It was January 26, 1999 -- Indian Republic Day. Every year India celebrates the adoption of the Indian Constitution on January 26, 1950, three years after gaining its independence from Britain. India, being the largest democracy in the world, has plenty to celebrate. Indian freedom is so new that you can still see the struggle in the wise eyes of many older Indians who were alive during the 1940s and 1950s. Their fight for freedom was incredibly unique, and we will probably never see anything quite like the Swadeshi and ahimsa (non-violence) movements of Mahatma Gandhi.

Since then, the Indian political arena continues to be fabulously complicated, and a popular source of many teatime discussions. Even within the four short months of early 1999 that I was in India, I was able to witness some important events. I struggled to understand the political skirmishes between the ruling BJP (Bharatiya Janta Party) and the Congress party, headed by a relative of the ubiquitous Gandhi clan that was India's political soap opera for many years. (I refer to the Indira Gandhi saga, no relation to Mahatma Gandhi.) I watched the celebrated crossing of a bus over the Pakistan and Indian border, which had not been open for 28 years, on a tiny black-and-white TV in a restaurant in Darjeeling.

I read in the papers of the unfortunate continuance of nuclear testing by both India and Pakistan, and it seemed all too close for comfort. Of course, on Jan. 26 I was only one month into my India experience, and didn't really grasp much of the meaning of Indian Republic Day. I was merely watching the clouds fluff themselves against the mountain peaks while listening to our driver talk about why they celebrated Indian Republic Day. It was incredibly uplifting to witness a country so young celebrating a freedom that much of the population can still remember fighting for.

Zip, zip, zip, we continued down the mountain. Every once in a while we would screech around a corner and find ourselves face to face with a huge truck full of people going into the mountains for celebratory picnics. Coming face to face with these speeding and swaying truckloads of flags and people, or the occasional edge of a high cliff only inches from the jeep wheel, would sometimes make my heart lurch forward or my stomach do little flips, but I wasn't seeing my life flash before my eyes anymore.

As we moved down the mountain I was becoming more concerned about the claustrophobic feeling creeping up on me as the air got hotter and the road got dustier. I was squeezed into what, in America, would be a seven-seater jeep with my two trekking friends, Rupal and David, our trekking guide Dawa Lepcha, the driver, and about six other people. It was cozy, to say the least.

Rupal and David were my roommates in the house I was staying at in Calcutta. We were participating in a three-month-long, study-abroad program together. It was a service-learning project that had us living in Calcutta, working for Mother Theresa's Home for the Destitute and Dying, and attending classes. Rupal is of Indian descent, although she grew up in America. A tiny fireball, generous and fun, she and I had already become close. We would continue to build a strong friendship, hardly parting for the next two months we spent together in India. She babbled on with our trekking guide and the others in the car as David and I watched the scenery. David is a warm and compassionate guy who was preparing to go into the medical field and had chosen to get some experience working in India before moving on in school.

The semester had not been going as well as he had hoped it would, and our trekking expedition was his last trip before he would go back to America. Rupal and I were both sad to see David go. We had become a very compatible group of people and were having a ball exploring India together. The mood was somewhat solemn in the jeep as we headed to the train station to catch the Kachenjunga Express back to Calcutta.

It might have been a long, sad drive, but we were lucky enough to have a driver who was intent on keeping spirits up. He made sure that there were plenty of Indian movie soundtracks to keep our brains in pace with the scenery speeding by. Most Americans think only of Ravi Shankar, sitars, and tablas when they think Indian music. But, there is a whole other dimension of Indian music, celebrated mainly by the youth, that comes from the extremely popular Indian musicals.

Bollywood (like Hollywood, but in Bombay) music is infamous for its ability to affect the listener with very strong emotions. Either you love it truly and deeply, or you hate it with equivalent passion. Many foreign listeners have found that they can both love and hate this strange offspring of Western pop music influence and Eastern musical sentiment; this usually results in emotional confusion and many 'closet' Bollywood fans.

I openly love this music; I was thrilled by its energy soon after arriving in India. It is played in buses, in restaurants, and on the street where the layers of different beats and sounds constantly bombard your mind until you have no choice but to start swaying your hips and shimmying your shoulders.

It's like walking down one of Calcutta's pulsing narrow streets; the only way to understand it is to experience it. The best part is that on top of the over-complexity of the instrumental arrangements are the lyrics, which are so oversimplified that you don't even really have to have them translated to know what is being said. (It usually has something to do with love or glory.)

This music went very well with our zippy drive down the mountain. The landscape took on the music and they blended so well that after staring out the window for a while I couldn't imagine that the Himalayas would stay standing if the music was turned off. It seemed the whole thing would crumple like a piece of cardboard movie scenery as soon as the tape was over.

Everything I saw whooshing past my window screen became part of the movie. The river Tista occasionally made an appearance, swirling and swaying with the music like a starlet wrapped in a green-blue sari. The mountains rose up strongly on either side of the road like tall, dark men keeping time as the river slinked around them sexily.

The peaks of the Himalayas were jagged and fresh, and I was beginning to feel that my mind was shaped much the same way. I was very glad that I had made it up to this young part of the world. Everything I had seen in these young mountains contrasted severely with the truth of the ancientness of the Indian culture. Once again, I could see the clarity of another of India's perfect contradictions --something that India seems to specialize in. This trek to the tiny mountain village of Tsoska had been one of our small weekend trips that Rupal, David, and I occasionally took in order to see more of the expansive and diverse country of India.

We had taken the train from Calcutta to Siliguri, and then proceeded to go north by jeep up to Gangtok. Gangtok is the capital of Sikkim, which is a small northwestern Indian state located between Nepal and Bhutan with Tibet as its northern neighbor. Finally, we jeeped from Gangtok to the small village of Yoksum, from which we trekked for a day and stayed overnight in a trekking hut with a view of Mt. Kachenjunga and the surrounding peaks.

Tsoska had been a cold and clear break from the intensity of Calcutta. Even the difficulty of the 10-hour uphill hike seemed like vacation after spending our first couple of weeks in the war zone that is Mother Theresa's organization. The views from our hut were like nothing I've ever seen. It seemed that the world consisted only of Himalayan peaks reaching desperately for the sky as if it held something important just out of their grasp.

As the jeep zoomed along, I began to feel that "coming down" from these mountains was more than just a physical descent. I could feel my body bracing itself to return to the harshness of train stations and city streets. I enjoyed Calcutta as much as Tsoska, but in a different way. Calcutta was like a really sour piece of candy that you can't help but love because it makes you hurt so much. The trip to Tsoska had been like a drop of honey on that throbbing tongue. I wanted more, but I also knew that if I had too much it would lose its flavor. It was time to go home, not only because we were due back in class and at work, but we also needed to be back because David's plane was leaving for America the next day from Calcutta.

Arriving at the train station, we made our way toward the tourist ticket area to make sure everything was OK with our tickets. We had gotten our tickets in advance from our trekking company just to be sure we would be back in Calcutta in time for David to get on his plane. The tickets looked the same as they always did, except on the bottom corner were the words "waiting list."

Although our trekking friends had assured us that this was just a technicality, and that we would still be able to get on the train, we felt it necessary to check anyway, and it was a good thing we did. As it turns out, the waiting list was not just a theory, it was a reality. And to top it off, we were numbers 59, 60, and 61 on that list. We weren't going to make the train with those tickets.

Rupal and I were not incredibly worried. It was possible for us to get a room in Siliguri and wait until the next day, but David NEEDED to be on that train. Another hour was spent pleading with various train people to let David on, but to no avail. We sat down on the dusty platform with our bags to discuss the next plan of action. The station was surprisingly clean, relatively speaking. There were the usual beggars circling our space, but none of them approached us. We were obviously in a deep and determined conversation. After much deliberation we came to the realization that we had only one choice left: we had to travel third class.

India, with its ancient caste system and the added influence of British class-consciousness, is very intricately separated. This separation of people is a concept burned deeply into the Indian mind. Trains were certainly not exempt from the class rule. In all of our previous excursions, we had traveled second class on the trains. First class meant a closed car with air conditioning and bedding, and was not a very good way to actually experience India. Third class, on the other hand, was basically a cattle car where "first come-first serve" ruled.

Most people spent the whole trip standing or sitting in the same spot even on the overnight and multi-day trips. This was perhaps a little too much India experience for most people. Second class was perfect for tourists because you got plenty of room, a bunk to sleep on, and you got to either sit with Indian families, or schmooze with other foreigners on the Foreign Car. In order for David to make his plane, he would have to attempt to get into the third-class car.

Getting into a third-class car required some serious preparation. From what we had witnessed in other train stations, the basic way people got into the third-class cars was by rushing straight into the car with a gaggle of people the size of my hometown. It always looked dangerous to me. On the train, as with most public endeavors in India, anything goes, which is why most Indian trains have bars over the windows -- too many people were hurting themselves by climbing through windows. David wanted to try and get on by himself. With his backpack on, he was about the equivalent of three Indian men, so his chances of making it were pretty good.

But he was worried about Rupal and I, who were much smaller and certainly couldn't demand the space that he could. Without much resistance from David, we both assured him that the three of us were going to do this together. We also promised that if we got separated that Rupal and I would stay together while allowing David to find his own way to Calcutta. We spent the next hour preparing for our siege of the third-class car. When we heard the train coming, we hoisted our packs on our backs and hunkered down. Rupal and I figured that if we followed David and used our packs as extra weight, we'd be able to shove our way into the car.

Two distant train whistles told us that the time had come; a few deep breaths and we were ready to get on that train. The three of us stood side by side on the platform in the spot that we figured the third-class cars would end up. The train pulled in, and just as we had predicted, there was a huge wave of people moving toward the third-class cars.

We followed, and everything was going well until David saw some Indian men jump on the train while it was still moving. Before we could stop him, he too had jumped on the moving train and disappeared into the car. It took me only a couple of seconds to react. The only thought in my head was "find David." I knew that the three of us needed to stick together. I grabbed the handle of the train, which was still pulling in, and Rupal's hand at the same time. With one huge grunt I hauled myself into the car and pulled Rupal up with me.

Now inside the car, we stood still for a minute. We were not on the third-class car -- as a matter of fact, we didn't have a clue as to where we were. Rupal and I stared wide-eyed at each other.

"I can't believe I just did that," I spoke in a low voice to Rupal. She just blinked.

"Where's David?" She turned and looked down the length of the car we were on. "And where the hell are we?"

I shrugged and took a good look at our surroundings. The car looked much like the second-class cars (two long benches facing each other), but without the bunks. There weren't very many people in the car, and they were all staring at us curiously. "Rupal, there are no women or children on this car." I was beginning to get a really bad feeling about this.

"David! David, where are you?!" Rupal was starting to look worried too, which was rare. We both knew that having a male sidekick would probably come in handy right now.

"Rupal! Alyssa!" David came in from the door behind us.

"David, how the hell did you end up behind us?" I was a bit perplexed at his sudden appearance, especially since I had seen him get on a car in front of ours and he had somehow appeared from the car behind us. The train had finally stopped and a few men were getting off, but most of them seemed intent on staying on and watching us.

"I got on the wrong car so I thought I'd try to find you guys," David explained. We all smiled at each other, happy to at least be together. David broke the silence as he noticed the unfamiliarity of this car. "Where are we?"

I leaned out of the car. "Let's see if I can find out." On the outside of the door I saw a wooden plaque where, written in about three or four languages, were the words "Indian Army Car."

"Uh-oh." I pulled myself back in. "Guys, this is the army car. We should probably get off before we get in trouble." I was really worried now. What would the Indian Army do with three Americans who had jumped onto a moving train because they didn't have valid tickets? Crazy scenarios were flying through my head. Could we be sent to jail for this? Or, more likely, how long would we be stuck in Siliguri trying to straighten this out? Would we be stranded here for weeks filling out paperwork? Would David make his plane? What if they sent us back to America? I certainly wasn't ready to go home. That almost seemed worse than jail. We were about to get off when a small, dark man on my right, dressed in a nice pair of slacks and a sweater, spoke up.

"Sit, sit." He motioned with his hands for us to sit with him. He was the only person occupying the two benches to our right-hand side. We sat, and quickly found out that he didn't speak much English or Hindi for that matter. Usually, Rupal was great at helping us communicate because she knew some Hindi, but even she couldn't really understand him. He was from Kerela, a small state on the southwestern tip of India, and was speaking a Dravidian language.

Dravidian languages come from the ancient tribes of people who occupied India before it was influenced by outsiders like the Aryans, Alexander the Great, the Moguls, and the British -- to name a few. South India had escaped most land invasions because of a protective chain of mountains in the middle of the subcontinent. The language and culture of the Dravidian people were able to develop in the south without the same influences that the north had. This difference in language made communication very difficult. As we were struggling through explanations of our problem with Thomas T-J (we had at least been able to establish names), we were approached by a police officer.

The police in India had always caused some palpitations of fear in my chest, even when I wasn't doing things like sneaking onto trains. They are usually larger than most other Indian men are and many of them are Sikhs, which means that they wear the turban and a full beard. Although these features are certainly not any indication of personality, they do tend to make men look quite intimidating.

All officers wear a khaki uniform and either a red bere type hat or a red turban. This officer was no exception; he was tall with a red turban, bushy beard, and a rather large rifle. He had a very stern expression on his face, and was looking at David and I with particular disgust. He barked something at our friend and they began to argue. They were obviously talking about us. I tried to sink as deep into the seat as possible, watching as they heatedly discussed our presence. Then, just as I was convincing myself that the American embassy wouldn't let them put me in jail, Thomas pulled a piece of paper out of his wallet and showed it to the guard who, with a defeated sneer, nodded and abruptly left the car.

Just then, the train started pulling away from the station. It seemed that we were going to get to Calcutta by morning, and it seemed that we were going to get there by riding in the Indian Army Car. David and I still weren't very comfortable with the situation. Rupal was still trying to communicate, but we could tell that she was no longer worried about anything. I desperately wanted to know why we had been allowed to stay, and if there was going to be any price for this favor. With ample hindsight I realize that I was severely underestimating the hospitality of people in India.

Fresh from America, where every favor must be countered with another favor, I wasn't familiar with the idea of hospitality for the sake of hospitality. No one in that car expected anything from us; they merely wanted to help. India is very family-oriented, and most Indians are more than willing to stretch the boundaries of relatedness in order to help other people. Of course, I'm not trying to indicate that Americans don't help each other. We just do it in a different way. In India, any man or woman who is older than you is known as "uncle" or "auntie."

The women I worked with at Mother Theresa's called me "auntie" because I was helping to take care of them. Professors, bosses, bus drivers, or the old man on the street corner will all be honored to have you call them "uncle." Thomas was just another "uncle" helping us only because he was interested in our problem, and he didn't want to see us get in trouble. For me, it was the first of many experiences with Indian hospitality that I would have throughout my four months there. The experience of that sort of attitude is one of the things that really made me fall in love with India. It is hard not to feel at home in India when everyone is constantly offering tea, samosas, dinner, or even a place to stay just because they want to learn from you and see you happy in their home.

It took about 30 minutes before we had worked out the story of what had happened between Thomas and the officer. With the help of some of the other men in the car, we learned that our savior, Thomas, had been in the army for 13 years. His ranking was higher than that of the Sikh officer. Basically, he pulled rank on the young officer and explained our presence by claiming us as foreign guests of his boss, who had an even higher rank within the army. The piece of paper he had in his wallet was the proof of his ranking as well as his boss' rank. The guard, even though he knew something wasn't right, had no choice but to obey.

We were in the right place at the right time, and things got even better after that. The army men made sure we were well fed and comfortable. All three of us had fun joking with the men in the car. We became good friends with Khalil Shahkuli, a police officer in training. He was the entertainer who kept everyone up with card games, whiskey, and his mini-radio. I slept through most of the trip, but David and Rupal spent much of the night fraternizing with the Indian army.

It was the best train ride I had in India. I felt safe and excited about our adventure on the Kachenjunga Express, and David did make his plane.