Our train hasn’t yet arrived. People are huddled together in family clusters on the platform floor waiting for their trains to pull into the station. There is a smell of oil and spice in the air, sweet yet distasteful. A chai wala passes chanting “CHAI” “CHAI”. Porters balancing towers of bags on their red turbans, weave through the stations traffic.
Jodphur feels blue, and the blue has left a mysterious taste lingering on my palet. The fort tells stories of Rajas and palanquins, widows executed just after their husbands have died. The view is spread out like a blanket of blues and purple hues. The market is a borough of alleyways.
We have rushed to catch our train and now it’s late. The man walking past us leading his blind dog makes me think that I have woken up too early for my own good. We board the train at 7:20am. Mom and I are in sleeper class 4, 55 and 56, upper and lower side berth as requested. We sigh and sit down. There is a smoker in our sleeper carriage and so we are thankful for open windows and a continuous stream of fresh air from outside,
“Chai! Chai! Chai!” The chai-man stops and looks me in the eye. I’m tempted. Before I can reach for my 5 rupees he is off again. “Chai! Chai!” Mr. Shoeshine steps in threatening to polish our white trainers. “No thank you,” we signal with exaggerated hand gestures. This does not deter our smiling shoe polisher. Instead in desperate, progressive, innovative foresight, he offers to re-colour our shoes pink. “No thank you.” We smile and ignore him. My window doesn’t close and the fresh air is now an icy draft shooting through.
Babaloo appears.
“Locks?Chain? Zip for your bag? Only one minute. Very good!”
“Nahi!” I say emphatically
“Okay, okay! Zip very good!”
“Nahi!”
“Okay shoe polish?”
“No!”
Mr Shoe shine comes back and starts fixing an Indian lady’s pink sandals. Babaloo is chanting “zip, zip, zip”, in the background. Does he not understand that we don’t want a zip. In fact, we don’t want anything.
Babaloo starts to sing a song using the zip as an instrument. In comes a beggar cupping his hands for a tip. I am longing to take my shoes off but I don’t dare incase they get polished.
The finale brings forth a Eunuch, offering his blessing, expecting a tip and clapping his hands, throwing his personality around the carriage in a very forceful and melodramatic way.
And then they’re gone, transvestite, beggar, Babaloo, Mr Shoeshine and the chai-man.
Pause.
“Yes! Yes! Hello! Chain repairing? Hello?”
In retrospect I wish I’d had a cup of chai, revamped my trainers, bought a zip from Babaloo, given the beggar a rupee and clapped hands with the transvestite. That would have left a smile on everyone’s faces
We arrived in Jaisalmer. The sign read “Pammy and Catty.” “Must be us,” we thought, seeing as we are the only foreigners on the platform.
