So it went. A morning came; the steady growth of the day, the tardigrade progress of my mental strength, and then the final joy. Yes, I have done it: I am finally taking a writing break.  I left the city, a meaningless place sunk in blind ignavia and its motorized, mechanical life for a place where I am rediscovering the awesome pastime of creative craft. For the next few days I will be dwelling in the jorum of absolute happiness getting back in touch with the sensitive me. And today I will narrate to my experience of traveling in an Indian train yesterday, and how the journey brought me close to my terraneous, earthly roots.

When we reached the New Delhi Railway Station yesterday morning the place was already full of travelers, men, women, children, foreigners, security personnel and many more. Coolies in vermillion kurtas, lean forms with brass badges displaying their numbers tied to their forelimbs, approached travelers, some of whom refused to acknowledge their presence, while some deciding to employ them haggled over the monetary remunerations they demanded. People moved toward the security station that screened passengers and their luggage before entrance like herds of exhausted humans who couldn’t wait to leave the confines of the city. Electronic display boards exhibited train names and other information in bright, big yellow letters and people stood underneath it observing the ever changing data. Sleepy-eyed sweepers in gray uniforms and long stemmed brooms cleaned the area listlessly; several people slept on platform floors, while some others squatted on the ground. The morning zephyr wafted the smells of urine, perspiration and phenyl around the place. Women in disheveled pink and red cotton saris observed the proceedings with unenthusiastic yellow eyes. Some people finger-brushed their teeth with red tobacco paste; some shared samosas, aloo tikkis for breakfast; some held smoking paper cups of hot beverage, their oily fingerprints on the paper surface. 

Once we entered platform number two where our train was scheduled to arrive we heard the strident metallic voice of the female announcer followed by three loud unmusical beeps closing her announcement. The intermittent announcements and the ectophonic beeps, the voice of the chai-wallas, the collective noise of people talking, arguing, spitting, eating, tasting, discussing created an auditory spectrum that was saturated by the immanent, inescapable noise of approaching trains, the rattle of their serpentine bodies, their loud hisses. The platform was a world in itself, a microcosm of India as it stands today: the potpourri of numerous cultures, languages, cuisines, influences and many more mixed to perfection.

As my husband and I waited at the station for the arrival of our train, I inspected the people around me and the bags they carried. I observed designer labels, American Touristers; street-shop bought fake Gucci and Pierre Cardin cases; suitcases, old-time hand bags and many more. After almost fifteen twenty minutes of waiting, our train arrived and we joined a rush of people and their luggage bearers as they hurried towards the coach. My husband and I did not have seats in the same compartment; while he travelled in the cushy comfort of the first class, I got my seat in the more humble second class. The mishap was the result of me deciding to accompany him on his official trip only a day before the proposed journey. By the time I got my ticket, there weren’t any seats left in the first class.

Before I go into further details about the journey, I must enlighten you on the subject of trains in India, in case any of you wish to visit this lovely country of mine sometime. Although Indian Railway is infamous for its delays, the Shatabdi Express and the Rajdhani Express are two safe trains that generally reach their destination on time. While the Rajdhani Express is known for its exotic on-board hospitality, its sister coach, the Shatabdi Express, a chair car version of the Rajdhani Express, holds the record of great service at an affordable price. For a modest Rs. 425 fee (approximately $10) I got not only a comfortable seat in the fully air-conditioned train, but also refreshments, newspapers and mineral water to drink. This train resembles the Amtrak trains in USA in comfort and cleanliness except that the seats are not upholstered in blue rexine, but in fabric.   

Within a few minutes of the train leaving the New Delhi Railway Station I was given a crisp morning newspaper, and then another ten or twenty minutes later tea was served with biscuits and chocolates as accompaniments. As the scenery outside took a turn towards the natural, I felt more at ease and comfortable. The hard-hitting academic life wasn’t bothering me, the stress of examinations was conspicuous by its absence, I had no chores to do, no meals to cook. I felt as open as the birds I observed in the sky, as independent, as gay as them. Though impennous, my mind was already on its wings.

                                      Tea Time

I sipped the freshly brewed tea and remunerated. The skyscraperized Gurgaon was far away from my mind. Like a calf staring at a colorful door I stared at the verdant landscape. Fields of rice and wheat, young corn and other vegetables stretched mile after mile intercepted at points by natural creeks and meandering rivulets. Farmers in white loin clothes and vests reaped their harvest. Women in colorful saris carried bundles of rice straw; some of them carried earthen water pots. Fields green and luxuriant pregnant with ample prospects; wild flowers, yellow, purple, white all growing at the same time; buffaloes marinating their stodgy bodies in muddy creeks, their marshal smoking biri on the bank. Silver haired Kashful heralding the season of festivity bloomed in abundance. The beautifully blue sky with its flocculent clouds crafted an image of margaric effulgence in my mind as the rattling train with its undulating tail gradually transported me into another, purer, world. The train crossed several stations but did not stop. I read their names: Sabzi Mandi, Kurukshetra, Panipat, Sandal Kalan.

As I lingered in the sleepish border of luxuriant daydream, the smell of breakfast permeated the air. I craned my neck to see what was being served and caught sight of an attendant handing out aluminum foil covered red plastic trays with great agility. I think that there is something special about meals on board trains. I cannot say if it’s the sheer pleasure of eating in a moving vehicle, or just that train meals bring back fond memories of family trips, but I have always found myself looking forward to meals on trains. They seldom appease the taste buds of an epicurean, but for me meals served on-board long distance trains have some special spice that nearly always satisfy me. And yesterday was no exception. When the attendant asked me whether I preferred vegetarian or non-vegetarian meals I promptly replied “non-veg, non-veg” with great alacrity.

                                          Breakfast

When writing travelogues, people tend to overlook the importance of meals consumed during a journey.  I am not going to commit that blunder though. I feel that food is a quintessential part of any journey of whatever kind. So here it is, yesterday’s breakfast menu: wheat bread, omelette, potato wedges, boiled peas, mango drink, and coffee.

The well-cooked breakfast proved somniferous for right after finishing my morning meal a series of yawns exhaled from my system. I inspected my watch: ten O’clock it declared. A brilliant idea came to me. Why not, I said to myself and plugged-in the ear buds of my i-pod headphone and closed my eyes.

As Josh Groban sang “You raise me up,” I felt myself elevated into a happier, calmer level. I haven’t felt that comfortable in a while. Being naturally given to stress and tension, I always find myself unable to relax. Hence, it was a great comfort for me to be able to shed all my inhibitions and tensions and partake of a relaxing postprandial snooze from which I was woken up by the ringing cellular phone.

 “Are you all right?” my husband enquired. And when I replied in the affirmative the guy was taken aback; he thought I would be criticizing the service on board. He seemed extremely happy about the royal treatment he received in the first class coach and narrated his experience as vividly as it is possible for a scientist to relate.  I listened to him with pretended awe.

Half an hour later I disembarked at our destination and found my husband approaching with a red rose. He handed it to me and added that they had given it to him on the train. I smiled. The flower, now dried, rests between the pages of my writing journal as a wonderful souvenir of my pedestrian journey on board an Indian train.