Indian Makeup

Man, it got a lot hotter here than what Sam and I have been used to thus far. We have traveled basically clear across India and are currently situated in Aurangabad- home to the mystical and incredibly holy Ajanta and Ellora Caves. We have spent two full, sun beating days traversing the areas around these stone religious habitats. It has been quite the trip through India I must say. We have warmed our hearts a tad, as along the journey, we have met many people who want to talk to us and find out who we are and where we come from. People have shown great kindness and a genuine spirit to help us get to hostels and inform us about the cty we are entering- it is very endearing, but there is a hint of overprotectiveness. The overarching desire to make sure we are treated well as if any problem we encounter is a blast to them and India itself. It is refreshing, to say the least, since most of the time we are on guard for the predetermined person who will undoubtly try and rip us off. Most of the time our interactions are concise occasions.
We are inundated with questions coming from all directions from people who spring seemingly from the earth: Where you from? Coming from where? Country? Where is it you call home?
Once the answer has been revealed, the person who asks, smiles, waggles his or her head and returns from whence they came as if they had a thirst for this knowledge and once quenched, they can forever be satisfied.
Aurangabad leaves much to the imagination- as in you imagine or scream for the possibility of an entirely paved sidewalk. Most of the walkways are covered with strewn about bricks which are covered in dirt, which are covered in trash, which then for posterity are covered in another layer of dirt. The air strangles you with smoke, dust and combustion from cars and trucks. Candles emit more light than the roadside lamps; neon signs enticing you to drink or eat vegetarian food are the only guiding beacon through the streets.
This dirtiness, this grittiness, this all encompassing dust has followed us since day one. It clings to our shirts, streaking it with brown stripes. It mixes with your sweat and cakes your faces. It becomes unwanted makeup for your feet which only a water jet has the remote chance of peeling off our skin. As one train goer remarked when he glanced at our feet: You got Indian Makeup I see.
The dust here cracks your feet. Sam and I are masqaurading around like elephants since our feet mirror theirs. Your nose is constantly gritty and tickled to sneeze at every moment. Along with the dust, the smell here overpowering in some sections throwing you back a step- sometimes, I must admit, as Indian food has proven, the culprit of the pungent aroma is yours truly. It is all wonderful and definitely an honor when, at the end of the day, your feet are as black as night.

We have traveled by train extensively and since my last entry, it is through our travels that we have come to realize the power of Indian culture. From the packed train stations- or as I perceive them "hotels" since the amount of people sleeping on the floor would give the Marriott a run for its money- waves of Indians from all backgrounds all mesh into one single unit. I love the train. We have traveled in the Sleeper Class section which is a step above general seating- general seating or second class is basically free for all, a literal battle royal. I love watching trains come into the station. We mostly have traveled by night so the crowds traveling have thinned out, but there are still a multitude of people on the platform. As the train approaches, the platform jumps to life. The once seemingly deserted platform brims with actively and unadultered energy as Chai, food, and drink sellers prepare for their massive assault on the lumbering blue serpentine that is slowly making its way to the platform.
After the engine has chugged by, the general seating coach rolls in. A 10000 silent eyes peer at you through tiny grated windows or through the narrow section where the door to alight is situated. It is like a large rectangular fly is watching your every movement. As you focus more on the body, the people inside are a tangle of arms and legs like a twister game that has too many players, each one refusing to fall down. Luggage is gripped by travelers or strewn everywhere on the ground.
Sleeper class affords you the luxury of "space" but still the component of the everyday man is intact- the other class have are markedly more expensive and honestly not worth it.
As the train grinds to a halt, a chorus of calls ring out from the sellers. If you close your eyes, one would believe they are on a massive farm watching a flock of sheep being herded into a paddock- even if you do open your eyes the illusion of a farm still could be effectively intact since more than once we have seen cows and goats cooly walking on the track.
High pitched and low pitch calls of the hawker's goods echo throughout. The clang and steam of Chai pots intermix. A vertitable avalanche of people exit and enter the train; a search for food or a good stretch is the overwhelming reason to leave.
Sleeper class is a wonderful way to see India: the people and the countryside. Whereas the upper class sections have tinted windows, sleeper class has open windows. Women and children are more prevalent in Sleeper Class; their cries and gentle clinking of bangles are audible throughout your coach. SC is divided into compartments. Each compartment holds eight beds. Six beds are stacked on top of each other while the remaining two line the side of the train. Their are no sheets just a semi padded slab. Most of the trip, everyone sits stoically looking at each other or out the window; the middle bed is utilized as a back rest until it is time to sleep. For the most part the seemingly intermiable staring competition is interrupted by people selling Chai, Paan, Samosas and other various and sundry things. Amongst the hawkers comes the intermittent parade of beggars who wail out their problems to everyone on the train. Most of the time, their procession goes on a brief hiatus when they spy us. While going through an elongated speech, they prod you, grab you, once that fails ,a protracted standoff begins; a battle of who is more uncomfortable- with the loser always going to this corner. Once, they realize no money will be exchanged they continue on with their procession. Change is constant here as people fluidly get on and get off thorughtout all hours.Here is where the regular people are and we are happy to be enveloped by them.
We are off tomorrow- by bus- unfortunately with Mumbai in our sights.