Transcendent Train Travel through India

If I’m being honest, I wasn’t enjoying the assault on my senses as I sloped onto the streets of New Delhi. Weak and pale - thanks to India’s hazing of westerners through ‘Delhi Belly’ - the last thing I felt like doing was donning my backpack, fending off persistent locals and boarding a train to Agra; home to the Taj Mahal.
Falling more and more out of love with India, I squeeze into a tiny spot on the station platform and, sweating profusely, awkwardly squat on my bag and proceed to wait a torturous two hours. Guiltily averting my gaze from the limbless beggars, I focus solely on breathing in and out – not a pleasant task when the smell you’re inhaling makes the bile in your stomach fight for freedom. I lose all dignity and noisily vomit into the nearest bin.
Gratefully shuffling toward my train, the platform blurs in a flurry of activity, my mortification forgotten as people push and shout, squeezing onto the train; the quickening pace not deterring the young men who chase it and throw themselves against the already packed doorway.
Momentarily recovered, I manage to steal myself a bench by the open window and appreciate the first hint of a breeze since my arrival in India 3 days ago.
An older couple mime sharing their meagre picnic with me. My stomach groans in protestation but I’m warmed by their generosity and nibble on a morsel of Chapatti.
A young Indian girl points at the freckles on my arm; “you have spots”, she says, collapsing into giggles. I laugh, never having considered my ‘spots’ as strange. I can’t imagine this scenario on the London Underground.
A Chai Wallah serves me through the open window and I think of those who told me of their Love/Hate relationship with India. They were right, I just didn’t realise I would alternate so frequently; or vehemently.
Without hesitation, I hop onto the platform and jump into a tuk tuk, determined to embrace my soar of Love for India before the cacophony of horns or another wave of sickness breaks my resolve.