Day 3 - Delhi to Varanasi (& a chop)

Day 3 - Wednesday 2 November

Today I'm working backwards. It's been one of those days. I'm now (at 9 pm) sitting in the Swatantrta Express train to Varanasi and beyond. This is AC2 class, AC means it's cool, and 2 indicates fhe number of berths placed vertically; and also my second-class status; to reinforce this, my name is shown under second-class on the lists pinned up outside the carriage door. This section of the carriage has 4 berths crosswise and 2 lengthwise, though currently there seem to be more bodies than berths. It's a mixed compartment, something Tanzanian railways would never permit, but the young lady opposite is a helpful companion, advising me about how to set up the seats and telling me when things keep falling out of my backpack. Yes, I'm now a proper backpacker, carrying all my worldly goods (for this short pilgrimage) in my big new Lidl rucksack.

I came early to the station, hoping to cement my next waitlisted* Indian Railways (IR) reservation (to Jaipur, when Roger arrives) by getting in on "foreigners quota" . Alas, after queuing for an hour to see the agent, my request was declined by Sahib Jobsworth. IR bureaucrats decree that tickets can only be issued on production of all passports and, of course, I did not have Roger's passport, only his passport number, gender, age and hat size. I thought too late of reminding Sahib J that my Great-Great-Uncle William also worked for IR in Empress Victoria's reign and that perhaps I could get in as family. It might have done the trick. This setback may require a re-think of how R and I are to get to Jaipur on Sunday.

* Tip to any intending travellers: book your e-ticket on Cleartrip as soon as they become available 2 months in advance. On popular routes, most tickets go within days. You can often get tickets under the foreigners' quota, but, as I discovered, it's a hassle (and don't forget your passport).

Before hailing a cycle rickshaw along Main Bazaar Road to New Delhi station, I do something I have not done since March. Yes, I have a haircut. Well, sort of. The young man who does the job, to my surprise, does exactly as asked. He enables me to boast "Look, I've had my hair cut!" but without making it obviously less short, only slightly more oily, perfumed and with a higher parting than before. (The first thing I do later, after re-routing the parting, is take the scissors and snip off some of the longest strands that still flop down below my collar like trailing tradescantia.) Mohamed (if that is his name - he wore a Muslim kofia) has a cheeky charm and smiles gushingly at me in the mirror. Especially so when it comes to the apres-cut - the optional extras I willingly buy into, step by step, as each new delight is offered.

M's English is limited to the names of the services he provides, so conversation is by reflected eye and unspoken . Anyway, it's unwise to chat when the cool steel of a cut-throat razor is pressing on your neck. Shaving is Extra no. 1. Then comes the face massage, Extra 2. I'm not a complete novice here, as Sara knows, and happily this Paharganj Parlour is not equipped with the steam-torture tools they use in Shimla. Instead, lest I felt any want of punishment, Mohamed delivers a number of sharp and rather painful slaps to my cheeks which, I'm sure, would be contrary to the Geneva Convention were we at war. Number 3 is the head massage, or rather [break: IR Ticket Inspector calls] head-banging. M obviously takes some delight in pummelling my head - hard - perhaps relishing a rare chance to get his own back for the indignities of his country's imperial subjugation. I am about to raise my arms to indicate surrender (I cannot speak as my lips are  still glued together with massage lotion) when, mercifully he stops. My final extra consists of having first my arms and then my fingers, each one in turn, yanked until the joints crack, and with a few vigorous thumps to the small of my back, the ordeal is over. I stump up my Rs. 180 (£2.50) and throw in a tip for good measure.

Working backwards, yet again, my pricipal visit this afternoon is to the old 17th century Sikh Gurdwara (temple) on Chandni Chowk. I get there by Metro. One of marvels of the Metro (apart from the fact that it exists at all and is so clean and efficient) is the number of bodies that can be squeezed in at rush hours, like this afternoon. It would make a splendid museum interactive recreation of the Black Hole of Calcutta. Don't misunderstand, I love the Delhi Metro and have bought the souvenir cufflinks and fridge magnet. Chandni Chowk was once the most splendid, tree-lined thoroughfare of the great Mughal imperial city. It was a royal causeway down which the Emperor's entourage could progress in state on gilded elephants from the Red Fort, maybe to watch an execution or two. Now it's a perilous traffic-choked dual-carriageway bordered by rutted pavements so thick with human traffic that getting ahead requires sharp elbows (I could have done with Mohamed's limbering up earlier in the day). The air is grey with smog , and I notice that some tourists, mainly Japanese, wear face masks, looking as if they've just stepped out of the operating theatre on Casualty.

The Sikh Gurdwara, however, is full of clear light, cool white marble and spiritual calm. I'm not sure what to do, and don't want to make any more gaffes, so seek help. This is willingly offered by the intense black-turbaned Mr Singh, who takes me aside to a small reception room. He shows me where to place my shoes and socks and gives me a rather fetching yellow headscarf to wear, so I look like the queen at a point-to-point. He then presents me with a booklet on the principles of Sikhism and explains that it works "like the Snow White and Seven Dwarfs" principal. I am nonplussed by the analogy, but don't let on. Mr Singh reminds me of the Ancient Mariner (turban apart) and it proves equally hard to escape from his beady eyes. To my delight, however, he invites me to go anywhere in the temple and adjacent complex and to take photos of anything I wish. Which, of course, I do. Happy-snappy tourists are not very welcome during Sung Eucharist at Wymondham Abbey, nor does the Abbey have 18 well-attended services every day. I must have a word with the vicar. He's missing a trick. .....[Break: Train dinner  has arrived - delicious spicy roast chicken pieces with peeled cucumber. Second ticket inspector calls.]

I step through a shallow water trough to wash my feet and ascend to the marble hall. The temple complex comprises the main temple for worship, deeply carpeted for people to sit, squat or stand as the rituals prescribe. A raised platform under a golden canopy stands at the far end. This is where the white-robed priests conduct the ceremony, variously preaching, reading from Sikh scriptures, singing chants, distributing a small portion of carbohydrate, and wafting around a giant white fly-whisk. Just like the god old C of E then (apart from the fly whisk). The service is impressive and moving and I hope that the colourfully robed old Sikh gent near me doesn't take exception to my alien presence and lunge at me with his curved pointy dagger. It looks kitchen-devil sharp. Which brings me to the kitchens, which lie behind and beyond the temple. Sikh customs are based round mutual respect and sharing *, and free meals (offerings accepted) are doled out in  a big bare hall. I watch as people (all ages, again) queue up to collect tin tray of foods, then go and sit in long orderly lines on the floor. It is a scene that many a Victorian workhouse inmate would have recognised, except that the food here looks more nutritious. Recipients are expected to help wash up, by the way, so I don't think the Sikh faith would appeal to Oli.

* plus love, compassion for all creatures and oneness with the Divine. I am struck once more in this whirligig of religious experiences, how they all share the same core philosophies. Pity they so often end up fighting each other.