Calcutta on Strike

The old name Calcutta brings to mind images of wild times, excitement, and poverty. Possibly that's why the government switched to the more phonetic Kolkata in 2001.

But at Sealdah train station there, finding a cab was exciting enough. There were separate lines for prepaid and metered taxis but some lines were supposedly closed and it was unclear who, if anyone, was actually in line. There was another area for tuk tuks and no matter where I stood, all sort of drivers turned up to offer me overpriced rides.

Girl Talk on the Train

At the train station on the way to Kolkata (Calcutta), I caught myself thinking, "This would be so much more peaceful in China." Ladies and gentlemen, using "peace" and "China" in the same sentence is a symptom of insanity, and I was getting there. I was weary of tuk tuk drivers pretending to get to know me while quoting exorbitant prices, sick of touts sticking around long after the first "No, thank you." After almost 10 weeks on the road, I was also just tired.

It's amazing the difference a little girl talk can make. As soon as I met the women in my train compartment--two Indian engineering students and a German fellow traveler--I teleported to a slumber party. Everyone spoke good English (After years of English-medium education, the Indian girls' English was not only fluent but pretty.) and we spent much of the 20+ hour ride chatting, exchanging photos, and watching Vampire Diaries. I finally made some Indian girlfriends!

The Taj Mahal

"Make sure you marry someone who will build you one of those," my dad advised, looking up at the Taj Mahal. Ok, Dad. I'll get right on that.

I'm pretty sure he wanted me to skip the whole death while giving birth to the 14th child thing (and the polygamy), but Dad had a point. Shah Jahan must have been pretty into Mumtaz Mahal to build her this mausoleum. And had a lot of money and power and a really good architect. If anyone knows a Mughal emperor who needs a wife, send him my way.

Along the Ganges

The oarsman of our little rowboat steers the vessel so smoothly that I hardly notice us turning to avoid other boats.

As we watch dawn break over the Ganges river, he tells us that Varanasi is "the holiest place on earth... Always holy, 24 hours, Varanasi."

Maha Shivaratri in Varanasi

We stepped out of the cab and our driver pointed to a line of people that stretched around the corner and out of sight. He said everyone was waiting to get into the temple--the temple two kilometers away, that is. Welcome to Varanasi.

Sitting on the banks of the Ganges, Varanasi is always a bit surreal (It's a very sacred place to die, apparently) but the big to do today was Maha Shivaratri, the celebration of Shiva's marriage to Parvati. I've read that Hindus fast all day for this festival and then stay up all night, but my (very shallow) research hasn't turned up anything about ritual waiting in line.

We took the opportunity to get to know people. My dad, the master of (be)friending people before Facebook made it cool, started asking locals if he could take their photos. They loved it! It seemed like everyone was flagging us down and posing and chatting and laughing.

A Taste of the Slums

After three days of beautiful architecture in Udaipur and here in Mumbai, I was starting to wonder if we had teleported to Europe. And all the boys in white playing cricket didn't help.

Then, we went to Dharavi, Mumbai' largest slum. Toto, we aren't in Kansas anymore. Or Europe or China or Thailand or anywhere else.

Slums--technically, any areas where people live on government-owned land--house 55 percent of Mumbai's population.

But, walking around Dharavi with our tour guide, Asim, who grew up in the slums himself, the poverty wasn't as jarring as the moments when I forgot that we were in a slum at all.

(Not) Getting the Girls

It's Valentine's Day here in Udaipur (Supposedly India's most romantic city!), and I feel like an awkward teenage boy: I want to talk to girls, but they don't even know I exist.

Although every man in India seems to call out, "What is your name? Where are you from?" I could count my conversations with Indian women on one hand. Even at our friendly, welcoming guest house, the proprietress always refers us to her brother.

In fact, I haven't even seen that many women. At Delhi's subway security checkpoints, I would always breeze through the empty female side, only to spend ten minutes waiting for my dad to catch up. Sure, that's karma for all the long ladies' restroom lines I've waited in, but it's also disconcerting. Like most teenage boys, I clearly don't understand girls. They're especially scarce on the streets at night; could it be a massive slumber party? Where are they?