The best part of my most recent trip came at the very end. When I almost got arrested.

To begin this story, I have to explain the train.

The long distance trains in India can be quite the experience. Especially when you can be on one of them for 2-3 days at a stretch. Each train has 9 cars. You got your first class, which will run you like a hundred bucks. You got a couple other AC cars that are in that range. Then you have the sleeper car, which has 3 rows of padded seats that fold out of the wall to sleep on. That costs 20 bucks. If you want reservations in any of these cars, you have to book at least 2 months in advance. And even then, be ready to wait in a 3 hour long line for the opportunity.

For everyone that dooesn’t plan that far ahead, or doesn’t have the big bucks, you have the general cars. General cars are similar to the sleeper car, except you don’t get a seat number. You just kind of get on. You don’t have to worry about general selling out, they never stop selling general tickets. Getting in is a game of human tetris. Everywhere I human will fit, they go. And where there’s no more room, they still keep coming. on the floor, under seats, on stranger’s laps, lying behind people on benches, crammed in between bathroom doors, clinging to the outside of the train.

On my trip back to Mumbai from Kerela, like I always am, I was in the general car. I had gone out of my way to get on the train at the originating station, and arrived on the platform 2 hours early to ensure I at least had one buttcheek’s worth of seatspace.

I found my spot, and around 450 other people found theirs.

Around 3 hours into the 31 hour journey, 3 mailmen boarded our compartment, and announced that they were commandeering the car to set down their 6 bags of mail. And everyone had to get out.

They shoved them all into the sleeper compartment. Now, not only were all of the general passengers out of their seats, but the sleeper passengers who had paid 25 bucks for the right to not have to be crammed in with other people, were crammed in with 450 extra passengers.

Well, 449. “Aw, hell no.” I said.

“Everyone has to go.”

“You have six bags of mail there.”

“Sir, this car is reserved for the mail service. You have to get out.”

“No, the term ‘reservation’ means something that is planned in advance. When this train left, this car was reserved for passengers. You decided just now to take over the car, despite the fact that it was full of people, and there’s an entire car for packages such as these.”

Then a police officer got involved. I explained to him, “look at that car. There are six people hanging out of the doorway, clinging to the side of the train. This is a 31 hour trip. I am not clinging to the side of a speeding train for 31 hours.”
“I will find you a seat.” said the officer. He lead me outside, and the mail officers immediately slammed and locked the door. The police officer then grunted and waved his hand toward the footboard I was to hang off of.

The train started moving, so I jumped on it and clung for dear life, eventually inching half of my body into the car itself.

“Now this is some bullcrap.” I announced to my fellow tossed out passengers. “This is India.” one man replied. “I have lived in Mumbai almost two years,” I told him, “and I still say this is some bullcrap.” “Well, this is Kerela,” he said, “and this is how things are done.”

I immediately delighted at the opportunity to weave a Sports Night quote into the conversation, and thought about how Eric Burns might appreciate it. Even if the character who said it in the show was immediately reprimanded for the quote.

“Sitting in the back of the bus was how it was done,” I said, “until a 42-year-old lady moved up front. I’m not impressed with how things are done.” They all laughed nervously. “Look,” I continued. We have few enough rights as it is in third class. Yes, I realize that an unreserved ticket doesn’t guarantee us a place to sit, but if we get on the train at our original station and feel the situation is dangerous, we can choose to find alternate transportation. That’s not the case when they take away our seats in some random village. Then we’re forced to choose between travelling dangerously or being stranded. And that is some bullcrap. I say we all march right back into that car. I say we have a Satyagraha.”

Satyagraha is Gandhi’s term for nonviolent resistance. The purposeful breaking of an unjust law. I shouted “WHO’S WITH ME???” There was awkward silence. “Well, I’m still doin’ it!”

When we reached the next station, I jumped onto the platform, marched right back to the car, past the 3 postmen trying to block the entry, over the now 7 bags of mail, walked to the opposite side of the car, far from the mailmen and sat down. The three mailman were livid.

“YOU CANNOT COME IN HERE!”

“If you recall, I was in here long before you were.”

“You cannot be in here! The public is not allowed!”

“General passengers are also not allowed in the sleeper car. People are also not allowed on the footboard. You don’t care what is or isn’t allowed, you just care what’s convenient for you.”

“You cannot be in here! The public is not allowed!”

He repeated this last statement about 6 or 7 times to which I replied. “I am very aware of the policy, it has been very clearly and concisely explained, I’m afraid I just refuse to follow it.”

“You cannot be in here! The public is not allowed!”

“Yeah,” I replied, “and there was a time when Indians were not allowed to make salt. Then one day a man named Gandhi marched across the country, reached the ocean, and made him some salt. That’s called a Satyagraha. And that’s what this is right here.”

They were cursing me in Hindi as the train started moving. “Whoop,” I said smugly, “I guess it’s too late.” An angry postman shouted “Next stop, you are off! I will call police!”

I sat back and relaxed another hour an a half until we reached the next stop when, sure enough the postman leaned out the door and screamed “POLICE! POLICE!” While he did that, I prepared. I took off my belt and used it to fasten myself to the seat. I looped the straps of my backpack around my knees and then locked my legs so the bag could not be taken hostage. 3 police officers rushed in and politely explained that I had to go. I politely explained my reasons for refusal. They politely said “Sir, right now, we are asking you nicely. It’s better this way.”

These guys must have gone through some kind of training on how to diffuse tense situations by making a personal connection. Because each of the three took turns walking up in the same pose, making the same smile, asking me a question (what’s your name, where you from, etc.) then holding out their hand. When I answered the question and shook their hand, they would gently pull my hand forward and say ‘come.’ But I stayed.

Their patience ran out as the time at the station did. “I HAVED SPOKEN TO THE DRIVER, THIS TRAIN WILL NOT MOVE UNTIL YOU LEAVE THE CAR!” The train started moving. The 3 officers rushed out of the train, angrily shouting “YOU ARE IN BIG TROUBLE AT THE NEXT STATION!! I AM CALLING AHEAD!! THEY WILL NOT ASK NICELY!! BIIIG TROUBLE!!”

I sat back and enjoyed another couple of hours sitting back watching the scenery out the window.

They were, in fact, waiting at the next station. 5 of them, accompanied by 3 railway workers, immediately met up with by the 3 postal workers. They ran up on all sides, front, back, and arms through the window, trying to undo the belt. “GET OUT NOW OR I WILL PUT YOU IN JAIL!” demanded the officer. “Well,” I replied, “it wouldn’t be a satyagraha if I weren’t willing to accept the consequences of my actions. I will put up only passive resistance.”

He got a devilish grin across his face and demanded “Give me your passport!” I could see that he planned to take it hostage to get me off the train, but I was not about to refuse to show it. So I fished into my bag and instead pulled out my camera. I snapped a picture of the officer’s face (above) and showed it to him. “This is just so if you don’t give it back, I can show the US embassy who stole my passport.” I then dutifully handed it over. Disappointed, he casually gave the inside a glance, and handed it back.

“I will take you to a seat.” another offered.

“That’s exactly what the last police officer said. And instead, he put my life in danger.”

“No, I will take you there now.”

“What seat number?”

“S7″

“That’s a car, not a seat number.”

“S7!”

“I’ve been in S7. I can tell you there’s no free space in S7. I can tell you the names of the people in S7. There is no room in S7, and I will not hang on to the side.”

After a few minutes of this back and forth, the 11 men got upset enough that they all grabbed me and physically dragged me out of the seat and to the doorway. I stood up, and made an H-shape with my body, wedging myself into the hallway so they couldn’t pull me out the door.

“Fine,” the officer said, “You can sit up front. In the engine.”

“The engine?”

“Yes.”

I suspected it was a trap. But I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. I stepped out, the door slammed and locked behind me, and the officers shoved me toward the same footboard on the train. As the train started moving, and the officers started walking away, I stepped back off the train.

“You lied to me, again. You put my life in danger, again.” The train was gone. I had to wait 5 1/2 hours for another one. But I was so excited, the time flew. I sent all my friends in Mumbai the following text message.

“I JUST GOT PHYSICALLY DRAGGED OUT OF A TRAIN BY 5 POLICE OFFICERS!!! THIS IS THE BEST VACATION EVER!!!”

Yessir, I had myself a good ol’ fashioned Satyagraha.

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 19th, 2007 at 3:38 pm and is filed under Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.