We eventually managed to figure out the complicated system of booking train tickets and the numerous classes on Indian trains (there are 8 in all, 2SC being not as good as 3A, but 2A being the best, except in the few trains that have 1A and executive classes). And as such have embarked on our first 30 hour train journey up from the tip of India to…….about a third of the way up the country, to Hyderabad, which is still considered South India. We have another 2 of these to go through before we get to Kolkota, and it is still then another 15 hour bus journey to get to Darjeeling. My life, this country is big.
We also decided to travel in bling class, the best available on the train that would take us to Hyderabad, 2A. After getting on at the exact and complete opposite end of the train, we then had to wiggle and barge our way through peasant classes to get to carriage 1A, which was positioned at the end rather than the beginning of the train. There are around 25 carriages to a train, when you look out the door, sometimes you can’t see the end of it, they are huge metal snakes that slide across the country. We set off together to push through the peasants, our backpacks mainly a massive hindrance in the narrow walkways that offer passage through the train. Of course they have their uses in being good barging tools every now and again, but trying to negotiate the one man walkways, already squished with two people thick, was somewhat difficult, and painful to many of the people I encountered. Especially those who insisted on sucking in, instead of moving out the way. I warned them each time that maybe they would want to move a little more out the way, but no, I should pass, and as I squelched through the bodies I could hear groans of pain echoing behind me. I lost Alex. I think he managed to get wedged between a Muslim cleric and a toilet door. By the time I had realised I had gone too far, there was no room to back up. Reversing with a back pack is no easy task when it has to pass through the river of people that quickly flowed back into the path I have just carved for myself. As I continued on my arduous journey through the train, and found myself in a couple of stand offs. Both times with old beggar women. One of which had Parkinson’s. She trembled, her wrinkled leathery skin shaking free from her old bones as she faced me. I was unable to turn, or to reverse, we were locked in morally dubious combat. There was no way she was going back the way she had come, neither was she going to let this opportunity pass, a tiny wibbling hand extended towards me and the others sat around. I dug around in the many pockets of my front back pack, struggling to finger out a few stray coins that hid elusively in the recess. This is no easy feat when stuck in a narrow carriage way with two back packs on. My elbow knocked about hard objects, and soft people, a queue of others were impatiently nudging me from behind to get a move on, oblivious to the stand off happening. Finally my fingers found purchase on a 5 rupee coin, I fished it out and handed it to her. Still she didn’t make any effort to let me through. So I pretty much picked her up and plopped her down in an off shoot aisle, before continuing. A few carriages down I spied another beggar woman, she was a little more robust, but only in comparison to the previous one. And this one found the situation a lot funnier. I found another few rupees, and started the delicate process of manoeuvring the old lady out of my way. She giggled the whole way through. After that progress was relatively easy, and I eventually found the cool breath of the AC compartments. 2A, where the well to do Indians travel.
You’d imagine something pretty nice for the best class available, that costs 1900 rupees, where proper peasant class is around 200 rupees for the distance we travelled, and in comparison it was positively luxurious. Although I wouldn’t expect many well to do English persons being particularly impressed with sharing their carriage with mice and cockroaches for 30 hours. They were pretty respectful though, and left my underwear alone, and knew that Alex’s face was out of bounds. And without trying too sound to colonial, it was rather civilised. Someone came along and took our food order, and they would return a couple of hours later, at the breakfast/lunch/dinner time with the requested meal. There were constant calls alerting us to chai, coffee, water and fried snacks and even the toilets were tolerable, they flushed and had soap. We barely even noticed that we were on the train for so long. Time just seemed to disappear, a day of our lives just vanished, as the changing scenery of India rolled by outside the window. The backwaters and palms were gradually replaced by farm land, rocky plains, piles of red chillies and reed huts.
When we think of the bus journeys we would have had to endure to get to this point, we are very relieved, and quite looking forward to travelling up the rest of India by train.
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