indian crowds (particularly those dealing with trains) at this point I was still unaware of and unaccustomed to the madness. And madness it is, the very definition of madness.