number.
‘I’m trying to find the express train.’ I wave my ticket like a white flag.
Stubbing out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, he leans forward and stares at the ticket for a moment before opening a drawer in his desk and pulling out one of the longest fax print-outs I’ve ever seen. Page after page appears from his drawer, like a magician pulling handkerchiefs out of a top hat.
Methodically he starts going through each page, tracing each name with a nicotined finger, until finally he nods satisfactorily to himself.
‘ Roobeee Miller,’ he says after a few minutes, tapping his finger on a page. I crick my neck upside down and, sure enough, buried amongst hundreds of Indian names, wedged in tightly between Sanjeev Chopra and Rupinda Malik, on a smudged fax print-out in a tiny, sweltering, smoke-filled office, in a train station in Southern India, there I am.
‘Oh wow, yes, that’s me,’ I nod. It feels slightly surreal that in amongst all this disorder, there could be efficiency. A list. With my name on it. I’m impressed. It doesn’t seem possible somehow.
But India, I’m learning fast, is full of surprises.
‘That is your train,’ he gestures to the platform behind me.
‘Oh . . . great,’ I smile. Well, that’s a result, it must have just pulled in, I think happily. I turn around with anticipation—
Er, hang on. That’s the same train as before, I realise, expecting to see a different one, but no; it’s still the same train that’s got dozens of people dangling from it, like a heavily decorated Christmas tree. ‘I’m sorry, but I think there must be some mistake,’ I say, turning back.
‘No mistake.’ The official shakes his head, and lights up another cigarette. ‘That is the express train to Delhi.’
That is the express train?
My imagination, which has been whooshing along, suddenly screeches to a juddering halt. What happened to the luxurious cabins? Dining cars where I get to sip a gin and tonic? Romance and splendour evoking the bygone era when royal maharajas would travel across India in sumptuous style?
What happened to The Darjeeling Limited and Adrien Brody?
I suddenly feel like a prize idiot. What was I thinking? Those trips cost squillions and are just for wealthy tourists on five-star holidays. This is real train travel in India, not some glossy Hollywood version of it.
And I don’t want it to be, I suddenly realise, as I turn to see a family of six climbing on board, and for a moment I watch them with a mixture of awe, disbelief and fascination. Carrying two huge suitcases, a ten-foot-long rug and what looks like part of a car engine, they’re determinedly shoe-horning themselves inside, the huge-bellied father squeezing himself in through the door like an expanded cork trying to fit back into the bottle.
It’s like one of those record-breaking attempts at how many people you can fit inside a Mini and, sure enough, they manage it and all disappear inside. Apart from the little boy who reappears on the stoop and peeps his head out, glancing around the station with the feverish excitement of any small boy on a train journey. He catches me looking and – despite my predicament – I can’t help smiling. Suddenly shy, he pops back inside.
The sound of someone chuckling causes me to turn around to find the official is watching me with unconcealed amusement. No doubt he’s used to lily-livered Western tourists unaccustomed to Indian train travel.
‘It is a very popular train,’ he grins, ‘there are many people travelling today.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ I nod, feeling a flutter of nerves as I wonder how on earth me and my huge suitcase are going to squeeze aboard. Not for the first time do I regret buying all those pashminas.
‘You are very lucky . . .’
Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I could be watching an in-flight movie and making the most of the free bar as I wing my way back home.
‘You have a reservation in AC2.’
I look at
‘I’m trying to find the express train.’ I wave my ticket like a white flag.
Stubbing out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, he leans forward and stares at the ticket for a moment before opening a drawer in his desk and pulling out one of the longest fax print-outs I’ve ever seen. Page after page appears from his drawer, like a magician pulling handkerchiefs out of a top hat.
Methodically he starts going through each page, tracing each name with a nicotined finger, until finally he nods satisfactorily to himself.
‘ Roobeee Miller,’ he says after a few minutes, tapping his finger on a page. I crick my neck upside down and, sure enough, buried amongst hundreds of Indian names, wedged in tightly between Sanjeev Chopra and Rupinda Malik, on a smudged fax print-out in a tiny, sweltering, smoke-filled office, in a train station in Southern India, there I am.
‘Oh wow, yes, that’s me,’ I nod. It feels slightly surreal that in amongst all this disorder, there could be efficiency. A list. With my name on it. I’m impressed. It doesn’t seem possible somehow.
But India, I’m learning fast, is full of surprises.
‘That is your train,’ he gestures to the platform behind me.
‘Oh . . . great,’ I smile. Well, that’s a result, it must have just pulled in, I think happily. I turn around with anticipation—
Er, hang on. That’s the same train as before, I realise, expecting to see a different one, but no; it’s still the same train that’s got dozens of people dangling from it, like a heavily decorated Christmas tree. ‘I’m sorry, but I think there must be some mistake,’ I say, turning back.
‘No mistake.’ The official shakes his head, and lights up another cigarette. ‘That is the express train to Delhi.’
That is the express train?
My imagination, which has been whooshing along, suddenly screeches to a juddering halt. What happened to the luxurious cabins? Dining cars where I get to sip a gin and tonic? Romance and splendour evoking the bygone era when royal maharajas would travel across India in sumptuous style?
What happened to The Darjeeling Limited and Adrien Brody?
I suddenly feel like a prize idiot. What was I thinking? Those trips cost squillions and are just for wealthy tourists on five-star holidays. This is real train travel in India, not some glossy Hollywood version of it.
And I don’t want it to be, I suddenly realise, as I turn to see a family of six climbing on board, and for a moment I watch them with a mixture of awe, disbelief and fascination. Carrying two huge suitcases, a ten-foot-long rug and what looks like part of a car engine, they’re determinedly shoe-horning themselves inside, the huge-bellied father squeezing himself in through the door like an expanded cork trying to fit back into the bottle.
It’s like one of those record-breaking attempts at how many people you can fit inside a Mini and, sure enough, they manage it and all disappear inside. Apart from the little boy who reappears on the stoop and peeps his head out, glancing around the station with the feverish excitement of any small boy on a train journey. He catches me looking and – despite my predicament – I can’t help smiling. Suddenly shy, he pops back inside.
The sound of someone chuckling causes me to turn around to find the official is watching me with unconcealed amusement. No doubt he’s used to lily-livered Western tourists unaccustomed to Indian train travel.
‘It is a very popular train,’ he grins, ‘there are many people travelling today.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ I nod, feeling a flutter of nerves as I wonder how on earth me and my huge suitcase are going to squeeze aboard. Not for the first time do I regret buying all those pashminas.
‘You are very lucky . . .’
Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I could be watching an in-flight movie and making the most of the free bar as I wing my way back home.
‘You have a reservation in AC2.’
I look at
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