The surprisingly alert attendant directs us to the platform. We are weary, but bright red signs are flashing ‘welcome’ in English and Hindi, so we smile, and perk up. The huge digital clock flashes 5.53. We are three minutes late for our early morning train.
We haven’t rushed, as we don’t expect the train will be on time. It’s coming all the way from Delhi – 12 hours and 18 stations away from Jodhpur.
To our surprise, 100 metres away in the mist, we see a faint light. Is this our train? The bright orb of the train’s headlight travels toward us, the dull engine whistle warns us to shuffle back while the train pulls into the platform. Indian Railway constantly amazes us. It might not be The Orient Express, but it is punctual and efficient. Losing only 3 minutes on a 12 hour journey is only comparable to German efficiency. We watch the twenty long carriages chug into the platform, look at our ticket and wonder which one is ours. We have acquired the cheapest “general” ticket so know to avoid first and second class.
We see that the folk on the front carriage are packed in tight, so assume this is ours. Friendly Indians come to our assistance when we board the train. Grasping the ticket out of our hand, we become defensive, but they babble to each other in Hindi, indicating, pointing and making ‘broken’ motions with their hands. Establishing the train is going to be divided here in Jodphur and establishing we are on a carriage headed back to where we have come from, we stumble off, race to the closest carriage and search for a seat. Regaining composure and hauling our luggage to a safe dry corner we find a seat and wait for our next Indian train adventure to begin.
Cold, hard, wooden seats are the order of the day and cold air seeps through every crack in every window. As expected, toilets are basic, but the water has run out. Peanut shells, pistachio casings and other snack products litter the ground. All is testimony to our very very cheap tickets (even by Indian standards). While we were getting comfortable, our olfactory sensors were aroused. Forty men greeted us, and not with the friendly and welcoming ‘Namaste’.
Locals get comfortable on these long journeys; they have been doing it since they were babes in arms. Not so sweet now, their bodies groan and belch and their snores sound like freight trains whizzing by on the tracks parallel to ours. Although not an official ‘sleeper’ carriage, the locals are innovative and while luggage racks become makeshift beds young boys sleep on the not-so hygienic floor and old men sit cross-legged on any space they can squeeze their bony bottoms on. We take heed of their ideas and climb up onto a hard metal luggage rack to catch up on some sleep. Cotton sheets and down pillows float around my head, I reach out desperately, but cannot grasp them. It is when the train comes to a screeching halt in the middle of the cold, dry desert that I realise I am dreaming. Train travel in India is magical and only 15 more hours to go…
