Around India in 80 Trains (33 page)

‘Stupid bloody idiot.’

Grappling at his chest, the man began to tear off his shirt when a guard, a Terminator in white knee socks, strode over and pushed the man back by his face. He pulled out a baton and began to swipe at the crowd, shoving anyone within reach. As a riot broke out, the Indian Border Security Force began their parade. Each wore headgear that fanned out and shook as they strutted around like a set of cockerels. One by one they began to speed up and down the lane towards the gate, pausing to kick their polished heels above their heads with such vigour that they could have kicked holes into their own foreheads. The Pakistanis began to do the same.

I thought back to the man on the train to Amritsar. Monty Python was an accurate description. This was the Indian version of the Ministry of Silly Walks. Both sets of guards stomped back and forth, yanking each other’s arms in symbolic handshaking, before eventually lowering the flags to a cacophony of Pakistani and Indian patriotism. As the sun finally set on the spectacle, the gates were clanged shut and the crowds drifted off leaving a trail in their wake of popcorn, empty bottles, ice cream tubs and teacups, amid the atmosphere of a cricket match that had ended in a draw.

‘GET OUT OF MY TRAIN!’

I spat a mouthful of samosa into my hand and looked up.

‘What? Why?’

‘My train is full! Get out!’

The ticket inspector threw my pass into the seat beside me and pointed to the door. A couple in matching polo shirts stared at me over their tea. I had decided to leave Amritsar after a late lunch and caught the afternoon Shatabdi, number 49, back to Delhi. My train pass covered the fare, but there had been no time to reserve a seat.

‘Next station is Beas. You get out there!’

‘But there are empty seats everywhere.’

‘You get out of this carriage and go now to the backside!’

I stood up. ‘Fine, I’ll go, there’s no need to fly off the handle.’

He snatched my tea from my hand and banged it down on the table, spilling the contents onto the paper plate of ketchup and the half-eaten samosa.

‘Can I at least take my samosa with me?’

He looked like he was about to hit me with his clipboard. Swelling with rage, he pulled open the door and gave me a shove between the shoulder blades.

‘Go!’

I ambled down the aisles as the train began to mock me, snaking its way along the tracks and threatening to launch me into a variety of different laps, before I found a row of empty seats and sat down. Beas was less than 20 minutes away. It was my fault for not making a reservation but few passengers had boarded at Amritsar and there were seats available.

Glancing over my shoulder, I settled back into the chair and opened up
The Inheritance of Loss,
wiping the tea-stained pages with my sleeve. I ordered a replacement cup as the chai wallah came past, took a sip and went back to the story.

‘…
Jemubhai, his face apuff with anger, grabbed at his wife.

She slipped from his grasp and his anger flew …’

‘You go to the backside!’

The door burst open behind me and the inspector appeared again. He stood over me, his lips curling up like two overcooked frankfurters.

‘Get up!’

‘Oh for fuc …’

I threw my book down on the seat, gathered my things and stood up.

‘Where would you like me to sit? In the toilet? Or on the laundry bags?’

‘Go to the backside!’

‘Where is the backside?! I don’t know what you mean!’

‘Are you an idiot? GO TO C5 OR C6 AND SIT THERE!’

‘That’s all you had to say.’

Trudging through a further four carriages, I found another row of seats in coach C6 just as the train pulled into Beas. Few passengers boarded so I stayed put, but slouched low in my seat until Ludhiana, where I was hauled out again and made to sit with the laundry bags. They were quite comfy and I dozed off on them until we reached Ambala, where another inspector found me a window seat.

My neighbour was wedged into his chair with both arms splayed out to the sides. His stomach pushed against his tray table and one of his knees was already occupying my leg area, while the other massaged the thigh of a small man trying in vain to twist himself away. Once he had prised himself up and into the aisle, I slithered around him and into my seat, pressing myself to the wall. He fell back into the space and his upper arm came to rest against my left ear as I prayed that this was the last round of musical chairs—and that I would not need to use the toilet until Delhi.

After a good sleep, scrambled eggs and a flick through the party pages that always featured Z-list ‘PYTs’ (pretty young things), who only ever had first names and wore black tops, I took an auto to New Delhi station.

Anusha visibly braced herself.

‘Oh, you’re here again.’ She patted a form on the table. ‘Write down train number 2425 …’

‘Ah. I’m not going to Jammu now.’

She kneaded her face into a series of scowls before stopping on a particularly good one.

‘Oh God … where are you going now?’

‘Chennai.’

‘It’s the other direction!’

‘I know but I need to offload a stack of books in Chennai before I move on to Bangalore.’

She sighed and scoured her screen, shaking her head. Without looking up she asked:

‘So, where is your friend now?’

‘I’m not sure, I think he’s still in Varanasi.’

The truth was that I had no idea if Passepartout was still in the country. For all I knew, he could have packed up, left Chandigarh and flown back to London. Anusha took off her glasses and put them on the table, a smirk growing.

‘Oh, all right, I don’t know where he is. We fought and I ran off.’

‘Ha! I knew!’ Anusha waggled her finger in victory. ‘I knew when you came.’

I allowed her a few minutes to gloat then I slapped the table.

‘Hurry up!’ I shouted.

She tapped a few numbers into her computer.

‘Okay, there is one Chennai Rajdhani train that is fast.’

‘How fast?’

‘Twenty-eight hours.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Everything else is 30, 38 hours. Take this, it’s comfortable and food is good.’

‘Okay, then I need to get to Bangalore the following morning.’

‘Nothing is available.’

I looked at the Golden Chariot’s itinerary. If I missed boarding at Bangalore, I could join it the following day at Mysore. ‘How about Mysore?’

She scoured the screen. ‘Mysore Express is there.’

Anusha printed out the tickets and watched me wedge them into my logbook.

‘Be careful.’

I leant across her files and kissed her on the cheek.

The Chennai Rajdhani Express departed from Delhi Hazrat Nizamuddin station at 4pm, so there was just enough time left to buy a packet of banana chips and a couple of packets of Hide and Seek Bourbons. Curious about the glass jars of cookies that seemed to have sat in most vendors’ stands since the beginning of time, I requested one and watched the vendor wipe his fingers on his shirt, then bury his hand into the jar, pawing the load before bringing out a dusty disc. It was like chewing on a brick. A puppy lay under a bench licking at his prolapsed rectum, so I crushed the biscuit with a fist, poured water over the mess and left him to work through the mulch, as two girls watched in amusement.

Crossing the footbridge, I arrived at the bottom of the stairs and found carriage A3 directly opposite, affixed with a list stating that I was sharing a compartment with Rohit Malhotra, Adil Chopra and Sanjeev Acharya. Trying to look as casual as possible, though nauseous at the prospect of spending 28 hours with three strange men, I swanned into the compartment and nodded curtly at the three who were already sitting cross-legged and chatting in Hindi. I barricaded myself behind my logbook as the train began to move.

Train number 50 was about to cover 2176km in just over 28 hours. A ticket in this compartment cost the equivalent of £38—less than the price of an 80-minute journey from London Euston to Birmingham New Street—and included three meals.

‘Ma’am where are you travelling to?’

I lowered the book. ‘To Chennai,’ I replied to the gentleman wearing glasses, a collared shirt and suit trousers.

‘Are you having family there?’

‘Yes, but I’m just travelling through to then take a train to Mysore where I’m due to board another train …’ I trailed off realising how ridiculous this must have sounded and briefly explained the journey.

‘We saw you writing and we were discussing among ourselves what you were doing,’ the second man said.

The three turned out to be friends who were travelling to a wedding in Vijayawada. The first gentleman, Rohit, was an accountant and the second, Adil, the director of a Delhi-based business. Their friend Sanjeev stayed curled up against the seat back, barefooted, muttering occasionally in Hindi.

‘So where all have you been?’ Rohit asked, thumbing through my notes.

‘I started in Chennai, then went down to Kanyakumari and up along the western coast to Gujarat, then Rajasthan and Punjab. But I want to get up to Udhampur and across to Ledo, as they’re the northern and easternmost tips of the railways.’

Both men pointed immediately at Sanjeev, who was now eating a packet of butter.

‘He is from Ledo.’

‘If you would like to visit you should tell us and we will organise the stay for you.’ Rohit offered.

‘Really?’

‘Of course’, said Adil, ‘it would be a pleasure, Sanjeev works for the Lok Sabha. He can arrange this with a good friend of ours who is in Tinsukia. From there he will take care of you and take you to Ledo.’

They handed over their business cards and I added them to the growing stack. A lady sitting across the aisle eyed me, tossing a pinch of soan cake into her mouth.

Dinner soon arrived and Adil spread out a sheet of newspaper under my containers. All three sat cross-legged, sleeves rolled up, licking fingers and swapping food. It was like eating with my family.

‘You haven’t eaten much?’ Rohit scolded, looking at my tray then stopping the vendor as he passed the door. ‘Bring some more vegetable for her, please.’

‘Yes, sar.’

‘No!’ I protested.

‘By European standards I am sure that your weight is acceptable, but by Indian standards you are very underweight,’ Adil declared, tipping a container full of vegetables onto my tray. It really was like eating with my family.

Although big cities were growing more aware that devouring rice and deep-fried food did little to bless the waistline, the pale Victorian look was still considered preferable to the tanned and toned bodies of India’s labourers, a look hankered after on the other side of the world by subscribers to
Men’s Health
and
Glamour.

The train screeched to a halt slopping dal across the seats. After a few minutes I got up and went to investigate. Nobody else seemed to notice, or care, that the train had made an unscheduled stop. Pulling down the latches I heaved open the door and leant out. Through the darkness I could hear voices further down the track. Suddenly nervous that I was about to encourage dacoits aboard, I slammed the door and turned to a gentleman rinsing his mouth in the sink.