Becca on Theoretical Smackdown!

My friend Jason Adair informs me that my trip is now part of his new blog, Theoretical Smackdown. It's a place where people can vote on who will win various battles - like "Eric Clapton vs. a fist-sized rock" or "Jim Jones vs. zombie." Becca Costello Vs. Six Months in India is now challenge number 4.

Before I got Jason's e-mail about this, I hadn't really been thinking of my trip to India in competitive terms, but ever since I heard about it, I've started keeping score in my head. I promise to tally the last couple of days for you, so you can make an informed decision. Here's the first challenge:

Becca vs. India: Staring Contest

I arrive at Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus in Mumbai two hours early to catch my midnight train to Goa. CST is a giant, giant train station. It looks like three huge mansions all strung together and decorated with stone lions and gargoyles. You would think a king lives there, but in fact it's just the place where more than a million people catch a train every day.



I'm wearing non-descript black yoga pants and a T-shirt, but I'm strapped to an orange backpack approximately half my height. India (in the form of several thousand people sitting on the floor and every available chair) starts staring. Hard. Unwaveringly.

I look for a seat. Nothing. Nowhere. The floor is an option, but a filthy, filthy one, and I have to wear these clothes for the next 14 hours. Every time I look at anyone, they are looking at me. Always. It's unnerving.

I circle the station over and over. The pack cuts into my shoulders and I start muttering things about how, if Mumbai is going to consider itself a cosmopolitan city, then people need to stop gawking at every single visitor who looks different. India doesn't blink.

Finally, I spy three empty seats in a row! One for me, one for my bag, and one for that comfortable American social distance! I hustle over and immediately see why no one has sat there. On the floor is a man who is not moving. His limbs are rigid. His eyes and mouth are wide open. He does not blink. Flies buzz on his tongue. He is maybe dead. Dead.

No one is paying any attention to him. Not even the people sitting nearby. Everyone is too busy looking at the amazing spectacle of a foreign traveler... with luggage ... in a train station... in a major international city. I consider calling 911 until I realize there is no such thing here. I run upstairs and crash the "upper class" lounge, figuring my American sense of entitlement would qualify me if my ticket wouldn't, and hide behind a book.

Staring contest winner: clearly India.