Миша Чинков - Кауч

– [Vanya]: Remember Albina from the last time?

– [Me]: Yeah.

– [Vanya]: I gave her one last ride to Ryazan. She left her kid at her mother and moved to boyfriend.

– [Me]: Oh, my gosh.

– [Vanya]: Hell yeah, she’s a weird girl.

The rest of the way to Podolsk we keep silent, the music is playing in the background. Vanya allows me to play Korn and Slipknot, but then changes music anyway. Gangsta hip-hop, shanson 9 9 Russian chanson is a neologism for a musical genre covering a range of Russian songs, including city romance songs, author song performed by singer-songwriters, and criminals' songs that are based on the themes of the urban underclass and the criminal underworld. something about “sex and drugs“. His music taste aligns better with M5 highway 10 10 The Russian route M5 (also known as the Ural Highway) is a major trunk road running from Moscow to the Ural Mountains. It is part of the European route E30 and the Trans-Siberian Highway. at night.

Without having much sleep, I get out of the car on the “Shcherbinka“ railway station and arrive to Domodedovo airport in two hours. It’s going to take me twenty hours to get to Delhi from Moscow, including twelve hours transfer in Bishkek. On the “Manas Air” plane, I meet a couple from St. Petersburg, Lesha and Lena. We beguile the flight to Bishkek by talking about countries, cities and our expectations from India.

Russia and Kyrgyzstan have visa-free arrangements, so you may go outside. On my way to the passport control, my eyes catch the first Kirghiz word – “Chygoo“. It’s printed on the sign with the words “Vyhod“ and “Exit“. I wonder if there’s another odd word instead of “Enter“. In the arrival zone, a guy catches up with us and peddles an overpriced taxi ride. He sees my confusion and says with a smirk: “You shouldn’t expect any help here”. We take a “marshrutka” to the center and forget to pay. The stereo plays a disk with Russian pop-scene hits from ten years ago. October in Bishkek is sad: zero by Celsius, sloppy rain, empty squares, empty malls, local dull faces. We decide to get back to the airport after an hour of strolling. We catch the first checker we see.

– [Me]: How much to the airport?

– [the Driver]: Five hundred.

– [Me]: Four hundred.

– [the Driver]: Four hundred is too little.

– [Me]: Okay, five hundred.

On the way to the airport, I try to get the driver into conversation.

[the Driver]: “I spent a year in Moscow: worked in a taxi, lived in a flat with ten people. I had money, but I had no free time and didn’t see relatives. It got depressing, so I came back”.

We try to get some sleep on cold airport seats in vain. Having got on the plain, we curse Bishkek – and maybe the whole Kyrgyzstan – for the lack of sleep.

I think I stick to my way to the Country of Spices and Dances.

I arrange a meeting with my host Rudra to meet at the “Pitam Pura” metro station. He lives nearby. Locals help to get to the station: someone buys me a metro ticket, someone else lends me a phone to make a call. Among them, I’ve met a “white collar” guy on his way back from a business trip to Mumbai. The guy is sincerely surprised with my idea to travel around India all by myself.

– [the Guy]: Eighty percent of people here – “uneducated”.

– [Me]: At least there are no “untouchables” anymore.

Rudra has a house without number on a street without name. The neighborhood reminds of a view from the game Assassin’s Creed: curvy houses, lots of people in eastern clothes, a hustle all about stalls and trading. There’s a big cow lying on the road – I hope it’s alive and simply enjoys some rest. In a pure fucking amazement from this “Country of Spices and Dances”, I ask myself a question: “Buddy, where the hell are you?”

Rudra is the nicest of all men. He creates an impression of someone who sincerely enjoys possibility to meet people from different countries, sharing some moments of life together. He is a network engineer in an Indian corporate. Three hours by car separate Delhi and his native village. He rents a ten square meters apartment in Delhi. A bed and a bathroom are the only amenities there.

Rudra drives home while I take a subway to center to do some sightseeing and get a sim card. On the one hand, I’m pretty grateful to Rudra for the help. On the other – I’m freaking out without him. On bazaar, I’m being fucked up at every corner: sim card, currency exchange, train tickets. I manage to activate the card by a couple call to the chief, local cronies help with an adequate exchange rate. Train tickets were a bit of a scam: I would learn in a week I bought them for twice the price. Still not that expensive.

On top of all cultural shock related stuff, I got a food poisoning in Bishkek. With a crazy look in my eyes, I rush through the bazaar seeking a toilet – you won’t even find one in McDonald's! Balancing on the edge between the permissible and the impermissible, I run into a local temple and as luck would have it I find a functioning public toilet. Religion saved my life in the end.

[WhatsApp chat]

– [Rudra]: Hey, brother. Call me when you’re there. I’m waiting.

– [Rudra]: Where are you?

– [Rudra]: Misha, do you have a sim card? Brother, send me a message, if it’s all right, where are you, I’m a bit worried about you.

– [Me]: Good, I’ve just come home. I’ve got Vodafone sim card. The guy told me it would be activated in 4 hours, but the Internet still doesn’t work.

– [Rudra]: Okey, thanks god, you’re finally back. I’ve thought, you know, no message, no answer. Sorry, just sim card problems. How was your day?

– [Me]: There’s so much I’d like to tell. Let’s talk about it when you come.

– [Rudra]: Have you eaten something for dinner?

– [Rudra]: A juice, thanks. My stomach needs some rest.

– [Rudra]: Well, fine, fine, take care, sleep well. I won’t be home today because I have an important work to do here, sorry about that, call me when your number is activated.

New Delhi is a town of crowds and jostles. I can hardly understand how people live here. Jostle at a metro entrance, jostle at a metro exit, jostle in a car wagon, jostle at the stall with alcohol, jostle at a praying room in the temple. Even metro's one-minute interval is still not enough for a comfortable ride. Given the Moscow-scale distances, an hour ride turns into torture.

At some point, I lose it, thinking over all possible and impossible ways to escape this flophouse. Soon, I accidentally meet two guys from England and Australia. We pass round a blunt and life becomes more tolerable.

The city is taking a new look. No longer see I any jostles, crooks or vile collectors in buses. Having eased off nuts where self-preservation instinct dwells, I enjoy summer weather and warm sunshine. I talk to the strangers I see, they are all friendliness and curiosity.

I think if countries were mental illnesses, India would be a “borderline personality disorder”.

Tour operators consider Taj Mahal to be the seventh, or like the eighths wonder of the world. The city of Agra – where it was built – lives off mass tourism. There is not much you can do about the human nature of going through check-lists set up by someone on the side.

Having fended off a couple weird guys in CouchSurfing with a massage offer, I finally find Yuvan – a guy nineteen years old. I can’t really say if he’s a student, a tour industry worker, or everything at once. The train from New Delhi to Agra is running for five hours instead of the scheduled three. I first see Agra late in the late evening darkness. The darkness warns me that I’m not going to see the Taj Mahal today – it’s closed half an hour before dawn. I see Yuvan driving up to the station on a motorbike.