Around India in 80 Trains (21 page)

Khajuraho was a town where time ambled along. Cows strolled by swinging their loose neck skin and shop owners squatted on pavements, watching the sun rise, then watching it set. Its previous residents were markedly busier. The Chandela Dynasty of Rajput kings, who rose to power ruling Central India during the early 10
^th
century, had established their cultural capital here and commissioned the carving of the temples. According to local historians, there were originally 85, but abandonment and ruin meant that only 22 had survived. Over time, dense jungle had crept around the sandstone structures, gently cradling them out of sight from marauding Mughals who had rampaged through numerous other clusters of Hindu and Jain temples. But in 1838, T. S. Burt, a British army officer, came upon the ruins, and so began their restoration.

Ricky was right: the classical dance festival, which took place against the backdrop of the western temples, had been brought forward by a week and there was neither a kohl-rimmed eye nor a bell-covered ankle in sight. Preened gardens lined with hedges and rose trees criss-crossed around the temples, which, in the fading light, took on the colour of toasted almonds. Each structure sat on an elevated platform with a tiered tower shrinking towards the tip, capped with a round carving, like a stone Tam o’Shanter. Wrapped around each wall and carved into the stone were rows after rows of leggy figures, wearing nothing but jewellery, weaponry and expressions of indifference. Unlike the delicate faces at Ellora, these figures had square heads, heavy jaws and wide-set eyes, but swayed softly, tilting their hips in unison, in a rippling wave of seduction. Not only were the Chandelas gifted craftsmen, they also had boundless optimism for the potential of coitus: each line of erotic figures was engaged in a variety of sexual acrobatics that would have made the most hardcore porn star feel like a prude.

An elderly guard wearing a moth-eaten beret beckoned us around a wall and waved his stick at a row of carvings that featured a particularly fruity group who, during their ambitious exploits, had enlisted the help of a horse and were repaying the animal in kind. The guard waggled his eyebrows and coughed a phlegmy laugh. Most of the carvings looked like the results of copious amounts of alcohol and an ill-advised game of naked Twister. Not one orifice was left unfilled.

Four local studs wearing eye-wateringly tight trousers and tank tops were hovering in front of a spicy subject who was bent over, clutching her ankles, while her mate held her in place with one fingertip on her back. Two of the group linked pinkie fingers and giggled like girls, while the other two took photos of the carvings on their phones. It was the provincial alternative to hovering after school by the top shelf at a newsagent. Sex was such a taboo in India and the temples were an anomaly in a culture that condemned sexual expression and eroticism, and yet centuries ago, their ancestors had heartily embraced their sexuality —and that of their pets.

A peach haze had emerged from behind the treetops and an oversized moon drifted upwards as we left the grounds and made our way across the road. A cycle rickshaw driver spotted us and swung his rickshaw round, zigzagging towards us to give us a lift. Templed out, we slid into the back and watched guiltily as his legs pumped up and down like pistons, his backside never touching the seat. A kid on a motorbike soon drew up and slowed down to chat.

‘Hello … from?’

‘England.’

‘Oh, you seen the temples?’

He switched off the engine and pushed himself along with his sandaled feet, so as to move at our pace.

‘Yes,’ I replied, then a thought popped into my head. ‘Do you know Ricky Joshi?’

‘Yah, I know Ricky.’

‘How?’

‘He’s that guy who cheats tourists all the time.’

‘Really? Why, what does he do?’

The boy grinned and shook his head. ‘I’m not telling.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he does the same things I do. It would give away my secrets.’

The driver reached out to slap the boy away, catching the side of his head as we arrived back at the Usha Bundela hotel, where Passepartout was dismayed to discover he had head-to-toe sunburn, the colour of Alaskan salmon.

The following afternoon, I came down to the forecourt of the hotel where an old Maruti van was waiting to take us to Jhansi station. My heart sank; it often did when faced with long-distance car or bus journeys in India. A lack of seatbelts and drivers sitting sideways with one foot tucked under them, determined to under- and overtake every vehicle from bulging buses to solitary cyclists, gave cause for a series of mild heart attacks. It did not help that spaced out along the highways were the ominous remnants of burnt-out trucks and buses nose down in ditches. It was safest to try to fall asleep at the beginning of the journey and hope that if I ever woke up, it would be at the destination and not in intensive care.

Dry afternoon heat twinned with Passepartout’s moaning about his sunburn had the desired soporific effect and I woke up to find that a combination of sweat and saliva had glued my face to the seats. Peeling my cheek off the plastic, I peered through the window, elated to see the pink station with its red Tudoresque trimming. Train number 29, the Bhopal Shatabdi Express, was due to depart just before 6pm, so there was just enough time for a cup of tea and a samosa, which I munched in the station corridor, in front of a huge painting of Lakshmi Bai, the Rani of Jhansi. She was one of the leading figures to revolt against East India Company rule, in what the British called the Indian Rebellion of 1857, and Indians called the First War of Independence. She was depicted on the back of a mighty white steed, wielding a sword and carrying a shield, with her young son tied firmly to her back in a shawl. The Rani died defending her kingdom, allegedly taking a bullet from a British soldier.

‘Shatabdi’ meaning ‘centenary’ were a fleet of super-fast trains introduced in 1988 to commemorate 100 years since Nehru’s birth. The carriages were smart, fitted with soft fabric-covered chairs that faced one direction, and were divided into only two classes, both of which were air-conditioned. The Bhopal Shatabdi was currently the fastest train on the Indian Railways, averaging a speed of 93kmph and reaching 160kmph. At around 8:30pm it drew into Agra Cantonment and through the window a familiar train with gold trimming gleamed from across the tracks. The Indian Maharaja-Deccan Odyssey was in the middle of its Taj Mahal daytrip and guests behind the blacked-out blinds would now be dining on roast lamb shanks and puddings drizzled with raspberry coulis. I looked down at my foil containers of chicken and dal and wondered how Benoy the butler was faring. The Bhopal Shatabdi arrived into Delhi at 10:30pm prompt—and at precisely that moment I realised that I had finally fallen victim to Delhi Belly.

All plans to spend the following day digging up bits of Old Delhi were rapidly shelved in favour of holing myself up in a mid-range Paharganj hotel and writhing around in bursts of agony. The Swarna Jayanti Rajdhani to Ahmedabad was due to depart just before 8pm and arrive around 10am, the following morning. Fourteen hours on an overnight train was a terrifying prospect, but a connecting train was already reserved through to Veraval and I was in no mood, or physical state, to go crawling to Anusha. There was no option but to munch handfuls of Imodium in preparation for the ordeal.

The general consensus among travellers was that the green and purple capsule was more of a hindrance than a help. It did not have the immediate corking effects that the desperate were looking for, and once the severity of the situation had passed, it then kicked into action. It was the medicinal equivalent of a tube light. The delayed response rendered the user unable to ease out anything more satisfying than a couple of pebbles and a disappointing fart or two, and left them lumbering around for a week with the distended belly of a child with kwashiorkor.

Once train number 30 had begun to move, I clambered up to my berth hugging a large bottle of water to my chest, curled into a foetal position and prayed for the Sandman to hop aboard and put me out of my misery. My stomach felt like a ball of dough being kneaded by spiked knuckle dusters. They had so far been so loyal to me, but now I was frightened to breathe out lest my stomach muscles should betray my trust. Floating in and out of sleep and unable to ignore the spasms any longer, I slid sadly down the end of the bunk and made my way carefully to the toilet. The harsh light made my eyes shrink and the only sound was a low
clackety-clack
,
clackety-clack
. Flicking round the lever, I tiptoed into the wet, dimly lit toilet. It was 3:40am. For the umpteenth time that day, I squatted on my haunches and an overwhelming sense of resignation swept over me at the same time as a muscular spasm struck the lower half of my body. This must be what childbirth felt like. The train chose that point to approach a bend in the tracks as I approached a new milestone in my life. Clutching the wonky tap ahead of me with both hands, I closed my eyes against my knees and wondered what the fuck I was doing in this country. It was 4am and I was shitting in zigzags. Drained of both fluids and the will to live, I stumbled pathetically back to bed and prayed for the morning to arrive at the soonest possible opportunity.

Passepartout and his sunburn had spent their first night together sulking in a cold bath, and he had now adopted a cowboy swagger to prevent his inflamed skin from rubbing against his trousers, although the desired effect was less James Dean and more piles sufferer. The surface of his skin had come to resemble patches of tissue paper, which had now started to flake off around the seats like an early spring flurry of snow. We drew into Ahmedabad and sped straight to Hotel Serena, where I collapsed under the shower, then lay in a ball on the bed, watching newsflashes about Swamiji Nithyananda. The self-proclaimed holy man had been ‘nabbed’ in a sex-tape scandal with an unidentified Tamil actress, causing his ashram to be attacked by ‘miffed’ followers. The ‘absconding’ swami claimed that she was taking care of him while he was sick; judging by the gloriously repeated footage, it was clear that the actress had an extremely attentive bedside manner.

Passepartout spent the day loafing about the city, photographing the eerie step wells at Dada Hari Vav, a handful of monkeys and one defecating dog, before meeting me for dinner at The Green House on Mirzapur Road. It was an airy, cheerful spot under a pavilion concealed from the pavement by a jungle of cheese plants in terracotta pots. Inside was lined with polished white wooden tables lit with plump candles, and a reassuring quota of tourists floated around, which meant that there would be bland food on the menu. Anything but yoghurt was probably a bad idea, but the khichdi looked too good to ignore. When it arrived my stomach somersaulted in resistance. Passepartout dunked his onion uttapam into a bowl of sambar and shook his head.

‘I know exactly how you feel. When I was sick my stomach was literally contorting itself. And it took ages before I felt like I could eat anything either.’

He munched thoughtfully, tearing a strip off the tomato uttapam.

‘I remember the first day, the spasms were so bad. If I’m honest, it will probably get worse.’