Travelling by train in India is the cheapest, and therefore most common, method of long distance travel and India has the most extensive railway network in the world. My trip was approximately 760km, from Delhi to Gorakhphur, and cost me about $23 NZ – and that was still in the air-conditioned ’3AC’ class. ‘Sleeper’ class is even cheaper. I had booked my ticket – after much trial and error – using the Indianrail website before I left home. One particularly confusing aspect of their booking and information system is that every station seems to have more than one name; so I had found several trains heading to ‘Gorakhphur City’ or ‘Gorakhphur Junction’, and leaving from ‘New Delhi”, ‘Old Delhi’ or just ‘Delhi’. Eventually I figured out ‘New’ and ‘Old’ Delhi were different stations in the same city, and I was away. (Actually, the Indianrail website only operates during indian business hours, and it wasn’t working at all for a few days, unbeknown to me, so it wasn’t quite that simple, but I got there).
I haven’t seen the ‘New Delhi’ station, but the old one was big enough for me. It had something like 23 platforms and people were everywhere. There is a large arrival/departure board – such as at an airport – at the main platform with details of upcoming trains. My ‘estimated’ departure time was still a few hours away so my train wasn’t even showing on the board yet. I did manage to locate a fixed timetable which showed my train as leaving from that station so, feeling somewhat reassured, I located a baggage check office where I could leave my bag and took a look around.
The first thing I noticed was the huge variety of people. Everybody travels by train, and India’s diverse ethnic and social groups all seemed to be represented. Middle class families, businessmen, school children, Sikhs and a whole lot of other groups I didn’t recognize were there, many camped out in family groups at the main station, sleeping or eating on mats. In fact, many people didn’t bother with mats and just plonked themselves on the ground, anywhere, for a nap. I passed one guy several times, lying next to a couple of dogs in a stair well and looking so uncomfortably sprawled and motionless that the third time I actually stopped to check he was breathing. There are designated rest areas upstairs for those with tickets, as well as tea shops, book shops and innumerable chai and refreshment stands.
I parked myself out of the heat upstairs and took a breather. Two guys paused as they were walking past to invite me to have tea with them. Sure thing. It turned out they were brothers, but only one of them spoke passable English. From what I could gather, one of them was a businessman and the other was a cop. This second guy was dressed as a middle-class businessman and indicated that he was a cop who ‘managed’ other cops. Righto. Both were pleasant enough and we sat in the cafe and chatted about where I was from and where I was going. As we left I made a motion to pay for the chai, but this was waved away. None of us paid, and I’m not sure whether the chai was free or if here the cops don’t pay. I think maybe the cops don’t pay.
During the several hours I spent in and around the station I saw 2 other europeans – a couple of young guys in a cafe. I was definitely now a stranger in a strange land.
Close to departure time I collected my bag and made my way to the designated platform. Unfortunately I had to negotiate an overbridge and several trains had just arrived, so I was swamped with people coming the other way. There’s no real give-way or keep left rules in India and people just seem to jostle til they get through, some of them carrying huge loads on their heads. I lost my sunglasses in the crush – something I hadn’t experienced since Nine Inch Nails played at the Big Day Out. I made it through, however, and experienced a great sense of relief at the sight of my name and berth allocation printed on a page stuck to the side of a train carriage. Sorted.
As I waited for the air-conditioned carriage to be unlocked – it was about 35 degrees on the platform – I was standing near a family group who were also waiting. They had a young fella with them of about age 8 or nine, who kept staring at me. I’d wink at him and he would look away, then wait until I wasn’t watching and then go right back to staring. As it turned out, I would be sharing my berth with this family and the little fella would be my first Indian friend.
3-tier AC, which is the class of train carriage I was travelling in, consists of 3 levels of bunks. Each berth sleeps 8 people; 6 in two sets of bunks on one side of the aisle and running perpindicular to it, and 2 in two bunks on the other side, running parallel to the aisle. During the day people sit on the bottom 3 bunks and the middle set folds away. All bedding is provided. I found my berth and stowed my bag under the seat and identified the top bunk, 46, as being mine. Sweet. I sat down to wait and see who else would be joining me for the trip. Sure enough, the family group I had seen outside arrived and took up post on the bottom bunks. There were 6 of them, so I was expecting 1 more person in our berth. Then 2 men arrived, lugging a huge box, which they crammed beneath the seat and then sat on. That makes 9 of us. Hmmm. Then another guy walked past with his friend in tow, indicating the top aisle-side bunk as his. Bloody hell. I could be out of a bed here. At least I know my name is printed on the list against bunk 46. It was even on my ticket.The guy sitting next to me then asked me which bunk was mine.
”46″, I said, indicating the top bunk in the area occupied by the family. Everybody looked at me. I almost wanted to climb up there now, to claim it. I counted 10 of us for 8 beds. I had visions of some sort of pass-the-parcel lottery; I would be in the toilet when the music stopped and end up sleeping on the roof with the goats and the people with no teeth.
People were busily walking up and down the aisle, greeting friends, finding their berths and stowing gear, and I soon realised that the family – I dubbed them The Patels – were down to 5 members. Next, one of the men sitting next to me jumped up and left. Ah. It was becoming clear: not everybody is going to stay on this train, it seems. It became even clearer once we pulled out of the station, when yet another guy came and sat in out berth. One of the patels remonstrated with him, indicating the bunks, and it became pretty clear that he wasn’t supposed to be in this carriage. He was probably just taking advantage of the air conditioning until his stop. For all I know he didn’t even have a ticket. Sure enough, after about 30 minutes a uniformed figure appeared in the carriage – the ticket collector – and our mystery guest made a hasty exit. Cheeky bugger.
My little mate from outside plucked up some courage and offered me a piece of bubblegum. I accepted, he grinned, and I knew that we would get on just fine. A little later, after asking permission from his mother, he shakes my hand and asks if we are friends. Yes, buddy, we are. After a brief conversation we figure out together that his name is Asif; mine is ‘Born’; he is 8 years old and speaks excellent Gujurati, but no English; my English is impeccable, but my Gujurati non-existant, and I am from some place he has never heard of.
All throughout the train journey, at each crowded stop, a procession of peddlars parade up and down the carriages, offering everything from salt and pepper, omellettes, roti and samosas to magazines and coffee. As well as these the ‘official’ railway caterers offer a constant supply of chai and come through taking orders for the train canteen. All call out there wares in a monotonous drone and lug unwieldy pots or urns up and down the narrow aisle. A wee paper cup of chai costs 5 rupees. I love the stuff – it’s hot, sweet and very comforting.
The view out the window is not great – the air conditioned carriages have tinted, dirty windows, but the open-windowed sleeper carriages would be stifling in this heat, and I was too much of a wimp to book one. We are now travelling through the outskirts of Delhi and the surroundings are an odd mix of urban filth and rural setting, with pigs, goats, buffalo and cattle grazing amongst construction sites and the rubbish that lines the tracks everywhere. Kids are everywhere, picking through the trash or walking with the goats or buffalo.
There are no rubbish bins on the train and I’m building up a little collection of paper chai cups and banana skins. I haven’t got the heart to throw them out the door when we stop, which seems to be the norm. At some stations, chai is offered in little clay cups. People drink, then simply smash the cup on the tracks. I guess clay is cheap, and at least it is biodegradable, unlike the shiny plastic and foil tobacco or betelnut wrappers that flutter about everywhere. Chewing betelnut seems popular and it is sold at every kiosk, along with cigarettes.
Each carriage has a basin and two toilets at either end – one western-style ‘sit’ toilet and one squat toilet. In the morning, men walk through with their towels and razors for their shave and wash.
Asif and family have already pulled down their middle bunks and a couple of the kids are snoozing, though it is not yet dark. I take a last look out the window and head up to my bunk, which takes a bit of manoeuvring. Following the lead of those around me I had slipped off my shoes and placed them beneath the seat. The ailse is quite narrow and if you are sitting on the other side you really have to raise your feet or sit lotus-style if anybody is walking past.
As I’m reading by my little book-light, the main berth light is switched off and Asif pops his head up, grinning, to say “goodnight, Born”. Soon after I roll around in my sheet – it is still too hot to contemplate using the blanket, though I notice everybody else seems to do so – and try to sleep.
The train continues to make stops throughout the night and I seem to wake often to a stationary train, or a gentle lurch as we leave another station. I wake again about 3am to use the bathroom and silently lower myself to the floor. Everyone is asleep. I can see at least one pair of legs jutting out right across the aisle, and heads and arms are everywhere. This is going to take an Ethan Hunt-style navigational effort. Mission Impossible music plays in my head and I sneak down the carriage, dodging limbs, shoes and bags. Mission… accomplished.
When I wake for the final time I discover that The Patels have disembarked at one of the previous stops and I’m disappointed that I didn’t get to saygoodbye to Asif. They’ve been replaced by several men who are chatting and listening to Hindi pop music on their mobile phones. As I come down from my bunk they make room for me and we chat sporadically. Turns out they, too, are travelling to Kathmandu. On business, apparently. The guy who speaks the best English identifies himself as some sort of stock broker and he’s got the smooth well-oiled look, and mobile phone, of a sub-continental yuppie. They are friendly and the time passes. As the day wears on people come and go from the berth and napping seems popular throughout the carriage. I head back up to my bunk and am awakened a bit later by the stock broker tapping my legs.
”Gorakhphur”, he says. The train is stationary.
Thanks, mate. That was a few hours earlier than I expected. I jump down, locate my shoes and start dragging my bag from under the seat, dreading that the train will lurch off with me still on it. My mate is grinning.
”5, 10 minutes”, he says.
Right. Ok, thanks again. Panic over. I sit back down and enjoy a few more minutes of Hindi pop before the train stops again, I say my “namaste”s and step off, straight into the heat of Gorakhphur.
