Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

Bapji broke off to watch the end of the cricket match, and when it was clear that India could not be beaten, he talked about the military tradition of his state. Celebrated in India, but unsung heroes everywhere else, the Indian army had been heroic in both world wars. Bapji explained that in a decisive battle in September 1918, the Royal Jodhpur Lancers led the charge into Haifa with the Hyderabad and Mysore mounted lancers on their flanks, surprising and defeating the German-Turkish army dug in on Mount Carmel.

"They charged straight into machine guns. Uphill—great horsemanship, great valor. Dalpat Singh led the charge and died in the action." Bapji was gesturing again. "Straight across, into the fire. Of course, many died, but they killed four hundred men and took Haifa. They were very brave."

He was looking out the window at the expanse of green lawn behind Umaid Bhawan. He straightened and twisted the ends of his mustache.

"My people have courage." He nodded. "Heroes."

He asked how long I would be staying. I said that I was going to leave for the station soon and I'd be on the train that night.

"You'll see my grandfather there."

He was not being enigmatic. He meant the equestrian statue of Umaid Singh in front of the Jodhpur railway station.

NIGHT TRAIN TO JAIPUR

KAPOORCHAND, A DIGNIFIED MAN of about sixty, was doing exactly what I was doing, and for the same reason. He lived in Jodhpur; he needed to be in Jaipur. "Train is best," he said, slightly contorted, sitting cross-legged on his bunk, and when he saw me fussing with my bedding, he said, "Don't do that. Coolie will take care of it. They have responsibilities. They must make your bed. They must wake you on time. They must bring you tea."

His tone marked him as a man of picturesque outbursts. I waited for more. It seemed that we would be the only ones in the compartment. I put my things in order: water bottle, food I'd brought from the hotel, my notebook, that day's Hindustan Times, my copy of The Great Mutiny, and an Indian Railways Concise Timetable.

The timetable impressed Kapoorchand. He said, "Plane might not take off. Or it might drop you in Delhi instead of Jaipur. Or you might have to wait hours." He smiled out the window at the platform of Jodhpur Station. "Train will leave on time. It will arrive on time. I will do my consulting and I will get evening train back to Jodhpur."

He gave me his business card, which indicated he was a chartered accountant with the firm of Jain and Jain.

"Are you busy?"

"Too busy. I have been all over India, but always train." I said, "Gauhati?" It was in distant Assam.

"I have been there."

"Manipur?"

"Yes."

"Darjeeling?"

The answer was yes to the ten other remote places I mentioned. As we were talking about these far-off stations, a man in a soldier's uniform slipped into the compartment, said hello, and began chaining his suitcase to the stanchion on the upper bunk.

"Is that necessary?" I asked. As I spoke, the train whistle blew and we were on our way.

"It is precaution, so to say," Kapoorchand said and consulted his watch, smiling because the train had left on the minute.

As the soldier climbed into the berth over my head—older passengers, like me, got the lower berths—Kapoorchand gave me a chain and padlock from his briefcase that he carried as spares. But I didn't use them. I had very little in my bag, and I usually tucked my briefcase under my pillow, because it contained my passport and credit cards and notebooks and about $1,500 in small bills.

"You know Jain religion?" Kapoorchand asked. "I am Jain. I meditate three hours a day. But I will do more. I have two brothers who have renounced world. They wander. They use no shoes. They travel many kilometers together."

"Does this sort of life attract you?"

"Very much indeed." He was tall, friendly, silver-haired, obviously a businessman—Jains are noted for their business acumen and also for their spirituality. He was well dressed for a railway passenger, in a starched long-sleeved white shirt and blue trousers; he wore an expensive watch. He said he also wanted to renounce the world. "I will do so in five or six years. I will wander. I will discover myself."

"Where will you live?"

"I will live in my soul."

He gave me a Jain pamphlet titled Universal Fraternity, which I flipped through as he sat and ate from his small box of food. The pamphlet was full of sage advice—humanistic, brotherhood of man, do the right thing. I read a bit, read the newspaper, and wrote my notes about my talk with Bapji. The soldier was snoring; night had fallen, though it wasn't late. Kapoorchand seemed eager to discuss the life of the soul. Perhaps because he had just finished eating, he talked about the spiritual aspects of food.

"Onions and garlic are worst," he said. "They make a desire for sex. And they cause angerness."

"I did not know that."