Gaya to Bodhgaya

The train slowed a mile or so out of town, and we coasted into the Gaya Junction, about 17km from Bodhgaya. It’s a small poor farming town that happened to be lucky enough to be in line with the train that went in to Kolkata. As I gathered my things, the guy in the bunk below me said, “Hello sir, you are going to Bodhgaya?”

“Yes.”

“Take care sir. That place is safe, but this place is not safe. The touts and beggars and drivers will take your things and money. Be very careful.”

“Thank you.”

“Namaste.”

The dread that we constantly held in our guts throughout Delhi returned. We got out of the train car and headed straight for the stairs and over the tracks. As we got halfway over the tracks a man approached.

“Bodhgaya?”

“Good guess,” I thought.

“How much,” I said.

“150.”

“Let’s go.” As we continued down the other side of the bridge another driver approached and our driver and the other driver entered into an argument that resulted with our driver slapping the other driver and the other driver swinging back. I think they were arguing about money.

We got to the rickshaw, loaded our bags and jumped in. Our driver pulled out a long rope. Several thoughts came to mind. He rounded the back of the vehicle and ducked underneath. A minute later he emerged and pulled his arm away as hard as he could. Our carriage roared to life.

We tore out of the “parking lot” and turned onto a busy street. Horses, pigs, rickshaws and people on bikes raced by. Enormous trucks carrying haystacks the size of buses squeezed by us on the narrow lane.

Every city has some of the same features, with varying degrees of difference. Shops almost all have rolling garage doors to shutter up at night. It Gaya, the garage doors were the storefronts and an open sewer ran along the fronts of each side of the street. It was probably about 20 feet from the front of one of the shops to the front of the other shop directly across the street. It was tight.