Crimson Dawn

By Landis Ray Schmitt

In the summer of 1974, I travelled through India and Nepal with a backpack and a low budget. As a member of an underground yoga sect, I encountered the third world up close and personal. It was a journey in search of my soul which nearly cost me my life. From late night police raids to spear toting natives, I experience the underbelly of life in the third world. Join me on the adventure of a lifetime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 1, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469749402

Landis Ray Schmitt

The author is a now a Free Thinking Humanist living in Northern California with his wife and daughter.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Landis Ray Schmitt

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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Characters are real but the names have been changed.

ISBN: 0-595-19467-2

ISBN: 978-1-469-74940-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to all the Free Thinkers in the World

Contents

NEW DELHI

Welcome to the Third World

THE HOWRAH EXPRESS

A Train Ride Through Hell

OH CALCUTTA!

Landis of India

ANANDA NAGAR

The Land That Time Forgot

PATNA

Dreams Die Hard

HIMALAYAN ODYSSEY

Trains, Planes and Donkey Carts

KATMANDU

Freak Street Nirvana

GOIN’ HOME

You Can’t Hitchhike Across Water

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NEW DELHI

Welcome to the Third World

Banking sharply to the right, the Air India jumbo jet began its descent into the Bombay International Airport. Just off the tip of the wing, I could see the sun, a bright orange globe, rising in the east. It was the summer of 1974 and this crimson colored sunrise marked the beginning of my personal six-week odyssey through India and Nepal. Although I had traveled extensively throughout the United States, this would be my first excursion outside my native land. It would be my first journey into an exotic world far removed from my mid-western roots. Looking out the window of the plane, my mind reeled with expectations of the unknown adventures that awaited me in this far off area of the world. My fertile imagination, however, could not even begin to prepare me for my future encounter with Third World Reality. An encounter that would nearly cost me my life and forever change the way I viewed the world.

My reasons for setting out on this trip were two-fold. First, as a member of a little known yoga sect called Ananda Marga, I was on a pilgrimage to see the organization at its roots. With a little luck, I hoped to meet the Founder and Guru, Shrii Shrii Anandamurti. Secondly, as a twenty-four year old young man, I was propelled by a strong desire to broaden my worldly experience. I wanted to quench that inner thirst for adventure that often pops up in the minds of young men.

My traveling partner on this trip was an old friend from New Jersey, Anthony Bilderman. In his mid-thirties, Anthony was a tall broad-shouldered man with long dark bushy hair. His hair fell like a lion’s mane around a face marked by deep-set dark eyes. He had an imposing appearance but, in reality, he was a very gentle soft-spoken man. Upon meeting him, no one would ever guess that he was a former Marine Corps sergeant and a Vietnam Veteran. His maturity and patience provided a suitable counter balance to my own youthful inexperience. Our deeply shared interest in yoga and meditation had brought us together on this mystical oriental journey.

Bombay was the end of the line for the huge jumbo jet that had carried us from New York, via London, Rome and Beirut. It was here that I was to have my first encounter with the Third World. We had a short layover before we were to board a smaller jet and fly on to New Delhi. Stretching my legs in the transit area, I noticed a public restroom and wondered inside with every intention of using the facilities. Once inside, I quickly changed my mind after viewing the toilet. Traditional Indian toilets consist of a hole in the floor with two brick-like stones, one on each side of the hole. There were dividers between the stalls but no doors. I decided that I could hold my business until I re-boarded the plane.

There were several men inside the restroom and, since I was the only foreigner, I felt very conspicuous. Attempting to save face, I went over to the sink to wash my hands. A short thin Indian man wearing a white jacket had been watching me closely from the moment I had entered the restroom. When I reached to turn on the water, he quickly stepped up to the sink and turned on the water for me. He also dispensed soap from a container on the wall into my hands. When I finished washing, he held out a small towel for me to dry my hands. Coming from a small town, I had never experienced anything like this in my life. It made me feel very uncomfortable and I didn’t know quite how to respond. Noticing the confused look on my face, the attendant held out his palm in a gesture that clearly indicated he wanted a tip. Since I had not been through Indian Customs and Immigration procedures, I had not had an opportunity to change my US currency for Indian currency. Feeling trapped, I dug into my pocket and pulled out about a dollar’s worth of American coins and dropped them into his hand. Seeing the US coins in his hands, the attendants eyes grew wide and a big grin spread across his face. He stood at attention and saluted! Walking out of the restroom, I realized that I had just tipped him a full days wages for simply helping me wash my hands.

A couple of hours later, our connecting flight landed in New Delhi. We checked through Customs and Immigration without incident and proceeded to the baggage claim area. The baggage claim area was a large open room with a high ceiling. A single conveyor consisting of metal rollers ran three-quarters of the way around the outside of the room. Across the room from me, I spotted my bright red backpack at the very end of the conveyor. Walking over to get it, I stepped on something lying on the floor. When I looked down, I saw a toothbrush. Upon closer examination, I was shocked to discover that it was my toothbrush! A further survey of the floor revealed my comb, soap, deodorant and toothpaste scattered around the room. I quickly gathered up my personal belongings and went over to my backpack. All of the side pockets had been unzipped. As the backpack traveled around the room on the conveyor, the contents had fallen out. I hurriedly re-packed my personal belonging, thankful that I had kept all of my money and my passport on my body. After I finished, I looked up and saw a large hand-painted sign that said, Welcome to India.

On the way out of the baggage claim area, we found a currency exchange. We both exchanged $200 each for Indian rupees. At the rate of seven rupees per dollar, we received a huge wad of small colorful bills. After stuffing them into our pockets, we grabbed our backpacks and headed down a long, narrow corridor leading to the airport exit. At the end of the corridor, a young man sitting behind a fold-up card table called out to us, hey, where are you going?

A crudely made sign tacked onto the wall identified him as the ticket agent for the New Delhi Express Bus Company. We need to find a hotel, I replied.

Which hotel are you staying at? We go to every hotel in New Delhi, he replied.

We don’t really have a hotel yet, I said. Can you recommend a good inexpensive hotel?

The young man’s eyes lit up, oh yes, I know a very nice place. It is not a hotel. It is a private residence, but they will rent you a very nice room.

Anthony, pulling a long singular whisker on his chin, asked, "how much does it cost?

Oh, it is very inexpensive, the young man replied trying not to sound too excited. It is only 70 rupees per night.

70 rupees or ten US dollars was inexpensive, but it was more than we had anticipated paying. Our entire budged for the four months we planned on staying was only $400 each, and clearly we couldn’t afford to pay ten dollars a night for lodging. Lacking any other alternative, however, we decided to go ahead and take it. Reluctantly, we told the ticket agent we would accept his offer and he said he would arrange everything. After purchasing our tickets we went out of the airport and waited for the bus to arrive.

The bus stand was nothing more than a bench located next to a busy thoroughfare behind the airport. We joined several other young people who were also waiting for the bus in the hot dusty air. All of us were either from the US or Europe, there were no Indian people amongst us. After a short wait, the bus arrived. It turned out to be a green and white Volkswagen van. The driver of the van was the same young man who had sold us the tickets. After throwing our luggage onto a rack on top of the van, we all crammed into the back. Grinding the gears into first, the driver pulled out into the crowded New Delhi streets.

As we bumped along the busy street, I began talking to a tall young American man who was seated next to me. Is this your first trip to India, I asked.

No, I was here six months ago but I ran out of money. I’ve been in Israel working on a kibbutz. But now, I’ve got some more cash so I’m back in India. What about you? Is this your first visit?

For some unknown reason, I felt embarrassed admitting that it was. He asked us where we were going to stay in New Delhi and I explained to him about the private residence the driver had recommended. Just at that time, the van came to a sudden halt. We were parked in front of a large two-story adobe house that was surrounded by a six-foot high adobe wall. It was newly constructed and very western looking in its appearance. The driver indicated that this was the place Anthony and I would be staying and he got out of the van to take our backpacks down from the roof rack. Looking at the house with a skeptical look on his face, the young American said, Do you really want to stay here?

There was something about the tone of his voice that gave me a strong feeling of regret about our decision. Hesitantly, I said, well, I don’t know. I really don’t know what else is available in New Delhi.

How much are they charging you, he asked.

70 rupees per day, I responded.

70 rupees, he said loudly. Man, that’s a rip off.

It is?

Yeah, you can do much better than that. There are plenty of places to stay in the city that are cheaper than this. Besides, you’ll be stuck way out here in the middle of nowhere. It’ll cost you a fortune just for cab fare.

Outside the van, the driver had been nervously listening to our conversation through the open window. He didn’t like the way it was going. Sensing a possible loss of a commission, he called out, hurry and get out. This is your stop. I have to go. Please get out.

Anthony and I weren’t moving. Anthony asked the American if he had any suggestions on where we could stay.

There are a lot of cheap hotels around Connaught Place. That’s where I am headed. There’s a tourist information office there and they can give you a list of all the hotels in New Delhi. I’ll show you where to go.

Much to the great dismay of the driver, we decided to go on to Connaught Place. Grumbling to himself, the driver threw our backpacks roughly back on top of the van and got back in. A few minutes later, we arrived at the drop off spot for Connaught Place which lies in the heart of New Delhi. At the very center of Connaught Place, is a large circular park surrounded by three large rings of two story buildings. The buildings are all identical and they all have tall columns in front of them. Like most of New Delhi, Connaught Place was designed and built by the British in the early 1900’s. It is the commercial and tourist center of the city. The small connecting streets in and around Connaught Place are lined with small craft shops, restaurants, movie theaters and banks.

The van pulled up to a jerky stop in front of a large movie theater. Large gaudy billboards advertising the latest romantic Indian musical movie, surrounded the theater. Everyone on the van got out here and quickly we all dispersed into the throngs of people milling around waiting for the next movie to begin. Before saying goodbye, the young American pointed us in the direction of the Government of India’s Tourist Information Office on Janpath Road. At the Tourist Information Office we obtained a list of inexpensive hotels and guesthouses located in the vicinity of Connaught Place. From the list, we selected the S.C. Jain Guesthouse that was located down a small side street just a few blocks from Connaught Circle Park.

S.C. Jain turned out to be an articulate middle-aged Indian woman who wrapped her portly body in an expensive and colorful sari. A framed diploma on the wall behind her desk indicated that she was an attorney as well as a landlord. She was pleasant and motherly as she registered us into her guesthouse. After a brief lecture on the danger of thieves and pickpockets, she insisted that we lock our passports and most of our money in her office safe. I suspected that her real intention was to insure that we didn’t skip town owing her money. At 21 rupees per day for the room, however, we weren’t about to argue.

The room was somewhat Spartan but clean. There was a wooden writing table in one corner and three Indian style beds. An Indian bed consisted of a wooden frame with a thick twine like rope tightly strung between the four corners. They were firm but not hard. With our sleeping bags for padding, they proved to be quite comfortable and we had no difficulty sleeping. The only window in the room had metal bars to keep out burglars but no glass or screen. Above the window, where the wall met the ceiling, were two ghostly white six-inch long lizards. They vigilantly lied in wait for any luckless insects that flew in threw the open window. The ubiquitous white lizards would turn out to be a regular feature of the lower budget hotels and guesthouses that we stayed out throughout India.

The guesthouse consisted of four rooms, including ours, built off of the back of a larger two story frame house in which, I assumed, Mrs. S.C. Jain lived. An open-air courtyard separated the four rooms. Along one side of the courtyard was a separate shower room. The shower room consisted of two crude nozzles jutting out from the wall. Like the courtyard, there was no roof. Along another wall, there were two small sweatboxes containing the traditional Indian toilets similar to the ones in the Bombay Airport. Fortunately, we had brought a roll of toilet paper from America, because there were none in the toilets.

Although I was exhausted by the long journey and the jet lag, I did not sleep well that first night in New Delhi. Of course, I was excited to be at the beginning of a long exotic journey, but my excitement was tempered by the uncertainty of our situation. As I stated earlier, one of our principal goals was to meet the Guru for Ananda Marga. This was not going to be easy because he was in an Indian prison. Although Ananda Marga was a relatively unknown organization in the United States, in India it was quite large and infamous. At the time we were there, it had gone underground to avoid government persecution. The Guru was imprisoned on charges that he ordered the assassinations of six former Ananda Marga Acharyas (monks). The government’s case against him was weak but nevertheless, he had been in prison for over three years while the trial was in progress. During his first few months in prison there was an attempt by the guards to poison him, and since that time he had been undergoing a liquid fast, subsisting on one glass of horlicks, a malt-like drink, per day.

It was Ananda Marga’s contention that he was being persecuted for political reasons. The organization had a large and growing following throughout India. They were particularly strong in the Guru’s home state of Bihar in the northeastern section of India. Dedicated to the upliftment of humanity, they were a multi-faceted organization that ran many relief and humanitarian operations. As there strength grew, they became a threat to the entrenched communist party that held most of