I have travelled on my last Indian train. Tomorrow I fly to Nepal. Forgive the jumbledness of these scribblings from the trains, one of my favourite things in India.
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India has one of the biggest rail networks in the world and as much as possible i have tried to travel on it. We stay in sleeper class. This is the lowest class of reserved berths on an overnight train and consists of 8 "beds" per compartment. There is no air conditioning, just 3 fans in each compartment to stir the thick air. There is no curtains, no privacy and bars instead of windows (in the desert, sand and dust blow through, coating everything). The beds are just platforms covered in institutional, easy-wipe blue plastic, with no bedding. The heat is generally such that you sweat through the night in shorts and t-shirt without blankets. The carriages are filthy, we've shared at least one with mice. They are noisy, overcrowded and sometimes unsafe, requiring you to lock your bags to your bed. But unlike a bus or a plane, where I think India somewhat stops while you travel, in a train India drapes itself out in the carriage around you.
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India has one of the biggest rail networks in the world and as much as possible i have tried to travel on it. We stay in sleeper class. This is the lowest class of reserved berths on an overnight train and consists of 8 "beds" per compartment. There is no air conditioning, just 3 fans in each compartment to stir the thick air. There is no curtains, no privacy and bars instead of windows (in the desert, sand and dust blow through, coating everything). The beds are just platforms covered in institutional, easy-wipe blue plastic, with no bedding. The heat is generally such that you sweat through the night in shorts and t-shirt without blankets. The carriages are filthy, we've shared at least one with mice. They are noisy, overcrowded and sometimes unsafe, requiring you to lock your bags to your bed. But unlike a bus or a plane, where I think India somewhat stops while you travel, in a train India drapes itself out in the carriage around you.
Huge sprawling families of 15 on their 6 reserved berths as they squabble and laugh spontaneously. They take turns lying down to sleep, filling any space you are foolish enough to leave empty. The old man cross-legged on his seat eyes closed, praying and touching his head to the seat. The various food and drinks sellers up and down the aisle blending their wares into a mantra "coffeeteachai , coffeeteachai...". The puckered kiss noises passengers use to get the attention of sellers and the good natured haggling that follows. The ritual of eating as each little group takes out their prepared food wrapped in banana leaves, newspaper or sets of stacked metal pots. The offers of food and drink. People throwing their rubbish out the barred windows, glass bottles and all. The staring kids, too shy to smile back. People spitting out the blood red juice from chewing paan, a mix of betel nuts and berries used like chewing tobacco. Mobile phones going constantly, either playing music or chatting. The beggars who work the trains, some nudging you awake with the stump of their arm and the complicated procedure of getting your money into their shirt pocket when they have no hands. The guys who come along on their hands and knees pushing a cloth along to clean the floor (pocketing any edibles which the mice haven't got to) and silently, with their eyes, plead for money. The lovely friendly man...with the business card. The two lads from the pyramid scheme, their unbridled enthusiasm for this future of marketing. The conversations around us moving in and out of english at random, particularly amongst the kids. The advice sought after or otherwise, regularly inaccurate. People breaking into song at random. The loss of all sense of personal space, people clambering over you like you've known them for years. Young kids being hoisted around the place one-handed, often with only a firm grip on the bicep, hoiked onto upper bunks with ease. Proud Indian mothers spending hours extolling the virtues of Drive and Determination and the overseas jobs of their sons. The informality of strangers. The filtered sunlight on colourful clothes.
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When the carriage gets too much you can move out into the doorway. India is fortunately still mostly in the stone age when it comes to Health and Safety Protocols and Procedeures which means responsibility for your own safety is back with yourself. If you want to hang out from the train with one hand and take a photo thats ok. If you want to try and crush into a moving train door at the same time as 50 other people, this is also cool. So one of my favourite bits is sitting in the doorway with my legs dangling, watching rural India sway past.
Kids, and occasionally adults, stand by the track and wave enthusiastically. Farmers ( men, women, children), doubled over in the fields, work in ridiculous heat oblivious to the passing train, or sit in the shade watching through half closed eyes. We pass little dusty red clay villages of 5 or 6 houses or big, dirty provincial towns which use the embankment as a dumping ground. In the early morning villagers squat in their fields and do toilet and try to ignore the audience rolling by. We pause at stations where little old ladies and their bundles have to clamber six feet to the ground and back up onto the platform on the other side. Women walk along dusty roads, one hand holding a huge basket on their head and the other holding a child braced against their hip. Hay stacks and brick stacks.
Occasionally the train crosses a bridge and the ground drops away suddenly beneath you, so that there is nothing between you and the river below but air. I can never quite shake that niggling temptation to jump.
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One kid minding some sheep with a stick bigger than he was. He waved speculatively and I waved back. He cheered and started pelvic thrusting at the train, his hands in the air like he'd just scored a goal, then looking around wildly to see if there was anyone to share his victory with.
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The head waggle is an Indian gesture of many meanings, often used in greeting, which is basically nodding your head sideways left to right. Sitting in the doorway of one train I spotted some rather stern, well-dressed women walking in a line by the side of the track. On an impulse I waggled my head at them. Solemn and straight backed, the first woman frowned but out of habit she waggled back, an almost involuntary reaction. This set off the women behind her in unsmiling unison, their frowning faces bouncing around as if caught in the draft of the train. I'll never forget it.
Kids, and occasionally adults, stand by the track and wave enthusiastically. Farmers ( men, women, children), doubled over in the fields, work in ridiculous heat oblivious to the passing train, or sit in the shade watching through half closed eyes. We pass little dusty red clay villages of 5 or 6 houses or big, dirty provincial towns which use the embankment as a dumping ground. In the early morning villagers squat in their fields and do toilet and try to ignore the audience rolling by. We pause at stations where little old ladies and their bundles have to clamber six feet to the ground and back up onto the platform on the other side. Women walk along dusty roads, one hand holding a huge basket on their head and the other holding a child braced against their hip. Hay stacks and brick stacks.
Occasionally the train crosses a bridge and the ground drops away suddenly beneath you, so that there is nothing between you and the river below but air. I can never quite shake that niggling temptation to jump.
***
One kid minding some sheep with a stick bigger than he was. He waved speculatively and I waved back. He cheered and started pelvic thrusting at the train, his hands in the air like he'd just scored a goal, then looking around wildly to see if there was anyone to share his victory with.
***
The head waggle is an Indian gesture of many meanings, often used in greeting, which is basically nodding your head sideways left to right. Sitting in the doorway of one train I spotted some rather stern, well-dressed women walking in a line by the side of the track. On an impulse I waggled my head at them. Solemn and straight backed, the first woman frowned but out of habit she waggled back, an almost involuntary reaction. This set off the women behind her in unsmiling unison, their frowning faces bouncing around as if caught in the draft of the train. I'll never forget it.
1 comment:
Head waggle wave theory sends smiles round the world! :).
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