Sleeper Train from Hell- Part Deux

I thought my first experience with the train was bad…HAH! I left Jaisalmer (after arguing with the owner about owing me money from the camel trek and lying about amenities, never stay in Hotel Henna!!!) on a seven hour bus ride, bringing me to Bikiner at nine PM. We arrive in the middle of a crazy sand storm; a rickshaw driver brought me to the train station to help me find a ticket to Amritsar in order to see the Golden Temple, as well as hang out on the boarder of Pakistan. The train doesn’t leave until 2:30am, um, ok, at least there’s a ladies waiting room. Oh, but wait, there aren’t any tickets left; that might be a problem. The driver and another man that owns a local guesthouse helped me out. We go to the main ticket office where the guest house guy (GHG from now on) can pull some strings because “anything is possible in India.” After maybe a half hour, they decide that there is a sleeper seat I can have—ok! First, though, I can only buy a general seat ticket (which is always oversold and is one coach where people just pack themselves in like sardines, no seat assignement or even enough available) and then I’ll pay the difference later. I thank Mr. Body (the ticket man) and shake his hand; he pulls me in for a hug and give me a kiss on the cheek—ok, so this is kinda like what the French do then, right? He even has a little office in the room for me to rest in until the train comes, with a blanket and pillow—how nice? I go with the rickshaw driver to get my bag and he tells me to be careful because they are all drunk—oh, ok, things are coming together. I don’t know if both Mr Body and GHG suddenly were more intoxicated, or if I was finally keen to the game, but their speech was so slurred it was difficult to understand. I take a seat in my office with my book and GHG sits next to me, not saying anything, just staring. Then he grabs my calf and tells me I have nice muscles—um thanks, I run a lot…back to book.
I tell him that I'm tired and go to shake his hand and he tries to get me to kiss him. No, um, I’m married I say as I hold up the ring on my left hand, thanks for your help though.

What? Why not? I’m just here wasting my time.
Hey! I never asked you to do this!

He finally leaves. Then, Mr. Body comes in . His English is barely comprehensible and the intoxicated slurring doesn’t help. He kept asking for my name and contact number—silly me, I think this is for the ticket. I write my name but say I don’t have a number, I had to do this maybe seven times until he gave up.

Ok, I’m going to sleep, thanks.

He stares and points to his lips.

NO! Um, I’m married.

Then he keeps doing the Indian head bobble and hand action. Ok, so, in India, they don’t shake their heads up and down to signify "yes," nor do they understand left to right is "no," no mater their answer, they do this left to right arching motion, similar to an “I don’t know” and the hand does this over turning flip flop along with a little shake—these motions could not be more indecisive if they tried. What? What does this mean? I don’t understand. Um, whatever, goodnight. He goes to shake my hand; I’m a damn sucker for that because I feel the need to try and be polite (plus, I still don’t have my ticket so I have to play nicey). He tries to pull me in—NO! Let go! I ripped my hand away just as he tried to do the ole palm finger prick I love so dearly—gross. I lock the door at the same time as he locks me in from the outside. Uh oh, this could be a problem. I decide I have a while before I need to get desperate and break some windows, so I just laid down and did a little mobile texting to calm myself.

After an hour, I hear Mr. Body start yelling, Madam! Over and over, so I go out and he tells me to bring my luggage.

Why aren’t you sleeping?
Um, I was? I lied (how about, you yelled for me to come out here? Genius, pure genius)
I give you blankets and you don’t sleep.
I was, I...Sure, ok.

The he starts to tell me there aren’t any tickets. What? we JUST went through this. I start getting angry after twenty minutes telling him I can’t understand him. His English sucks, so I start talking back to him

No, you’re a liar, maybe you shouldn’t be drunk on the job. I think that you just wont give me a ticket because you tried to make out with me because you thought I was an easy Western woman and I wouldn’t.

Liar

I took my ticket and left. Two other men came after me, speaking perfect English and told me where my seat was. Mr. Body came out again, trying one more time and grabbing my hand and going in for the kill, yet shot down, bang bang, again. ICKKKKKK. The other guy was so sweet; he got all the men out of the women’s waiting room so I could be comfortable, made sure I was awake for the train and got my seat, which was actually the on-board ticket officer’s seat; he was willing to let me sleep there, aw. I was on that train until two pm. I had one more to go to Amristar and FINALLY successful arrival at 5 pm!!!