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Contents

Chapter

Page

Preface 2

Where do We Go from Here? 4

Slow Train to Rameswaram 8

“Visit Abdul Kalam’s Museum, it’s AC” 14

A Southern Sunrise 21

Fort Kochi and Bob Marley 24

Protests in the Hills 27

Confident Men 32

Sick in Ahmedabad 36

Luxury in Udaipur 38

No Ghosts, Just a View 42

Of Temples and Jingoism 47

The Capital 52

Yes, I’ve seen the Taj 54

Orchha 56

Take the Long Way Home 58

Epilogue 64

© Aloke Mukherjee 2014

All opinions expressed in this travelogue are those of the author’s. If you don’t

like them, well – too bad.

Pictures from this trip can be viewed at on.fb.me/1ctLuVa

Some names have been changed in this narrative to protect privacy.

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Preface

As a culture of travel, my observations are that backpacking in India is yet to gain

traction among Indians. For many, a holiday involves travelling to a single place,

possibly visiting a few nearby attractions in the process. A family holiday might

entail visiting several places in a region, as would a pilgrimage, but I would

hesitate before calling either of these backpacking. More often than not, the

journey isn’t considered a part of the holiday; rather, a necessary burden that

must be endured to reach the destination.

Since extensive backpacking is something many people do during a gap year, and

that very few people here take gap years to travel (or are allowed to do so by

family), this could be a strong contributing factor. I suspect that this disinclination

towards backpacking is – for the most part - symptomatic of the attitude towards

travelling for the sake of travelling in India. Unless you have a specific destination

in mind, and specific things to do there, you’re probably wasting your time; time

that could be spent better studying or working. What will employers think of the

potential gap in your resume? Shouldn’t you concentrate on your studies?

Shouldn’t you be a little more serious?

Being granted a leisurely break exceeding two weeks is very unlikely in most

companies, unless you have the willpower to save all your leaves during the year.

Most people cannot do this for various reasons, and those disciplined souls who

can often travel abroad instead. In general, people prefer to take shorter

holidays, often weekend breaks, and with time at a premium, choose to fly, or if

the destination in mind is close enough, travel overnight by bus or train.

What about students? Student life is studded with scheduled – and often

extremely generous – vacations; many of which are ideally positioned to plan and

execute a long trip. While most of my friends still studying are very enthusiastic

about the idea of a slow, long trip, it is a minuscule fraction that actually converts

the idea into reality. Possibly the process of planning breaks most people. Then

there’s the issue of getting permissions from parents, finding like-minded friends

and negotiating the inevitable differences of opinion within a group. This apart,

many people take up a summer internship of some sort. The amount of

competition for places in “good” educational institutions and companies is

staggering, and should you want to get in, having “travelled during vacations” on

your CV might not endear you to prospective employers, right?

This might be changing – I see signs of this from several peers and juniors. Is this

(potential) trend a good thing? I would hesitate before passing such a sweeping

judgment – people respond differently to the same experience. However, for me,

it is fairly obvious – travel is easily the best way to learn practical life lessons. You

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understand yourself better when you’re forced to make decisions out of your

comfort zone. As a student of the social sciences, I find that travel allows me to

see first-hand just how many social, economic and political structures and process

work in the real world – and it is this practical knowledge that has shaped several

of my academic and career choices. After all, what use is mere theoretical

knowledge without practical experience?

* * *

4

Where do We Go from Here?

I like trains.

I may as well get this off my chest right at the start, so if you don’t happen to

know me, you will be able to situate many of my (strange) choices in a rational

context.

Assuming that you don’t know me, you now have two useful pieces of

information about me – I like trains, and I like travelling. That, coupled with the

title of this travelogue, and you probably have a fair idea of what’s coming your

way in the next fifty-odd pages.

Of course, it isn’t as easy as just knowing that you like travelling – and that trains

are your preferred mode of transport. You need to figure out where you want to

travel, when, whom with, not to mention the budget. I’m not a big fan of

travelling alone for extended trips – it’s always nice to have people to chat with.

This apart, travelling alone is significantly more expensive than travelling in a

group.

This trip was born – like most extensive trips of mine – out of an idle

conversation in which several places were mentioned. Cochin. Amritsar and the

Wagah Border. Udaipur. I began to think of possible ways these destinations

could be stitched together into a big train trip. Throwing in a few stopovers, the

route I initially drew up was:

Bangalore – Cochin (Kochi) – Goa – Mumbai – Udaipur – Amritsar and the

Wagah Border – Delhi – Agra – Orchha – Bangalore

Finding people to make this trip with would be difficult – well, except Anay, a

close friend from college whom I’d already travelled with extensively on previous

excursions across India. We share similar ideas about travelling and tend to

agree on budgets. Travelling with people you don’t know well can be dicey – you

can grow to become the best of friends over the course of a trip, but if you don’t

get along well, god help you. Being cooped up with somebody you don’t

particularly like for a long bus or train journey is excruciating – you really can’t

escape. With all these considerations in mind, the both of us agree that searching

for more people that might want to make the trip will be counterproductive at the

moment – too often, earlier trips I’ve planned haven’t worked out simply because

too many people dropped out at the end. Here, there will be no such problem.

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Anay prefers a small change in the route – he’d rather skip Goa and Mumbai,

visiting a hill station somewhere on the route instead. I settle upon Wayanad as it

falls on the route, necessitating no detours.

At this point, I realise I can save a lot of money by purchasing what the railways

call a circular journey ticket. The rules surrounding this ticket are fairly complex

– suffice to say that if your route is roughly circular, you can buy this ticket and

save as much as a third of your fare. The only problem here is that our current

route isn’t quite circular – we head south to Kerala and then backtrack. To

correct this, I need to find a route that takes us southeast first – preferably as far

south as possible – before beginning to head up north. Finally, I revise the route

to this:

Bangalore – Rameswaram – Kanyakumari – Cochin (Kochi) – Wayanad –

Udaipur – Amritsar and the Wagah Border – Delhi – Agra – Orchha –

Bangalore

This is eligible for a circular journey ticket; we save over Rs 3,000 each and get

tickets in Second AC at a fare that works out to less than a rupee a kilometre. I,

however, want to travel by as many different classes of travel during the trip.

This is a pretty hectic trip; it has to be completed within Anay’s semester break

holidays that last from 13th October to 4th November. In the end, the entire trip

is scheduled to be completed in a span of less than three weeks – we leave 13th

October, returning 1st November.

Here’s a quick description of the places we’re visiting:

Rameswaram: Island just off Tamil Nadu; fairly close to Sri Lanka, famous as a

major pilgrimage site for Hindus; closely associated with the Hindu epic

Ramayana.

Kanyakumari: Southernmost point of the Indian mainland, also of religious

significance; the confluence of three seas; famed for beautiful sunrises and

sunsets.

Cochin (Kochi): Cute town in Kerala; fort area lined with gigantic trees and old

buildings, cobbled roads and little traffic; houses a major synagogue.

Wayanad: Mountainous and forested district in northern Kerala; several

interesting caves and lakes; coffee estates.

Udaipur: One of Rajasthan’s most charming cities; cute narrow roads and two

beautiful lakes.

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Amritsar: Major city in Punjab; home of the Golden Temple and the Jallianwala

Bagh.

Wagah Border: Popular border crossing between India and Pakistan fairly close

to Amritsar; famous for the ostentatious border closing ceremony every evening.

Delhi: Well, the capital; logical stopping point before heading to Agra.

Agra: The Taj Mahal!

Orchha: Ruined town in Madhya Pradesh; the erstwhile capital of the Bundela

dynasty – a large fort and several interesting palaces.

Our final route is a very squished circle, but anyway.

7

The Route

8

Slow Train to Rameswaram

A typical October morning in Bangalore leaves little to complain about, and

October 18th is no exception. It is cool and crisp, but not cold; slightly cloudy

but not overcast to the point of being gloomy. In short, it is the perfect morning

to set off on an adventure, which is exactly what we’re doing.

Due to certain unanticipated commitments, Anay will not be taking the slow,

roundabout (albeit picturesque) route to Rameswaram that I had initially planned.

He will instead take a faster set of trains leaving Bangalore eleven hours later in

the evening, yet reaching Rameswaram just three hours after mine. I am thus

travelling alone on the first two trains of the trip.

My train is scheduled to leave at 8 am, and having taken up on my father’s offer

to drop me at the station, I reach a good half hour ahead of time. I finish a quick,

tasty breakfast with my father at the small darshini next to the station, and with 10

minutes left to departure, I find myself on platform 2, ready to board the first of

many trains I will be taking over the course of the next few weeks.

The Chennai Express (no relation to the mediocre movie of the same name) is

certainly not a very high-priority train on the line, and it is only after the arrival of

the Express from Jolarpettai that the light turns amber, followed by a terse honk

from the engine and a rather weak waving of the green flag by the driver. We

pull out slowly, 7 minutes behind schedule. I wave goodbye and watch my father

recede into the background, and then make my way inside the coach. The

journey has begun!

Coach C1 on this train – an air-conditioned sitting coach – is fifteen years old and

shows it. On its last overhaul, some bright spark appears to have decided that

laminating the coach walls with a wooden trim would give it an air of luxury.

What with the laminate peeling off at various places and the coach’s general state

of disrepair, it does an excellent job of looking gaudy. In any case, this is not a

very long journey – less than four hours before we reach Katpadi, where I make

the transfer to another train bound for Rameswaram.

The first journey is uneventful enough, this route being one I’ve travelled

umpteen times. I alternate between staring out the heavily tinted window,

sleeping, and arranging various railway-related paraphernalia for the journeys

ahead – a railway atlas, a sheet with the schedules of all the forthcoming trains,

apart from a detailed plan of the routes we’ll be taking. Call me geeky, but hey,

knowledge is power! The train is not too delayed, and reaches Katpadi just

before noon, eight minutes behind schedule.

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Boy, is the view from the AC coach deceptive! The sickly-tinted windows and the

efficient AC would make it seem like the weather throughout was as benign as it

was in Bangalore earlier this morning. I’m in for a rude shock – it is a very hot

afternoon at Katpadi, especially as the sun’s view of the town is totally unobscured

by clouds. That I am nearer the sea – the coast approximately 130 kilometres

from Katpadi – is evident from the increase in humidity.

With close to four hours to kill before the arrival of the connecting train, the first

order of business is to deposit my backpack at the cloakroom – a left-luggage

room found at most important stations. This done, I decide to see what Katpadi

has to offer.

It soon becomes evident that there isn’t much to see in the immediate vicinity of

the station. A narrow, dirty road leads out, witness to the not unusual scene of

various bikes, cars, buses and bullock carts jostling for space. A Hotel Monika

advertises “Pure Veg” food, with a small addendum that non-veg food is also

available. There is a biryani restaurant nearby, and I can see a few crates of

chickens stacked at the back for slaughter – presumably the diners will not have

to worry about their food being fresh. An extremely seedy looking bar is

attracting a constant stream of equally seedy looking men.

Venturing further provokes little of interest. Several poultry shops dot the road,

apart from a few petty mechanic shops. A few food stalls are doing brisk business

around a small bus stand. After about twenty minutes of walking under Katpadi’s

unyielding sun, I tire of the exploration and head back to the railway station.

With time to kill, I decide to head to the reservation office and modify one of my

onward reservations. This is a slightly tricky process, and I successfully confuse

the staff to the extent that they have to discuss it for fifteen minutes – all the while

shooting suspicious glances at me – before issuing me new tickets. Amused, I

head into the station for lunch at the Vegetarian Refreshment Stall. A cheap and

fairly satisfying meal later, I search for a peaceful area of the station to relax.

Before this can happen, I am accosted by a monkey on the overbridge. Seeing

my sling bag, he assumes (not incorrectly) that I might have food with me, and

further assumes that he can appropriate the aforementioned food with a quick

snatch. With these intentions, he heads purposefully towards my bag. I wave my

water bottle ferociously and yell, “HUT!” This probably would have looked very

amusing to any passersby, but thankfully the monkey is sufficiently intimidated by

this to slink away with a parting snarl.

The last two hours pass fairly fast. I find a shady spot on the platform, and am

soon in conversation with a man who wants to know when the next train to

Bangalore departs (“3.30 pm, this platform”). He then tells me he’s an English

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teacher at SV University. Interested, I ask him which courses he teaches; which

aspects of the language he specialises in.

“No no no. Not like that. See, there are some textbooks. Some guides are also

there. These I am explaining to the students”

* * *

The Tirupati – Rameswaram “Meenakshi” Express is a good fifteen minutes early

pulling into Katpadi, giving me plenty of time to locate the First Class non-AC

coach. Coupe-E is a two-berth cabin which I have entirely to myself. It has a

sliding door which when shut isolates me from the other passengers of the coach.

This turns out to be very useful, especially as the coach is filled with noisy kids

and their (equally loud) chaperones. Since the coach isn’t AC, I have a wide

openable window from which I can gaze unhindered at the scenery outside.

Apart from the heat, it is everything I could have wished for.

The train departs on time and makes the crawl through Vellore, within kissing

distance of the many ramshackle houses that abut the railway line. The

atmosphere soon begins to feel more rural and there is a strong smell of gobar from the surrounding roads. After a brief halt at Vellore Cantonment station, we

set off again, and are almost immediately trotting through massive green fields.

The sudden departure from civilisation is quite dramatic, not to mention

welcome.

We are now heading into the heart of the Central Carnatic region of south India.

As a region, the area is replete with historical significance. After all, just around

300 years ago, the region was the setting for some of the most significant wars in

south India; the three Carnatic Wars. These wars, primarily fought between the

British and the French – with different Indian rulers supporting each side – were

as instrumental in establishing British rule in South India as the battles of Plassey

and Buxar were in establishing their dominance in the east of the subcontinent;

not to mention confining French rule to Pondicherry and Chandernagore.

Today, of course, there is no such political intrigue, just a train peacefully

chugging through the afternoon. However, I can’t shake off the images of these

political conquests from my mind. The surrounding scenery forms the perfect

backdrop for such adventures; lush green fields, sparsely interspersed with trees.

Just when the flatness of the terrain begins to lull you into boredom, a massive hill

pops out, seemingly from nowhere, providing an excellent vantage point to

observe potential approaching armies. Indeed, several of the hills in the region

have small forts precariously perched on their peaks.

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The greenery is extremely soothing. The line isn’t passing through any major

towns at the moment; this is fairly evident from the freshness of the air. The

train, too, appears to have succumbed to the general tranquillity of the area, and

is cantering along at not more than 50kmph. The hustle and bustle of Bangalore

seems an eternity away – it is hard to believe that it’s less than half a day old.

As the hot afternoon yields to a pleasant evening, I am treated to several signs that

suggest the line doesn’t see too many trains. At almost every of the (few) towns

we pass, there are scores of children excitedly pointing and waving at the train.

As the clock ticks past five in the evening, we pass yet another field. A herd of

cows is being taken home. One bovine, terrified by the honking of the engine,

darts in the opposite direction, pulling the woman holding it by the reins. I can

see a young boy – presumably her son – grinning, very amused.

At 5.30 pm, we pull into Tiruvannamalai. It is arguably one of South India’s

most auspicious Shaivite pilgrimage centres, apart from its association with Sri

Ramana Maharshi, and every train on this line has a stop here. While the

timetable stipulates a one-minute halt, we’ve arrived a whole half-hour early,

which means we’ll be here a while.

I use this opportunity to search for two things; a cold bottle of water, and an

equally cold bottle of some soft drink. I am partially successful in this endeavour

– the sole shop on the platform only sells lukewarm water and soft drink, a

“power illai” from the vendor explaining the ineffectiveness of the refrigerator. I

take a short walk around the station and stretch my legs. Promptly at 6, there is a

long honk from the engine, and we set off again. As we begin to pick up speed, I

catch a glimpse of Tiruvannamalai’s sacred hill; now a dark silhouette, outlined in

fierce gold by the setting sun. Magical indeed.

As twilight sets in, I spend some time at the door. It is always interesting to watch

the landscape speed by as it gets dark. After Tiruvannamalai, civilisation has

vanished again and pinpricks of light – houses, towns – are few and far between.

The transition to darkness is quite fast and the numerous fields – so vibrant and

green earlier – now look desolate and bleak. After about fifteen minutes at the

door, I head back to my coupe and read for a while.

Civilisation makes its reappearance with the arrival of Villupuram, a large town

and an important halt. We have a scheduled ten-minute stop here, but as we’re

extremely early yet again, a halt of over half an hour beckons. I pick up tonight’s

dinner – a fairly passable dosa – following this up with a short stroll up and down

the platform. At 8 pm the train creaks its way out, at which point I lock the

coupe’s door and make the bed. It has been a long day, and I’m fairly tired. I

also feel fairly sticky from the day’s humidity, but it will be quite a while before I

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can have a shower – almost two days away in Kochi. As the train begins to

accelerate and clatter its way into the Kaveri delta, I fall asleep.

* * *

At some point, I wake up – not sure why. Looking out, I can see we’re passing

through a series of rice fields. The water in these fields is brightly illuminated by

the moon. The scene – the reflective water and nobody around – is quite eerie.

I go back to sleep.

* * *

At 2 am, the train pulls into Trichy. It might be the middle of the night, but the

station is buzzing with activity. I am abruptly woken up by the announcement

that the Sethu Express from Rameswaram will arrive shortly on platform 3. The

announcement is followed by several others. The Pothigai Express from Chennai

is running late. In the other direction, the Ananthapuri Express to Chennai is on

platform 1. The last announcement I hear is that the Rameswaram Express on

platform 5 is ready for departure, but this isn’t entirely correct – our train has

already slunk out of the station.

I wake up at 6.30 am to find a dramatic change of scenery. Gone are the green

fields. The area around is quite sandy, and there are what appear to be several

palm trees in the area. The humidity has increased significantly; today’s going to

be a sweaty day!

* * *

The Pamban rail bridge connects the mainland of India with the island of

Rameswaram. It is a major tourist attraction, not to mention an engineering

marvel, especially considering that it is a hundred years old. The cantilever

bridge – India’s first sea bridge – is two kilometres long; its centre can be opened

to let ships and barges past. Given its age, there is a severe speed restriction of

15kmph for all trains on the bridge.

Standing at the door as we groan our way onto the bridge, I’m treated to a view of

the strait that separates India from Rameswaram. The sea isn’t too far below, and

if you don’t look down, it feels like the train is slowly flying across the water. A

few minutes on the bridge and my entire field of vision becomes the sea. The 2

km stretch takes nine whole minutes, and after the crossing, the train quickly

picks up speed. Less than a quarter of an hour later, we pull into Rameswaram

ten minutes early, despite being an hour late at all the previous stops of the

morning.

The first frontier has been breached. It has taken a whopping 24 and a half

hours from Bangalore for a journey that would have taken 12 hours by car (or,

for that matter, 16 hours by a faster set of trains). But, to appropriate a real

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cliché, I took the route less travelled by, and the experience was definitely worth

it.

* * *

14

“Visit Abdul Kalam’s Museum, It’s AC”

8.30 am at Rameswaram sees me getting off the train and searching for a place

where I can breakfast and (equally importantly) charge my phone – it is too early

in the trip for me to miss calls from assorted relatives. The issue resolves itself

without too much trouble; there is a rather fancy looking restaurant just 100

metres from the station. A breakfast buffet that essentially offers idlis, vadas, toast

and juice for 200 rupees is rather overpriced, but the place is empty, allowing me

to have a relaxed breakfast that lasts close to two hours, catch up on the day’s

news and charge my phone without fear of being kicked out.

Satiated, I head back to the station to await Anay’s train. It is supposed to arrive

just before noon, but turns up 45 minutes early – not that I’m complaining.

Initial pleasantries exchanged, we head to the cloakroom to deposit our luggage

for the day. This cloakroom is a dingy room slyly tucked away in the most

inconspicuous part of the station. A burly man – I’ll call him Selvam – is

lounging around on a chair at one end, and we assume correctly that he is the

custodian.

Inspecting our bags and satisfied that they’re properly locked, Selvam proceeds to

write out a receipt. There is a small hitch – the sole pen in the room is being

used by another railway employee to fill up several assorted forms.

“See, he is using pen. Waste fellow,” says Selvam, following this up with a

“Thoo!” to signify his displeasure.

I rummage around in my bag and pull out another pen. The receipt is

laboriously written out. Then, “Can I keep pen?”

Anay promises to buy him a pen and give it to him when we come back to collect

our backpacks. Selvam appears less than convinced, and returns my pen. “You

will get, no? You’ll not forget?” Anay assures him that he will indeed get a new

pen at the end of the day and amused, we both head out of the station.

Rameswaram is a major pilgrimage destination for Hindus, and the

Ramanathaswamy temple at the centre of the town is of especial significance. It is

one of the four most divine Hindu sites (“Char Dham”) as defined by the Hindu

philosopher Adi Sankaracharya, the other three being Dwarka, Badrinath and

Puri respectively. After a quick lunch for lunch at a small roadside restaurant, a

short auto ride sees us outside the temple.

The afternoon sun is unrelenting. The temple is very crowded – there is a long

line of devotees waiting to enter, and when I realise my sling bag cannot be

15

brought in and that there is no place I can leave it safely, I decide to skip the tour

of the temple. Anay goes inside, leaving his bag with me, as I wait in the shade.

There are quite a few auto drivers hanging around, offering tourists a guided tour

of Rameswaram’s important sights. I ask one where he can take me. I’m given a

printed card with a list of destinations (with images, no less!) and the rates. A

short tour is Rs 300, with a longer tour heading to the abandoned hamlet of

Dhanushkodi (more on this later) at an additional Rs 200, though the price can

be reduced if we share an auto with other tourists. This appears a better

proposition than blundering around Rameswaram cluelessly, so I signal my

interest, telling the driver that I have to wait for Anay to return. However, fairly

soon, he finds another set of customers, so he bids me adieu, signalling to

another auto driver of a potential moneybag customer.

Anay is out soon, and he agrees that a guided tour might be the simplest way to

see the island in the limited time we have. Not particularly keen on sharing the

auto with several other tourists, we charter it for a full tour of Rameswaram and

Dhanushkodi for Rs 500. Our driver is Saravanan. To my surprise, all the

autodrivers are very fluent in Hindi – probably a result of the amount of north

Indian pilgrims visiting. The conversation is thus a weird mix of Hindi and

scattered Tamil.

Saravanan appears to be a very genial driver and is eager to start the tour. In no

time the large auto is cruising around Rameswaram’s dusty roads. The first order

of business is the Kothandaraman temple, which is significantly smaller than the

Ramanathaswamy temple. I’m interested in this temple for less than godly

reasons; it is situated on a small hillock and offers excellent views of the island.

Rameswaram isn’t too large; on three of four sides I look, I can see the sea. I can

also see a large TV tower, which appears to be a major landmark in the town.

Heading back down, Anay buys himself a juice from a roadside stall. He also

offers one to Saravanan, who looks surprised and politely declines. A few

minutes later, the auto is purring its way to Dhanushkodi.

Dhanushkodi is an interesting – and tragic – story. It was a thriving fishing and

pilgrim town about 20 km from Rameswaram. One stormy night in 1964, a

massive cyclone swept onto the south-eastern part of the island – Dhanushkodi,

that is. With wind velocities touching close to 280 kmph, the little town didn’t

stand a chance, especially as the cyclone brought with it tidal waves close to seven

feet in height.

There is railway interest to this story as well. At 11.55 pm, just as the waves

struck, a local passenger train from Pamban happened to be entering

Dhanushkodi. With the power out and the signals having failed, the driver

16

decided to take the risk of pushing forward into the station – a risk that eventually

proved fatal. The small train was washed away by the waves, killing all 110

passengers onboard.

Today, Dhanushkodi survives primarily as rubble. You can see signs of

civilisation as you head in; a wrecked railway station, a mangled post office, a

hospital in ruins. This afternoon, nature doesn’t happen to be in a particularly

vengeful mood, and apart from being hot, the day is calm.

The fairly long drive allows us to see what the island itself looks like. Apart from

the routine mounds of garbage piled up on the sides of the road, Rameswaram’s

scenery is interesting, varying from dense vegetation – palm and eucalyptus trees

with several nondescript shrubs to large, barren, sandy patches. The roads are

well-tarred and soon after leaving the town of Rameswaram, the fairly empty road

is surrounded by trees. There is a holiday feel in the air; it reminds me of some

of South Goa’s less inhabited areas.

The arrival of Dhanushkodi – ruins apart – is announced by Dhanushkodi’s

beach, which turns out to be a massive expanse of (almost white) sand leading

inexorably to the sea. It looks rather surreal, and I end up ogling it for quite a

while.

There is another temple located in the vicinity, this one the Kothandaramaswamy

temple. It is the only structure to have survived the 1964 cyclone, and the temple

is fairly significant in the context of the Hindu epic, the Ramayana. Vibhishana,

brother of Ravana, is said to have requested the army of Rama for refuge at this

spot. After the killing of Ravana, Rama is said to have conducted the ceremony

for Vibhishana’s ascension to the throne of Lanka at the very same location. As

such, the inside of the temple is adorned with murals depicting these scenes from

the epic.

We are not too far away from the ‘closest point’ to Sri Lanka at the moment – I

am told the distance at this point is just over a dozen kilometres, and it is possible

to see Sri Lanka. Saravanan says this point is a further 8 km away from where we

are, and says something about normal vehicles not being permitted beyond a

certain point, adding something about some sort of ‘sand vehicle’ for any further

conveyance. He also says Lanka’s lights are best visible at night, which doesn’t

work for us, as our onward train is at 8.45 pm. It is not in his interests to

discourage us from heading there; the additional travel would have earned him an

extra hundred rupees. Thus, we decide to head back towards Rameswaram.

Saravanan has an ace up his sleeve for our next stop: it is air-conditioned! We

are now going to visit the museum of former president Abdul Kalam, who hails

17

from Rameswaram. This tribute museum – which is free – is also AC, which

apparently makes it an unbeatable combination.

Saravanan has a few more amusing things to say. Before we head into the

museum – he will wait in the auto – he says this:

“The museum is on the second floor. They will also tell you to go to the third

floor; there is a shop there. Don’t want to do that. There is nothing worth

buying,”

Amused, we head in. The museum itself is less than engrossing – it is tackily

done, and fails to actually highlight the life of the man; just a few quotes, some

awards, and several (to be honest, extremely unimpressive) poems. As we head

out, one of the attendants beckons us to the third floor, but we know better.

The museum is followed by a visit to a floating rock. I must admit I was

extremely intrigued when I first heard of this, anticipating a huge rock floating in

the middle of a small pond or tank. This turns out to be incorrect; the rock is

inside another temple, in a small, waist-high enclosure protected by an iron grill at

the top, possibly to prevent some of the more opportunistic pilgrims from making

off with the rock itself. It is slightly larger than my fist, but yes, it is indeed a

floating rock. I suspect it has something to do with its porosity?

This signals the end of the three-hour tour – we are now to be dropped back at

the station. Considering the fact that we have covered over 40 km, the agreed

rate of Rs 500 isn’t too bad at all; less than the per kilometre fares of autos in

Bangalore.

As we near the station, Saravanan tells us where we can wait for the train and what

else we can do in the meantime; we have over four hours before our train

departs. My dealings with auto drivers have told me to associate overfriendly

behaviour with subsequent compensatory demands for such friendliness, but

Saravanan is an exception. On reaching the station, he cheerfully accepts his fare

without any signs of asking for more, wishes us a pleasant journey, and heads off.

He is easily one of the most pleasant auto drivers I’ve encountered.

With time to kill, we spend an hour at a relatively unoccupied, shady part of the

platform. As evening sets in, we head out in search of some grub – there will be

no food available on the train.

A five-minute walk through Rameswaram’s extremely dusty streets sees us pass a

small chai stall that also serves vadas. Anay decides to eat two. I’m slightly more

apprehensive – given the amount of dust around, and having no idea how long

18

these vadas have been sitting there, I am about to pass on the opportunity when a

fresh batch of vadas is upended onto the pile.

Well… What’s the harm?

The vadas are easily the most delicious I’ve ever had. With steam virtually rising

from them, crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, they disappear very fast.

Add to this some excellent coconut chutney, and it is only after eating seven of

them that I can muster up the willpower to stop. We wander around for a little

while more, stopping at another place for a dosa. The curry that accompanies it

tastes suspiciously non-veg, but then the place was called Bismilla Military Hotel.

We are back at the station by 7, with close to two hours before our train departs.

We decide to pick up our backpacks and relax on the platform; the weather is

now extremely pleasant. We enter the cloakroom.

Selvam has not forgotten the morning’s promise. His first words are, “Where is

pen?”

Anay has actually bought him a pen, much to his surprise. His face breaks out

into a huge grin, and as we leave, now laden with backpacks, his parting words

are, “I am waiting your next arrival”

* * *

Travelling on the night of October 14 (the festival of Dussera) between two

southern towns – Rameswaram and Kanyakumari – that are both popular pilgrim

destinations requires booking train tickets as soon as bookings open. I did not

realise this, and despite booking tickets 59 days in advance, we were 113 and 114

on the waitlist. This waitlist position has slowly improved over the succeeding 58

days, but not enough to get us confirmed berths. We have thus been allocated

RAC seats, which essentially means that both of us are sharing a sleeping-berth.

If any passengers in the coach fail to show up, we will be given their berths.

I, however, have other plans – I want to travel in one of the unreserved coaches

for this journey for the sheer experience of travelling unreserved. Since we

anyway have to sit up all night, travelling unreserved for one journey will add

another dimension to our trip.

Unreserved is – well, to put it simply – an adventure. As the name suggests, there

are no reservations, and it is the cheapest class of travel, often the only option for

the poor. An unreserved coach is supposed to seat 90 passengers, but in any

popular train, the actual number of passengers often touches (and exceed) 300,

with passengers cramming into any space available; in the aisles, in between seats,

19

in the luggage racks, at the doors, and in extreme cases, even in the toilets. The

Rameswaram – Kanyakumari Express is unlikely to be this crowded, but one can

never really say.

As we make our way to the train, we pass the unreserved coaches at the rear.

They are not overflowing, but are full. Continuing the walk, we reach the

unreserved coaches at the front, and much to my surprise, I find the unreserved

coaches here almost empty. We stow and chain our bags to the luggage rack and

occupy two corner seats, waiting for a sudden influx of passengers.

At 8.45 pm, the train leaves, with no addition to our coach’s sparse population.

Soon, we are gingerly crossing the long Pamban Bridge again. It is nearing the

full moon and the sea is brilliantly illuminated. There is a strong breeze blowing

as we cross. My mind decides to misbehave at this point and starts to visualise

several different scenarios, all of which end with the old bridge collapsing while

the train is on it. This does not happen, and the train is soon picking up speed

into the night.

I shift from the single corner seat to a longer adjacent seat, and lie down. The

whole world will probably board at the next station and I will rudely be dislodged,

but a short nap will come in handy – I am quite tired from the day’s efforts.

But as the next stop – Paramakkudi – comes and goes, followed by

Ramanathapuram, with nobody boarding, I realise that I will have the whole seat

to myself till Madurai at least, and with this reassuring thought, I fall asleep.

* * *

11.30 pm. Madurai.

We have come to a halt, and will be here for at least 15 minutes, as the train has

to leave in the opposite direction from where it came, necessitating a

cumbersome procedure of detaching its engine and reattaching it at the other

end. I can see people boarding, but hardly the influx of people that would result

in somebody challenging my claim over a space that is essentially meant for four

passengers. Brushing away an annoying group of mosquitoes that is buzzing

around my face, I stare out groggily until the train finally leaves, now secure in the

knowledge that I can sleep all the way till Kanyakumari. Anay has also bagged

one of the longer seats and has fallen asleep.

As the train begins to gather speed and heads through several towns of Southern

Tamil Nadu, I drift into a disturbed sleep.

* * *

20

At 4 am there is an almost imperceptible reduction in speed and five minutes

later, we pull into India’s southernmost station, precisely on time. The journey

has been surprisingly comfortable, and the move to travel unreserved paid off

very well.

Kanyakumari!

* * *

21

Southern Sunrise

Kanyakumari is not a long stop on our schedule; we have just six hours before

our next train to Kochi – the Island Express – departs. The plan is to catch the

sunrise from the southernmost tip of India’s mainland.

The cloakroom at Kanyakumari station is functional even at 4.10 am, which

means we don’t have to lug our backpacks around. There is also a helpful map

that points out the major places of interest in the vicinity of the station. “Sunrise

Point” is two kilometres away, and armed with this information, we head out.

The roads are reasonably well illuminated, and – most unexpectedly – there are

quite a few shops open at this hour, including a departmental store. We stop for

a quick chai at a small stall and continue onward to Sunrise Point; a set of rocks

overlooking the sea on the eastern side of Kanyakumari. It is very dark, and save

a tea seller, it is just us and the waves. Far away, near the horizon, a few pinpricks

of light indicate the presence of several ships that have laid anchor for the night.

The Vivekananda rock is vaguely illuminated in the distance, as is the statue of

Thiruvalluvar, the legendary Tamil poet and philosopher.

I’ve always found the sound of waves crashing against the shore extremely

relaxing. I close my eyes and just listen for a few minutes. It feels surreal to think

that two days ago at this time, I was asleep at home.

As the clock ticks towards a slightly less ungodly hour, the sky begins to change

colour. From blackness to air force blue with a tinge of red, we are moving closer

to sunrise. The silence of the morning is disturbed by the sound of a motor; a

small fishing boat is heading out into the sea.

As the sky grows paler, it becomes evident that today is a cloudy morning; the sun

isn’t going to obligingly peek out from the horizon. Slightly dismayed but fairly

content to enjoy the beauty of the morning, we wait for a while. At around 6.45

am, the sun’s golden rays precede it and we spy it lurking behind a few clouds.

Not quite as dramatic as hoped, but I’ll take it!

The reason for the early riser shopkeepers and tea sellers is revealed when we

finally get up and turn around – there is a crowd of close to a hundred people

that have also gathered to watch the sunrise. Coming in this early has reaped

huge dividends – we got front row seats, and our view of the show was

unobstructed by annoying tourists.

We have plenty of time to kill, and after a leisurely breakfast of (fairly decent)

dosas at a roadside dhaba, we stroll to the southernmost tip of Kanyakumari. For

22

obvious reasons, this is a popular part of the town – this is where the Bay of

Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea meet.

There is a large market consisting primarily of stalls selling souvenirs – shells,

small conches, cheap trinkets and so on. There appears to be a fair amount of

competition between stalls, especially the “name on rice” stalls. The first one

advertises:

NAME WILL BE WRITTEN ON THE ONE RICE

A neighbouring stall has one-upped him, though:

ONE RICE TWO NAMES

This isn’t the end, though – we also encounter this:

ONE RICE FOUR NAMES

Apart from the amusement of the quarrelling stalls, there is little of interest in the

market. The southernmost tip affords a view of the three seas converging. It

does look like there is a difference in the colours of the water, but this is more

likely a result of my mind imagining that there is.

After this, we head back to the station for our two-hour wait for the onward train

to Kochi.

Kanyakumari railway station is one of the most clean, relaxed stations I’ve

happened to visit recently. It is a terminus (obviously, as trains can’t head further

south) with three platforms. We walk a hundred metres up one of the platforms

and settle on a bench in the shade. There is nobody around except a couple of

bored crows and a sweeper meticulously removing litter from the tracks.

There is a constant breeze flowing in from the sea – it is extremely cool in the

shade. Anay has a small portable speaker which we connect to my phone.

Supertramp and Led Zeppelin at Kanyakumari station might seem like an odd

mix, but it works very well. At 9.45 am, our train is brought on to the platform

and we go to our coach. We are travelling Second AC this time, significantly

more luxurious than the previous journeys.

At 10.30 am, the Island Express pulls out of Kanyakumari and starts its

northward journey. We are travelling upto Ernakulam Town, one of the closest

railway stations to Kochi. The route, passing through most of southern Kerala is

quite scenic, though the scenery is definitely going to be wasted on me. Tired

23

from the lack of sleep and yesterday’s hectic activity, I climb onto the upper berth

and am fast asleep as soon as our tickets are checked.

I wake up at 2 pm feeling hungry, and find that the train is nearing Quilon.

Hoping to find something interesting to eat, I step out when the train comes to a

halt at the station. I am reminded again how deceptive AC travel is – today

afternoon is a real scorcher.

Failing to find anything interesting at any of the stalls on the platform, lunch

becomes a packet of chocolate chip cookies. Dissatisfied, I soon fall asleep

again, as the Island Express makes it way up Kerala. At 5.45 pm, again precisely

on time, the train pulls into Ernakulam Town, bringing us to the third stop of the

trip – the first one where we stay overnight. Finally, the prospect of a shower!

* * *

24

Fort Kochi and Bob Marley

Ernakulam and Kochi are fairly close to each other, and there are several ways of

transiting between the two. When it comes to public transport, though, the

simplest – not to mention the cheapest – way is to take the ferry. Though rickety

as hell, the ferries are an extremely relaxing commute, and cost a princely Rs 4

per passenger. It looks like fares have been increased; the last time I was in

Kochi – approximately a year ago, it cost Rs 2.50 per passenger.

We catch an auto from Ernakulam station to the jetty. There is an extremely

long queue for ferry tickets, but once obtained, it is a fairly hassle-free journey to

Kochi at twilight.

Fort Kochi hardly suffers from a dearth of accommodation. On any of its

principal roads, you could chuck a stone and in all probability hit a hotel or

homestay. We have no problems finding ourselves a place to stay – in fact, I’d

say we got an excellent deal for the Rs 600/night tariff we paid; an immaculately

clean double room with an attached bathroom, a TV and a small balcony. First

things first – a shower. Three days’ worth of sweat and grime to be washed off!

* * *

At around 7.30, we head out for dinner. There is a small open-air “food court”

with several small cafes and stalls. We are beckoned to the first of these

restaurants. The waiter is a heavily bearded man with lively eyes, wearing a Bob

Marley t-shirt. Quite the showman, he is trying to impress a Spanish couple by

talking to them in Spanish. He tries his hand with French to a few French tourists

passing through. His French isn’t bad at all; I am fairly impressed.

Since I’m on the coast, I try a “fish fried rice”, which turns out to be rather

uninspiring. I’ve been on the coast for over 48 hours now without any decent

fish! Dinner done, we head back, bidding adieu to Bob Marley, as I now

remember him. My bedtime reading for tonight is the guidebook I’ve decided to

lug along for the trip. Flipping through the entries on Kochi, I find one on the

food court we’ve just eaten at.

“The food served in these cafes is notoriously unhygienic, regularly causing

stomach upsets”

Well, isn’t that nice.

* * *

I wake up the next morning to the sound of fluted music. It seems out of place

from the usual street music one tends to hear, and I spend ten minutes marvelling

25

at it, wondering what the occasion could be, until I realise Anay is playing it from

his portable speakers. Feeling stupid, I get dressed and ready for the day.

I have family in Kochi and soon get (to quote an aunt of mine) “nicely caught”.

I’m invited to a birthday party that night in Ernakulam. It sounds fun, though

Anay won’t join me for this – he plans to attend a Kathakali dance performance

that evening.

Breakfast is at the pleasant Kashi “Art Café” – definitely worth a visit if you

happen to be in Kochi. It feels so laidback that you cannot but realise that you’re

on holiday.

After breakfast and an obligatory visit to the famed Chinese fishing nets, we head

to the interestingly-named Jew Town, once home to a thriving Jew community.

The synagogue there is still a major tourist attraction, and we spend a good half-

hour in the peaceful building. There is a rather amusing police museum nearby,

along with a rather cryptic art gallery whose signage states, “Absence/Presence”.

We also visit the erstwhile Dutch palace, now a museum. It has several exhibits

of the (short lived) life of the Dutch in India, along with many murals depicting

the Ramayana. This feels far more relevant, as we were in Rameswaram just two

days ago.

The evening sees me heading to Ernakulam. The event is at the Taj; quite an

upgrade from the last few days of unreserved travel and cheap food. I spend an

enjoyable three hours there and head back to Kochi on one of the earliest cars

returning – I have an early morning tomorrow and a long journey to Wayanad.

I am almost locked out of the guesthouse as everybody has gone to sleep.

Thankfully, my persistent knocking finally bears fruit and a very sleepy proprietor

lets me in. Anay is already asleep, and without too much delay, I crash out as

well.

* * *

We are up early the next morning, and after settling the bills, head out to the jetty

to catch the ferry to Ernakulam. From Ernakulam, we take a train to

Kozhikkode followed by a two-hour bus ride to Wayanad.

It is a cool – albeit humid – morning, and the ferry jetty is rather empty. A few

people are fishing with a rudimentary assortment of tackle on the side. I watch as

a struggling crab is hauled out of the sea and deposited into a bag, never to see

the water again.

* * *

26

The journey to Kozhikkode is uneventful. We are travelling second-class non-

AC on the Jan Shatabdi Express. As our train is closely trailing a slowpoke

Intercity Express bound for Bangalore, we are frequently halted for want of

clearance. The delay balloons to half an hour at Shoranur Junction, where we

have a scheduled change of traction from an electric to a noisy diesel engine.

The new drivers are desperate to reduce the delay and we are soon flying through

the lush-green coast of the Malabar. We reach Kozhikkode ten minutes late.

* * *

27

Protests in the Hills

On reaching Kozhikkode railway station, we try to make our way to the bus stand.

A policeman helpfully points to a bus waiting just outside the station. About ten

minutes into the journey, we realise that the bus is heading somewhere else

entirely, and have to hop off at the next stop to catch an auto to the bus stand.

Autos in Kozhikkode are very cheap, so there isn’t too much damage done.

Finding the right bus to Wayanad at the main bus station is easier - there is a

Karnataka State bus bound for Mysore that will pass through Wayanad, leaving in

twenty minutes. I use this time to grab a quick lunch – Anay prefers not to eat

immediately before a long bus journey.

The bus ride begins to get scenic after an hour as we enter the hills. Another plus

is the steady drop in temperatures as we ascend – a nice respite from

Kozhikkode’s sweaty heat. Soon, we are quite high up and can see for miles.

Sadly, the bus driver appears disinclined to stop at any of the viewpoints on the

route. His strategy for tackling the numerous hairpin bends on the mountainous

road is also fairly interesting; a long blare of the horn as the bus approaches the

curve, followed by a high-speed swerve around the corner irrespective of whether

there is an answering honk from a descending vehicle. I am fairly relieved when

the hairpin bends end.

Two hours after boarding the bus, we disembark at Kalpetta, one of Wayanad’s

largest towns. It is not a particularly pleasant looking town, and I’m hoping to

find a peaceful homestay away from the centre of town. Judy, an erstwhile

classmate, is also in Kalpetta on a research project. She will be done with work in

about half an hour and we decide to walk down a quiet side road in the

meantime. After a ten minute walk, the road crosses a small brook. We sit on

the railing of the bridge, cracking silly jokes.

Anay has picked up a flower from somewhere and has it sitting out of the pocket

of his kurta. A few minutes later, a child passes by and casually – almost jauntily

– plucks the flower out of his pocket and strolls away. Anay has been deflowered,

all too literally!

We meet Judy a little while later to find out that there are no nice stay options

within walking distance – at least, none that are isolated from the noises of the

town. Our plan of arriving at a town and seeking out nice places to stay – so

successful in previous trips – has failed here. When heading to Wayanad, it

makes more sense to decide and prebook a resort located away from any of the

towns.

28

Judy has yet more cheering news – there is a dawn-to-dusk strike tomorrow as

people are protesting against the recommendations of some committee studying

environmental degradation in the region. Or maybe they’re protesting that it be

implemented. I don’t really care exactly what the issue is about – it means that

our Wayanad visit is a big fail, as we have only tomorrow in the district before

catching a train up the coast close to midnight.

Wait, will we be able to make the train? I have a momentary panic attack,

wondering if public transport back will be completely stalled tomorrow. Missing

a 31-hour journey will seriously mess up our schedule, it’s not like you can just

hop on a bus and get in a little later. I am soon reassured that the strike, like

most strikes, is from 6 am to 6 pm, leaving us with more than sufficient time to

head back to Kozhikkode to catch our onward transport. It doesn’t avert the fact

that we’re going to be stuck indoors tomorrow. We could have just spent more

time in Kochi.

Dinner is pretty bad – the food overpriced and flavourless. Kalpetta’s lodging

also leaves plenty to be desired. The Affas Lodge costs more than our lodging in

Kochi. Our room is painted a dismal shade of green and doesn’t look like it has

been cleaned any time in the recent past. The toilet is a peculiar contraption –

one that tries to be both an Indian-style and a Western-style commode. It is

essentially an elevated squat toilet. Thankfully, the room has a TV, so we can be

assured of some mindless entertainment tomorrow.

* * *

We are woken up at 5 am by insistent knocking on the door. I’m not too

enthusiastic about opening it so ignore the knocking until it eventually stops.

Later, we find out that the adjacent room had asked for an early wake-up call and

the staff had confused rooms.

The morning is fairly lazy. I read William Dalrymple’s, “City of Djinns” while

Anay flips channels on TV. I deduce there aren’t too many non-vernacular

channels showing when he settles on Friends with Benefits. It obviously isn’t a

captivating movie as I can see he’s pretty distracted. I return to my book. Since

I’m going to be in Delhi in a week or so, why not read a bit about its long history?

As no restaurants will be open until the evening, my (extremely nutritious)

breakfast is a packet of Hide and Seek biscuits.

A while later, I notice the TV has been switched off. I didn’t hear any ending

credits.

“What happened? Got bored?”

29

“That yes, but the movie’s over. There’s a break now, and they’ll make you wait

till it gets over for the credits,”

“Oh”

“Bastards”

Both of us say this simultaneously, and burst out laughing.

* * *

In the afternoon we get bored of sitting in the room and decide go for a short

walk. Everything is peaceful outside; this doesn’t appear to the ‘smash everything

down’ kind of strike. The roads are empty, spare the occasional truck heading

towards Kozhikkode. After about ten minutes of walking, we veer off the main

road onto a small road leading through several coffee estates. This is the

tranquillity we sought when we decided to visit Wayanad, not the ugliness of

Kalpetta. Oh well, the next time I visit (and there will be a next time), I’ll know

what to do here, strike or no strike.

Apart from a suspicious cat and a couple of workers, we encounter nobody on

the walk – not that we’re complaining. After about twenty minutes of walking

down the twisty road, we reach a small village full of political posters. Everything

is in Malayalam, but we decide to avoid heading further into possible enthusiastic

protestors and head back to Affas Lodge.

* * *

At 6 pm the town springs to life. We do too; we have a two hour bus journey

back to Kozhikkode, followed by dinner and the wait for our train to

Ahmedabad, which is scheduled to depart shortly after midnight.

There appear to be no Kozhikkode-bound buses that start from Kalpetta at this

point, necessitating a wait for a passing-through bus. After about twenty minutes

of waiting, a crowded bus shows up. Other passengers at the bus stand confirm

that it is indeed bound for Kozhikkode, but just as I am about to enter the bus, a

passenger asks me something in Malayalam. I have no idea what he’s saying, so

just go with the safe answer of “Kozhikkode”.

This doesn’t appear to work. He fires off a rapid sentence in Malayalam

followed by vigorous pointing, and as I stare, bewildered, the door of the bus is

slammed shut and it zooms out.

“What was that about?”

“Beats me”

30

I look resentfully at the departing bus. Inhabitants of the bus are still looking at

me and I watch, I can still see them gesturing, pointing in the opposite direction.

“Oh wait, I think I know what’s going on”

And yes, there is another bus closely following the first. It is almost empty, too, a

significantly more enticing prospect than standing for two hours. We get in, wave

goodbye to Judy, who has come to see us off, and settle down. For the first time

in the trip, I’m actually feeling chilly; there’s a strong, cold breeze blowing in

through the windows of the bus.

Thankfully, a rather slow truck is just ahead of our bus, preventing our driver

from trying out any fancy night manoeuvres on the hilly road. I soon pull out my

headphones and listen to music; this also has the effect of insulating my ears from

the constant breeze. As AC/DC salutes those about to rock, the bus passes one

of the many viewpoints on the road, with the seemingly never ending valley

illuminated by the silvery moonlight – tonight is a full moon night.

* * *

I’ve asked some of my friends from the area for restaurant recommendations in

Kozhikkode with a fairly universal answer: the Paragon Restaurant. This is also

the first suggestion in my guidebook, so it is a fairly easy choice. A short auto ride

from the bus station takes us there. Its location is less than charming, the

restaurant being situated under a flyover, but as we enter, the bustling atmosphere

of the restaurant suggests that it is a popular – and probably good – eatery.

Starved of fish despite being on the coast for over three days, I order a fried fish;

this time rewarded with an absolutely delicious one. I lose no time in repeating

my order. I help myself to Anay’s vegetarian dish as well – helpings are most

generous. This has easily been the best meal of the trip so far – I’m not sure

Rameswaram’s vadas could be considered a meal per se.

Satiated, we walk to the railway station. We have plenty of time before our train

arrives, and find our platform without too much trouble. I find a bench roughly

where I expect our coach to stop and we settle down. Apart from a few other

passengers and a small group of boys who appear to be sniffing something up in a

dark corner, the platform is fairly empty. Well, there are two hours left…

The boys – they look fairly young – have come up to us and are requesting for

something; I suspect water. Anay is too lazy to attempt communication and just

says, “Malayalam no”. Unimpressed, they go away.

31

As the midnight hour draws close, the platform begins to fill up. An elderly

gentleman has arrived with a large entourage of friends and a zillion bags. Anay

immediately notices something I’ve missed. The man has no right arm.

* * *

32

Confident Men

We are due for a long journey now; it is a 31 hour journey to Ahmedabad from

Kozhikkode on the Okha Express. Visiting Ahmedabad wasn’t part of the intial

plan, which was to head straight to Udaipur from Wayanad, but there is no direct

train, and train connections dictate that we must spend a whole day in

Ahmedabad. At 12.20 am our train is announced as “arriving shortly” and five

minutes later, it pulls in, right on time.

Trains that are maintained in Kerala – like the Okha Express which we are taking

tonight – are notorious for old coaches and poor maintenance. As the train slows

down to a halt, it appears our train is no exception – most coaches are close to a

decade old, and the rake bears a general layer of grime. Our Second AC coach is

older than I am!

We board. A few minutes later, the one-armed gentleman enters with his retinue

of helpers. Somehow, all the luggage manages to find space in the four-berth

cabin. It soon transpires that he is travelling alone. The fourth person in our

cabin boarded at Ernakulam, the train’s origin. He is meticulously reading a

study guide of some sort. During the entire 31 hour journey, he leaves his upper

berth just twice.

The one-armed gentleman appears to be fairly chatty, and soon asks us where

we’re travelling. He is travelling pretty much the same distance, getting off a stop

earlier in the suburbs of Ahmedabad. Ten minutes into the journey, I know his

name (Aneesh), the purpose of his travel, his place of work, and that he has two

kids. The ticket examiner appears and verifies our reservations, and as the train

rocks its way up the Malabar Coast, everybody falls asleep.

* * *

I wake up a little after 7 am to find the train standing at a small station called

Senapura. While everybody was asleep, the train has passed Mangalore and

Udupi, and we’re back in Karnataka again – for the next few hours at least. We

are now on the Konkan Railway – the coastal railway line connecting Mangalore

and Mumbai – one of India’s most scenic rail routes. The train is well-timed to

enjoy the scenery; for pretty much the whole day, it will pass through dense

forests, span large rivers and dissect innumerable mountains. After a while,

another trains hurries past in the opposite direction, and we’re cleared to

proceed.

Aneesh springs to life as the train is crossing the massive bridge at Honnavar.

Buying me a cup of tea, he tells me about his life. He has spent several years

living in Tanzania. He also shuttles between India and Canada, where he used to

33

be a professor at a prominent university. His wife works there as well, and both

his children are employed (salaries duly mentioned). He has opinions on pretty

much anything, and soon asks me what I think will happen in the upcoming

general elections. Not particularly enthusiastic to be drawn into a political

argument, I venture the most diplomatic, safe opinion I can. Aneesh appears to

be satisfied with this view, and proceeds to volunteer his as well. He feels

“something bad might happen” to Modi and in response to my quizzical look,

says that he is sure Advani will not tolerate the rapid rise of his protégé; one that

threatens Advani himself, the claim bolstered with several (uncomplimentary)

metaphors of the man. He claims his hunches are always well-founded, and

offers this clincher. Lowering his voice and looking around furtively, he says, “I

had this same feeling of danger towards Bhutto during the previous elections in

Pakistan”

Fair enough, I guess. The elections are still two months away at the time of

writing this (February 2014), so there is plenty of time before this prediction can

be either proved or disproved.

An attendant from the pantry car arrives, asking if we’d like to order lunch. Anay

and I decline, not particularly keen on bland pantry car food. Aneesh and the

quiet man on the other upper berth both order veg meals. I am hoping that the

train will be early at Madgaon (Goa), where it has a scheduled ten-minute stop

just before noon, and that it will arrive on platform 1, where I know we can pick

lunch up from the fairly decent station restaurant. However, the Okha Express is

most uncooperative. Not only is it over half an hour late at Madgaon, it is

brought onto platform 2, platform 1 being occupied by the more important Jan

Shatabdi Express to Mumbai. I have no desire to run across the overbridge to

platform 1 and order food, all at the risk of suddenly watching the train leave

without me.

I search for a vendor on the platform, passing the gaggle of disembarking

passengers, one with a message on his t-shirt: When God Made Me, He Must

Have Been Showing Off (I have my doubts on this one). It looks like there is

almost nothing to eat apart from sandwiches and junk food. Oh well, such is life.

Back in the coach, Aneesh is – with great enthusiasm – telling Anay about some

sort of ‘blood chutney’ he has eaten in Tanzania. Apparently, this blood chutney

is created by boiling the blood of some animal – I think a goat – and adding an

equal quantity of oil. The mixture is then left to simmer until it reaches the

consistency of – well, chutney. Even a few bites of this chutney will leave you full

for a few days. He is less effusive about the lunch served from the pantry,

throwing it away after a few bites.

The halt at Madgaon eventually stretches to over half an hour – I could easily

have got some food from the restaurant – and as the afternoon hits its peak, we

34

resume our northward voyage up the coast. Everybody is a little drowsy after

lunch, and there is relative peace in the cabin for the next two hours. I in

particular am tired; I feel a cold coming on. It could be a result of the frequent

changes of weather, or an allergy of some sort. The AC in the coach isn’t helping

matters much – it has an annoying habit of switching itself off until everybody

feels warm; then switching itself back on with such enthusiasm that the coach

begins to resemble an icebox.

Somewhere in the afternoon the train loses time, and by the time we reach our

next important halt, Ratnagiri, we are running an hour and fifteen minutes late. I

pick up some peanuts and some bhajjis from a stall on the platform. Aneesh has

an opinion about the peanuts as well – they are not a patch on the ones found in

Tanzania. This conversation soon devolves into one on the flora of Tanzania

and after a point, in an effort to not have to continue the conversation I pretend

to doze off, leaving Anay to continue the chat. Soon, I actually do fall asleep.

The last thing I remember of the conversation seems a bit incongruous; Aneesh

saying something about how abstinence is very difficult.

I wake up around sunset. The scenery has grown wilder – the train is within

touching distance of a small range of hills, and we pass a waterfall at close range.

I stand at the door for a while, watching the sun set over the Western Ghats. The

sky turns a brilliant shade of pink, slowly changing to a dark shade of blue as the

sun disappears for the day. We’ve made up some time as well, only 45 minutes

late at Mangaon, our next halt. I head back to our cabin, sneezing a few times on

the way. Yes, a cold appears imminent.

I have missed a bizarre conversation during my nap. Soon after I fell asleep, the

topic switched from Tanzania’s horticulture to Aneesh himself. He begins to talk

about his numerous woman friends, most of who are significantly younger than

him. He is, after all, fairly old – I would estimate him to be in his late fifties or

early sixties. He is fairly proud of his skills with women; especially chatting them

up. This is not arrogance, he assures Anay.

“It is not priding, it is confidence!”

This isn’t the end of the conversation, though. Aneesh is the model of propriety;

he would never take advantage of these young female friends – probably the point

where I heard the comment about abstinence.

“Even if she strips, I will not touch her! Even if she says ‘take it’, I will not take

it!”

I wonder how I would have reacted had I been awake. I suspect I would have

been lost for words, a rather rare phenomenon.

35

As the evening turns to night, my cold progressively gets worse. The medicines

and antihistamines I’m carrying have no effect on what I suspect is an allergic

reaction to something. The sneezes are gaining frequency, and I decide to turn in

early, hoping it will blow over by morning.

Aneesh hits the nail on the head, as usual.

“You are having bad cold”

* * *

The train gets further delayed in the night – it appears to have very low priority

north of Mumbai. Aneesh disappears about half an hour before the train is

supposed to reach Maninagar, his stop. Half asleep at that point, I wonder later

how he managed to get his many bags and suitcases out. He must have spent a

long time at the door; the Okha Express is now crawling, being stopped at

practically every signal. It eventually reaches Maninagar, and half an hour of

crawling later, arrives at Ahmedabad over an hour late.

I hop off, looking around. Then I sneeze.

“Hey, we never found out how he lost his arm!”

* * *

36

Sick in Ahmedabad

Ahmedabad, like Rameswaram, is a full day stop, but not an overnight stop – our

metre gauge train to Udaipur is at 11 the same night. Thus, we are not checking

into a hotel or guesthouse for the day – we will leave our bags at the cloakroom

and spend the day exploring the city.

Or at least, that was the plan. After breakfast, we wander around the old city for

an hour. My cold/allergy makes this less than fun – it is difficult to concentrate

on anything when you’re sneezing every few minutes. I have a slight headache as

well and am soon too tired to continue walking. Since we have no hotel

organised for the day, the simplest refuge is the railway station. I flop down on a

chair in the unreserved waiting room. The sneezing attack and headache are

worsening to the point that even thinking becomes a chore. Out of sheer

desperation, I try to sleep. This is difficult – the design of the chairs is hardly

conducive to lying down, and every few minutes, an announcement about an

arriving or departing train is shouted out on the PAS. Somehow amidst this

chaos, I fall asleep – I’m not really sure how.

We head to a nearby dhaba for lunch. I am not hungry at all and just have a

plate of dal rice. This actually helps a lot; I feel a lot more energetic, though not

energetic enough to explore the city. We head back to the station. The

unreserved waiting room has no toilet, so I head to the reserved waiting room

next door. The official manning the entrance asks to see my ticket.

“This is an AC ticket. Go to the AC waiting room at the end of this platform”

“But I’m not well; I really don’t want the AC”

“You cannot use this waiting room. This is for non-AC sleeper class passengers”

“But my ticket is for a higher class. Why can’t I use this waiting room?”

“Go! Go!”

Apparently the luxury of air-conditioning is mandatory here. We sit in the AC

waiting room for a couple of hours, after which it gets a little too cold for my

liking. We relocate to one of the platforms.

Ahmedabad is not the most charming station. It is incredibly dirty – though a

massive drive to revamp the station appears underway – and the stench of urine

from the tracks is overpowering. I will be quite happy to see the back of this

station.

37

* * *

At 10 pm, the Udaipur Express is shunted onto platform 11. This is a metre

gauge train – much narrower than any of the previous trains we’ve taken. From

the outside, the train hardly looks charming – our Second AC coach is 25 years

old and maroon in colour, with the paint peeling off near the windows. It looks

like a relic from one of the world wars; one that has narrowly escaped being

bombed.

The inside, though, is a different story – the coach care depot at Ahmedabad has

taken some care to refurbish and maintain the coach. It is pretty clean and

divided into cabins that can be locked from the inside. The berths are far more

comfortable than those in the last train; the bedding is crisp and clean. At 11 pm,

the train makes a slow departure from Ahmedabad.

We are shifted from our original cabin (D) by the TTE to another cabin (A).

The other occupants of the cabin are a couple of quiet foreigners. I spread out

the bedding and sink into my berth with a sigh of relief – this has easily been the

worst day of the trip. Soon, the cabin lights are switched off. Outside, it is pitch

dark, the only source of light being the dim headlights of our engine.

* * *

38

Luxury in Udaipur

Since the train only gets into Udaipur at 9.20 am, I sleep in late, waking up only at

8. The sleep has done me well; I feel far more refreshed and relaxed this

morning. Anay tells me I’ve missed some fantastic scenery. The metre gauge

line from Ahmedabad to Udaipur passes through the Aravalli hills, and earlier

that morning, there were spectacular views of the valleys to be had.

Cursing, I head to the door. The train is trotting along at 30kmph (I suspect that

is the speed limit on this section) through pretty – if not especially scenic – fields.

After a while, we come to a dead halt in the middle of nowhere for seemingly no

reason, allowing me to hop off and take a few pictures. After a while, we’re

allowed to proceed. Soon, signs of civilisation begin to appear, until it becomes

obvious we’ve entered the city of Udaipur. At 9.15 am, five minutes ahead of

schedule, the train arrives at the station.

The auto driver we flag down is desperate to put us up in the city proper – no

doubt he gets the highest commission from some hotel there. Having been to

Udaipur earlier, both of us agree that there is no point staying far away from

either of its lakes. We know that the Hanuman Ghat area has a generous amount

of hotels, so tell him to take us there. It appears that he’s tied up with a hotel

there as well; soon highly recommending a place called the Wonder View Palace.

I am sceptical of any place with a name like that, but there’s no harm in looking.

* * *

The Wonder View Palace turns out to be a fairly nice hotel just next to Lake

Pichola. On arriving, the canny receptionist first shows me one of the fanciest

rooms in the hotel. It is on the second floor, with huge windows overlooking the

lake. It is AC, has a comfortable double bed as well as a small sit-out on the side.

The bathroom has – luxury of luxuries – a bathtub!

“How much for this?”

“Two thousand five hundred per night,”

My look of horror gets the message across. Since today is a Monday, hardly a day

of the week with high guest traffic, he senses that he might lose a potential

customer.

“I can bring it down to two thousand two hundred,”

He also shows me some of the cheaper rooms on the floor, none of which

command a view of the lake.

39

I mull over this for a few minutes. Anay has decided to wait downstairs in the

auto, telling me he’s fine with whatever choice I make. This is certainly more

than any of our previous lodgings, but could certainly justify the price. We will

also save money later in Delhi as both of us will be staying with friends. There is

no point, I think, in being so stingy that you lose out on a fairly good deal. Oh,

what the hell.

“Okay, we’ll take it”

* * *

Anay is initially a bit surprised by my expensive choice, but the room talks for

itself. A relaxing bath does wonders for the mood. My allergy has not totally

disappeared, but is behaving much better. I decide to not do too much today lest

it decide to return with a vengeance. It is important I stay in good health at this

point – our next stop will involve several local buses and a lot of walking.

City of Djinns is polished off and I move on to my next book. After a while,

Anay decides to out for a stroll. I decline, and in a fit of laziness order room

service. The food isn’t too bad, but definitely is overpriced. Seeing the number

of restaurants in the vicinity, I doubt I will eat here again.

An afternoon siesta sees me feeling much better. In the evening, we decide to

take a ride to the Karni Mata temple. To get there, you take a cable car up the

hill, with excellent views of the city. The plan is to go around sunset, but a slight

delay in departure means that the sun has set long before we reach the bottom of

the ropeway. The drop in temperatures that succeeds the sunset is quite

remarkable – there is a sudden chill in the air, a sudden reminder that winter is

approaching.

There isn’t too much of a crowd when we go; the cable cars are fairly empty. It is

a ten minute ride up the hill with the twinkling lights of Udaipur visible in the

distance. There is a small restaurant at the top of the hill, with two pathways

leading to the shrine and a higher viewpoint respectively. The Karni Mata temple

itself is not crowded at all. I wonder how many people using the cable cars

actually go to the shrine. In all probability the majority of visitors just want to ride

the cable car and look at Udaipur from the hill – admittedly, this majority

includes me.

Dinner is at a restaurant called ‘Millets of Mewar’, about five minutes away from

our hotel. It has a rooftop terrace with a few tables. The weather is fairly

pleasant and service is prompt. I order some mushroom noodles.

40

I wake up in the middle of the night with an upset stomach. Evidently I can’t

catch a break with the allergies and illnesses.

* * *

Our train to Jaipur is at 10.20 pm tonight, and as we don’t want to spend another

two grand for half a day in the room, we check out twelve hours earlier. The

hotel offers to safeguard our bags for the day. I’m feeling quite tired and slightly

dehydrated from the stomach bug and decide to just sit in the lobby of the hotel

after buying some Electral.

I am not really sure how we ended up at a rooftop restaurant for lunch. Not that

a rooftop is a problem in itself, but climbing four flights of stairs can be extremely

daunting when you’re down with a bad stomach. I guess neither of us realised

how high up the roof was, and by the time I reach the restaurant, I’m absolutely

exhausted. Thankfully the place is almost empty, and the staff let us chill there

for over three hours. In this time, I down an entire bottle of Electral-water mix.

* * *

At around 5 pm, we head to Udaipur’s other lake – Fateh Sagar – where the plan

is to watch the sunset. There isn’t any decent place to sit, and in the absence of

shade, I soon feel too tired to hang around, opting to head back into Udaipur.

We decide to meet again around dinnertime.

Back in Udaipur, I kill time at an internet café for a while. I also drop off a few

postcards into a post box that looks like it hasn’t been opened in the last decade.

Finally, I head to a lakeside restaurant and order a soup (bad). Anay gets back

and we meet for dinner. His evening has been more fruitful than mine – after

watching the sunset, he decided to walk back from the lake and found a very

interesting curio shop.

The place where we have dinner has a whole bunch of comfortable diwans, and I

stretch out on one. Finally, we head back to the Wonder View Palace, pick up

our bags, and head to the station.

* * *

The Khajuraho Express – which we will be taking to Jaipur – is a popular train for

tourists, and our cabin-mates turn out to be a large group of French travellers also

bound for Jaipur. The train departs on time and is soon speeding out of

Udaipur.

Sanjeev Malik is a rather sloppy looking ticket examiner. His paunch is most

generous, and he lacks the black coat that most TTEs wear. He isn’t carrying a

clipboard and his reservation charts are spilling all over the place. When turning

41

over any of the pages of his charts, he sticks his pen in his mouth. I am not sure

whether professional displeasure or amusement is a better approach.

I have the upper berth tonight, settling down and falling asleep quite fast. The

Khajuraho Express is well maintained and enjoys good priority in Rajasthan,

reaching Jaipur a minute ahead of schedule.

It appears that I’ve missed another interesting train event while asleep. At some

point in the night, one of the French guys must have rolled over in his sleep,

inadvertently bumping into his music player stored in the berth pouch. This

causes it to start playing what initially appears to be a Frank Sinatra song, before

(rather bizarrely) metamorphosing into a metal version of the same song. This

has the effect of waking up most of the coach except, well, me. The other French

travellers, mortified, wake him up and tell him to turn it off.

* * *

42

No Ghosts, Just a View

Our initial plan was to take a later train to Jaipur and spend half the day there

before catching the overnight train to Amritsar. Having visited Jaipur before and

not being too enamoured, it just happens to be a pit stop to change trains – a bit

like Katpadi (which feels like an eternity earlier) and Ahmedabad. There is no

direct train between Udaipur and Amritsar.

However, a little while after booking, I come across a very interesting place fairly

close to Jaipur – the ruined fort of Bhangarh. It is not a particularly well-known

destination, and I suspect not too many of you would have heard of it earlier. It

is, however, quite famous for a very specific reason – it is supposedly one of

India’s most haunted places.

So what is the back story behind these ghosts? There are two legends about how

the town was abandoned; you can choose whichever one you prefer. The first

story goes that the place was initially inhabited only by a sorcerer. When the

royal family of the existing dynasty wanted to build a town in the area, the

sorcerer allowed its construction with a caveat – should the shadows of any of its

buildings or palaces touch his dwelling, the town would cease to exist. At a later

point in time, an ignorant descendant of the family did just that – raised the height

of the palace to the extent that the sorcerer’s dwelling was covered in shadow. It

appears he wasn’t bluffing when he said he would curse the town, and it was soon

destroyed and abandoned.

The second story is slightly more predictable, and goes like this: a tantric lusted

for one of the princesses living in the palace. He was aware that there was no

chance whatsoever that he would be able to get her to love him voluntarily, so he

cast a spell on some massage oil of the princess’. Somehow – the legend doesn’t

elaborate on this part – the princess saw him enchanting the oil, and threw it at a

stone. This caused the stone to roll down the hill, eventually crushing the wicked

tantric. His dying words were a death curse upon the entire town with no chance

of rebirth. A year later, there was a war between two opposing dynasties during

which Bhangarh was sacked.

There are reports of lights in Bhangarh’s fort when nobody should be there, not

to mention tales that the (now ruined) marketplace comes to life at night. The

Archaeological Survey of India had initially put up a rather odd sign at the

entrance to the area:

ENTERING THE BORDERS OF BHANGARH BEFORE SUNRISE AND

AFTER SUNSET IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED

43

This was not the smartest thing to do, since this caused many people to believe

that even the government had acknowledged the existence of the paranormal in

Bhangarh. The number of thrill-seekers visiting the area after sunset increased

exponentially. It is also said that none of these thrill-seekers ever returned, a la

Bermuda Triangle. How true these rumours are, I’m not really sure – I don’t

know anybody who either went there after dark and survived to tell the tale (or,

conversely, disappeared without trace). We aren’t visiting to challenge

Bhangarh’s ghostliness, especially since our train to Amritsar is from Jaipur at 8

pm the same night.

Finding out how to get to Bhangarh was rather a challenge, requiring a fair

amount of my public transport skills. Most accounts of Bhangarh online are by

people who drove there, so directions to the fort simply told me which roads

would take me there, with no mention of whether local buses headed there as

well. The Rajasthan State Road Transport Corporation website refused to

acknowledge the existence of Bhangarh at all.

This forced me to break the route down into two parts – Jaipur to the closest

major town to Bhangarh, followed by an investigation into whether there were

local buses from this town to Bhangarh.

This town turned out to be a place called Dausa, about 60 km from Jaipur. A

road from Dausa headed northward to Bhangarh, and on investigating further on

Google Maps, I found that there was a village called Gola Ka Bas fairly close to

the fort. The RSRTC website admitted that Gola Ka Bas existed, but insisted

that it operated no bus on the route. Wondering if the only way to get to

Bhangarh was to take a taxi or auto from Dausa, I finally realised what I was

doing wrong – I was searching for reserved buses between the two places. On

searching for unreserved buses between Dausa and Gola Ka Bas, I received the

heartening news that there was a bus every half hour or so (it also says there was

only one bus back, but I make the fairly rational assumption that a bus going to

Gola Ka Bas must come back from it, unless the ghosts of Bhangarh devour them

all).

The planning aspect of the Bhangarh leg of our trip was complete, but there was a

good chance the Bhangarh visit would be cancelled – if I didn’t feel well enough,

a very hectic day would make life miserable for me. Thankfully, I have been very

careful with my stomach on the second day in Udaipur, and the frequent

hydration has done me well. I finally certify myself fit to make the trip.

Reaching Jaipur at 6 am by the Khajuraho Express, we encounter our first

roadblock – the lady at the cloakroom refused to accept Anay’s backpack on the

grounds that it wasn’t locked. Cloakroom rules clearly stipulated that only locked

luggage can be accepted for safekeeping. My backpack has a set of zippers that

44

open/close it, and a small combination lock is enough to satisfy most cloakroom

staff. Anay’s backpack, on the other hand, opens/closes from the top by means

of a drawstring – a bit like a pyjama. It is impossible to ‘lock’ this, and Anay has

attempted to allay the suspicions of cloakroom staff by tying the backpack with a

long chain and a fat lock. The cloakroom lady is undeceived.

“A big lock means nothing; anybody can open this bag. Either you lock it

properly, or take your bag with you,”

With no option, Anay elects to carry his backpack for the day. This is going to be

quite tiring; we have a lot of walking to do.

Reaching the bus stop early enough and enquiring about the next bus to Dausa,

we are beckoned into a waiting bus by a conductor. It leaves pretty soon and isn’t

crowded. The weather is nice and the roads are in excellent condition. This is

going suspiciously well, and the good run is soon broken when we realise the

conductor has misunderstood our destination. Twenty minutes after leaving the

bus stand, we find out the bus is actually bound for Kota. We are forced to hop

off the bus, backtrack to a previous bus station, and catch another bus that is

actually bound for Dausa this time. We are still reasonably early; it isn’t even 8

am.

The road to Dausa is in great condition, and even the rickety old bus manages to

cover the 60 km stretch in an hour. A short tea stop later, we transfer to another

bus stand in the town from where the buses to Gola Ka Bas (which most people

pronounce “Golabaaz”) depart. It isn’t much trouble finding one, though the bus

takes forever to leave. We are now well and truly off the usual tourist beat, in a

heavily turbanned bus heading down a narrow road.

We reach Gola Ka Bas and ask for directions to Bhangarh fort. There are a few

seconds of anxiety; what if my calculations (and Google Maps) are all wrong, and

there’s no such place nearby? Thankfully, this isn’t the case; Bhangarh is a three

kilometre walk away.

The entrance to the area of Bhangarh has the usual signs from the Archaeological

Survey – the place should not be defaced or damaged in any way. The sign

strictly prohibiting entry to the area after sunset has been replaced with a far

tamer one that simply states visiting hours are from sunrise to sunset.

Passing through the entrance, the first sight is a small shrine on the right. It

appears to be still in use; signs of habitation and recent worship are evident.

Ahead of us is a massive complex of ruined buildings and walls. Most walls are

waist high – I suspect they were higher and have either been demolished or just

subject to the vagaries of nature for several centuries. It is quite an interesting

45

sight, reminding me of several explorer video games. A few buildings have

managed to withstand the destruction; some are two stories high. There aren’t

too many people around – apart from the security at the entrance, there are a few

goatherds and several cows lurking around in the shade.

Moving in further, we encounter yet another temple – this in the middle of a large

garden. I have to say, the place seems very pleasant and is quite peaceful.

Internet accounts of Bhangarh say that many visitors report a ‘queasy’ feeling, but

my ghost radar is extremely silent this afternoon. There is a large troupe of

rhesus monkeys frolicking around the garden. They are fairly well behaved

though and don’t bother us in the least bit.

At the end of the complex, in the backdrop of a cluster of hills, lies the Bhangarh

fort-palace. It looks quite grim even in the middle of the afternoon. If this was a

movie, this would be the part where they play dark, suspenseful music.

The fort is quite big and spans several stories. A few raucous tourists have

entered the complex. I can hear them emitting ear-splitting whoops, probably

trying to emphasise their manliness. This would be a good time for the ghosts of

Bhangarh to swoop down upon them and shut them up, but it appears the ghosts

are strictly nocturnal. We ascend further, using the fort’s narrow staircases. On

reaching the top, we realise the fort is on the hillock to the some extent – it is

definitely on a raised platform. The view from the top is magnificent; miles and

miles of green countryside with very few buildings to interrupt the view. I can see

how it would be difficult to attack the area without being spotted, though – if you

believe the account of the tantric and the princess, this is exactly what happened.

We get a good view of the complex as well – the idiotic tourists are now taking

thousands of selfies on the lawn.

* * *

The journey back is fairly uneventful – we get a bus to Dausa without too much

trouble, and the onward connection to Jaipur is also hassle-free. We have a few

hours to kill and head to one of Jaipur’s bazaars, picking up a few trinkets for

friends and family back home. After walking around for a bit after that, we have

an early dinner at a small café before catching an auto to the station. I recover my

bag from the cloakroom, and we wait on the platform for the train to arrive. It is

Anay’s turn to feel unwell – the tiring day definitely aggravating whatever it is he

has.

* * *

The Ajmer – Amritsar Express arrives ten minutes early. I don’t have very high

expectations from this train, and am quite surprised to find the coaches new and

extremely well-maintained. The reservation system has somehow managed to

46

split up almost every group travelling in our coach, and there is a fair amount of

confusion in the aisles with several seat-shifting requests being made. This

happens to us as well, but as the seats we’ve been asked to relocate to are better

than the ones we initially had, this is hardly a problem. We are travelling Third

AC this time, and after the last three Second AC journeys, the class feels

positively cramped. We depart punctually, and in little time the short train is

speeding through Rajasthan on its way to Punjab. Just before I fall asleep, the

train pulls into a small station for a scheduled halt. I peer out. It is a familiar

sight; we are at Dausa.

* * *

I wake up at 6.30 am to find the train pulling out of Dhuri. We are now in

Punjab - the tenth state we are passing through or visiting on the trip. It appears

to be quite a foggy morning, but not foggy enough to deter our drivers – we are

trotting along at a respectable clip of around 80kmph. I go back to sleep.

I wake up again to find the train pulling into Ludhiana. This is supposed to be a

twenty minute stop, but drags on for well past the scheduled time. A whole host

of vendors are passing through the coach hawking breakfast. Just when I decide

to actually buy something – an hour into the halt – the train starts moving.

Eventually we reach Amritsar 52 minutes behind schedule.

* * *

47

Of Temples and Jingoism

It takes a little while to find a decent (but not awfully expensive) place to stay in

Amritsar. The place we finally find isn’t too far away from the station and is fairly

close to the Jallianwala Bagh and Golden Temple as well.

We spend most of the morning relaxing, especially since Anay isn’t feeling too

great. In the evening he perks up and we head to the Jallianwala Bagh.

* * *

The Jallianwala Bagh is a garden in the heart of Amritsar and is famous for all the

wrong reasons. In 1919, when India was still under British rule, a group of non-

violent protestors were at the garden, despite the fact that the British had called a

curfew. It was the thirteenth of April; the time of the festival of Baisakhi.

The Jallianwala Bagh has a few entrances; most are narrow; many were kept

permanently locked at the time, and a high wall deters any other way of entering

or exiting. On hearing that the curfew was being defied, the British Brigadier-

General Reginald Dyer decided to teach the protestors – or, for that matter, the

whole of India – a lesson. Surrounding all usable entrances to the garden, he

ordered his army to open fire on the protestors – firing to kill. In the melee,

several protestors threw themselves into a well located in the Bagh to avoid being

shot, killing themselves anyway. It is estimated that over a thousand people died

in the massacre, which was brilliantly portrayed in the movie ‘Gandhi’. As such, I

was quite excited to finally visit the garden and see for myself first-hand how this

happened.

The Jallianwala Bagh, however, is a big disappointment. Some idiot in the tourist

department had at some point decided to beautify the place, and when we walk

in, we are greeted by what appears to be a park. Manicured lawns, paved paths

with steel railings, and to top it off, a “memorial” for the deceased in the centre

that looks – well, phallic. While the bullet marks on some walls were still

preserved (and highlighted), the revamp of the Bagh makes it hard to picture the

scene as it happened. Even the well has been carefully meshed up; you can

hardly see the inside of it.

On the plus side, the Harmandir Sahib (better known to most people as the

Golden Temple) – one the holiest sites for the Sikh community – is less than a

two minute walk away. We appear to have gone at the perfect time – it is twilight;

a deliciously cool evening, and the evening prayers are being sung.

I think what particularly strikes me is the degree of organisation and efficiency of

the temple. There are several counters for safely storing shoes, ensuring that

48

nobody has to wait for long in the queue. A standing rule is that your head must

be covered when you’re inside the Golden Temple, and to ensure that nobody is

disadvantaged by this, you can also pick up a bandana to cover your head at the

counter free of charge. The entrances to the temple are wide – we enter through

the northeastern gate – and in spite of the large number of people streaming in, it

doesn’t feel crowded at all.

At the centre of the structure is the Hari Mandir or divine temple; the gold-plated

building that usually comes to mind when visualising the Golden Temple. One

might think the gold plating would make it look gaudy, but it actually looks quite

elegant and regal. The Hari Mandir is surrounded on three sides by a pool of

sacred water known as the Amrit Sarovar (pool of nectar). There is a bridge on

the northwestern quadrant that allows pilgrims to cross over into the Mandir.

The area around this pool is paved with marble, and this is where we sit for a

while, just looking at the Mandir. People are walking around; people are sitting;

people are touching the holy water; people are joining in the prayers – the

atmosphere feels very spiritual. It helps that (barring the Hari Mandir), it is open-

air, not feeling claustrophobic at all.

Hefty Sikh guards are walking around with spears, so you probably wouldn’t want

to try anything too smart.

After about half an hour of soaking in the atmosphere, we decide to head inside

the Hari Mandir itself. This being a Sikh temple, there are no restrictions on

people of other faiths entering.

The lines to enter the Mandir are longer, but the way the queues are being

managed is quite efficient. There is no pushing and shoving and guards closely

monitor the inflow into the divine temple. The inside is slightly crowded as it’s

enclosed, but the crowd is moving forward at a steady pace and there’s still no

pushing and shoving. We get to see the prayers being sung out in relative peace

by heading up to a quieter balcony on the second floor.

After spending close to two hours at the Golden Temple, we finally head out.

Before heading back, we decide to eat at the langar (“free kitchen”) next door.

The degree of efficiency is – yet again – extremely impressive. The langar

consists of several rows of mats inside a large hall. Once all places are filled up,

the doors are closed until the group inside has finished eating.

The first volunteer distributes plates and tumblers. He is quickly followed by

another volunteer handing out rotis. Another volunteer distributes some sort of

sweet rice (the exact name of which I can’t recall) along with black dal. The last

volunteer wheels around an interesting contraption – it resembles a large steel

cylinder. A nozzle protrudes from its left side. He stops his machine in front of

49

each diner. A quick press of a level causes water to flow out of the nozzle straight

into our empty tumblers, simplifying a process that might otherwise have resulted

in a lot of water slopping around the canteen. In twenty five minutes the entire

group of diners is finished and we head out through a different exit, leaving our

plates to be washed by a massive group of volunteers.

We catch a cycle rickshaw to the main road, switching to a share auto to take us

back to our hotel. Sleep comes easily.

* * *

There is no major plan for the next morning so we just sleep in. A little later, I

venture out to the local market in search of a set of handkerchiefs – the previous

allergies rendering them unusable far faster than I can get them washed. This is

easier said than done; nobody seems to sell them. I keep getting directing to an

“old lady” who sells them further down the market, finally finding a small set at a

different roadside stall. The number of gun shops in Amritsar is surprisingly

high. Most disturbingly, a gun shop and a liquor stall sit cheek by jowl just a two

minute walk from the hotel. I wonder what the logical progression is here – get

drunk and buy guns, or buy a gun to threaten the liquor store owner?

* * *

In the evening we charter an auto to take us to the Wagah Border – one of the

most popular overland border crossings between India and Pakistan – about 30

kilometres away from the city. The closing ceremony at the Wagah Border every

evening is a big tourist draw, and we’d be foolish to miss it, especially since we’re

already in Amritsar. The roads to the border are well maintained and the auto

makes good progress. The auto drops us two kilometres prior to the border –

vehicles cannot get closer to the spectacle than this – following which we walk.

Even though we are an hour early, a large crowd has already gathered and is

purposefully heading towards the border. There are separate lines for men,

women and foreigners – probably a good thing, as such large crowds are the

perfect hideout for anybody who’d want to grope or molest women tourists.

Everybody is patted down by an army staffer. Another army man suspiciously

passes a handheld metal detector over them as well. A terrorist attack here would

be bad news.

After passing through these checks, we reach the border itself. The road

proceeds unhindered into Pakistan. Two large sets of gates – Indian and

Pakistani respectively – hinder the progress of anybody who decides to walk

across into Pakistan and vice-versa. There are two sets of stands concave to the

gates – one on the Pakistani side and the other on the Indian side.

50

I can’t see too much of the Pakistani stands – they are painted white and green,

and there are a handful of people milling around on that side. A few Pakistani

flags are waving, albeit weakly.

The Indian side, on the other hand, is – well, a party. The stands are divided into

a VIP stand, a stand for foreigners and a stand for women. We enjoy no such

positive discrimination – the general stand is right at the end and already pretty

full. We somehow manage to find place. There are loudspeakers blaring

Bollywood music and the women – in their segregated stand – are enjoying

themselves gyrating to the beats. Flags are waving and the general aim appears to

be to outshout the Pakistani crowd on the other side of the gate. This is not

particularly difficult considering just how much more populous the Indian crowd

is.

A man (possibly from the army?) is in charge of ensuring the Indian brigade wins

the shouting war against the Pakistanis. Every now and then he pops up, fully

clad in white, to enthuse the crowd. First he invites everybody to do a wave

(successfully). After a while, he begins to shout patriotic slogans into his mike.

“Hindustan!” shouts he.

“ZINDABAD!” roars the crowd, triumphantly glancing at Pakistan.

“Bharat Mata ki...” shouts he.

“JAI!” finishes the crowd.

You get the drift. However, I see something that reminds me it isn’t all fun and

games. On a pair of turrets just behind the stands, a pair of armed guards stands

watch. There are no smiles here; their faces impassively scan the crowd and the

vicinity. Should anybody try anything a bit too smart, there will be trouble.

* * *

The songs continue, and the sun begins to set. Finally, it’s time for the closing

ceremony.

What is this closing ceremony, you might ask. You’ve brought me all the way to

the Wagah Border with no explanation why, you might add.

My apologies. Well, the ceremony at the end of each day signifies the closing of

the border for that particular day. At the end of each day’s “business”, the Indian

Border Security Force closes the Indian gates of the Wagah Border, along with

their Pakistani counterparts on the other side. Naturally, with crowds on both

51

sides watching, both sides try their best to outdo each other in their marching,

and it is an interesting spectacle, if nothing else. Today’s event is pretty much

along the same lines, though the general stand isn’t the best place to view it from.

I watch as two Border Security Force rangers march up to the gate, trying to

outstare the two Pakistani Rangers on the other side. The marching is really quite

theatrical; it reminds me vaguely of a couple of male peacocks dancing to catch

the attention of a potential mate.

The process is repeated around five or six times, followed by a dramatic closing

of the gates. Heading out, I look back once to see the sun disappear behind the

Pakistani stands. Just over a week ago, I watched the sunrise as far south as I

could have gone by train. Today, I’m almost at the other end of the country.

Surreal.

* * *

Back at the hotel, I finally get back some clothes I’ve given for laundry. Our train

to Delhi is fairly early the next morning, and visualising myself managing with two

shirts and a pair of jeans for the rest of the trip is not very exciting. I fall asleep

very easily tonight as well.

* * *

The station is very close to our hotel, so after checking out, it is a simple matter of

flagging down a cycle rickshaw. It is a slightly chilly morning in Amritsar. The

ride to the station takes ten minutes, and when we reach, we get some chai from a

neighbouring chai stall. We get the rickshaw puller a cup of chai as well and give

him double the amount quoted (still cheap!), hopefully his morning started off on

a good note.

The Paschim Express is berthed on platform 1 and it is a short walk to our coach

(Second AC again). The train departs punctually at 8.10 am, and I soon head to

the upper berth to read the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Soon, the rocking

motion of the train and the coach’s pleasant temperatures lull me to sleep. I

wake up a few hours later and get back to the book. All in all, it is a fairly relaxed

morning.

The entry into Delhi is marked by an exponential increase in the amount of

garbage. I notice that there’s more garbage around the railway line 60 km before

Delhi, and watch, fascinated, as the amount of waste increases, until it appears

that the entire embankment is made of garbage. While the areas surrounding

railway lines in Indian cities are hardly the most pristine, Delhi really takes the

cake. How much garbage can there be? We finally pull into Delhi at 4.33 pm, 8

minutes behind schedule.

52

The Capital

Anay and I both have friends in Delhi, and have different plans for our stay in the

capital. We take the uber-efficient metro to Hauz Khas and then part ways. I’m

staying with Nandan, an old college friend. His barasati is in a fairly quiet (it isn’t

Diwali yet) part of South Delhi. In a nice coincidence, another college friend,

Parth, also happens to be in Delhi on work, and we meet up in Connaught Place

in the evening, proceeding to the Max Mueller Bhavan to watch a German movie

being screened that night. The movie gets a little too predictable towards the end,

but is a decent enough two hours. Parth is also spending the night, though he has

to head off to work – and thence to Mumbai – early the next day.

* * *

Nandan and I spend a good portion of the next day loafing around Delhi, the

metro making this much easier. We visit the Dilli Haat, a crafts market and food

plaza. Today’s cultural event is a Hungarian folk performance which is pretty

interesting. Continuing with the Hungarian theme, a food stall is selling a few

Hungarian dishes, but the small range of items available and the fairly high price

cause me to order a plate of momos from the Sikkimese stall instead. There are

many small toys and trinkets for sale – I buy a few things.

After this, we go to Old Delhi for a stroll. The crowds and narrow lanes aren’t as

bad as they’re made out to be, though I’m rather disappointed not to find any

interesting shops around. On the way back we stop at the Metro Rail Museum

(has potential). In no time it is night, and my stop at Delhi is – for all practical

purposes – over, as Anay and I are to catch a very early train to Agra the next

morning.

* * *

I have a bit of a taxi adventure early in the morning. The train to Agra is at 6, and

not willing to depend on autos at 5 am, I order a taxi. At 4.40, I get a call from

the driver saying he’s at the Krishna Mandir, a popular landmark in the area.

I walk down the dark, deserted road to the Krishna Mandir to find the taxi

waiting there. I get in and settle down. Before starting, the driver suddenly asks,

“Airport, na?”

“Nahi, Railway Station”

He looks surprised, stares at his screen, and then asks me for my name and

phone number. Soon it becomes obvious that I’m in the wrong cab – a strange

coincidence, considering that it’s from the same company, in the same (not very

crowded) area at this ungodly hour of the morning.

53

No issues, I can see another cab from the same company slowing down in front

of the Mandir. I get in and verify that it is indeed booked for the station. This

driver asks me for my name as well, and on telling it him I spy a similar look of

confusion on his face. Yet again, I have boarded the wrong taxi.

I now notice a third taxi parked a short distance ahead. Thankfully, this turns out

to be the right one, and I am finally on my way to New Delhi Railway Station. A

little weird that so many taxis were congregating in the area at 5 am, but as I got to

the station with plenty of time to spare, it wasn’t too bad an adventure.

* * *

The sleek Bhopal Shatabdi – the train that we are taking – is berthed on platform

1. After a considerable amount of trouble in Bangalore, I had managed to

purchase an upgrade to Executive Class on this train for the journey as part of my

aim to travel by as many classes as possible. I head to our coach and settle down

on my seat after shooing away a couple of foreigners who’ve mistakenly settled

down there. Anay arrives a few minutes later.

The Bhopal Shatabdi is one of India’s fastest trains, and runs with newer

German-design coaches. It gets the highest priority on the line and takes just 2

hours for the 195 km journey to Agra, very fast by Indian Railway standards. I

have a massive window to look out from; a window that doesn’t have the stupid

tinting most AC coach windows have.

We pull out punctually at 6 am. An attendant distributes newspapers, followed

by a bottle of mineral water. Soon, we are offered a choice of tea or coffee. All

this while, the train has been gaining speed through Delhi’s suburbs. My GPS

turns on and says the train is doing 150 kmph, but the ride is so smooth that

you’d hardly believe it. At almost every station I can see other trains that have

been ingloriously pushed aside to allow us to breeze through at a speed of two

and a half kilometres per minute.

Breakfast is fairly generous – cornflakes and milk, two slices of brown bread with

butter and jam, a tasty masala omelette (veg cutlets for vegetarians), a banana and

more tea/coffee. At the end of breakfast, I’m at peace with the world. The

attendant comes around, asking if everything is okay. I know it’s because he’ll ask

for tips later on, but it’s still a nice gesture – he gets his tip in the end.

We have a very short halt in Agra – just three hours between this train arriving

and our next train to Jhansi (for Orchha) leaving, and it is fairly important that the

Bhopal Shatabdi runs on time. It doesn’t disappoint, dropping us at Agra

Cantonment three minutes ahead of schedule.

* * *

54

Yes, I’ve seen the Taj

When a foreigner visits India, the Taj Mahal more often than not is a must-see.

After all, what is the point of visiting India and travelling around the country

without seeing it?

For many Indians, though, the Taj isn’t as big a priority. After all, it isn’t going

anywhere, and makes for an easy daytrip from Delhi. So far, neither of us had

seen the Taj, but when planning this trip out, I figured that a stop at Agra on the

way down to Orchha would be well worth the effort. Most of the reviews I’d read

about the city suggested that – the Taj and possibly the Agra Fort apart – it made

little sense to spend too much time there, and with this in mind scheduled a

surgical strike of the Taj – reach Agra at 8 am, spend an hour or two at the Taj,

get back to the station, and catch the train for Jhansi and Orchha.

We have to wait for about fifteen minutes before the cloakroom opens, and after

depositing our bags, head out to the auto stand, shaking off an auto driver who is

desperate to charge us a hundred rupees for a trip to the Taj. I have no idea what

the correct fare is, but I’m pretty sure it’s far less. I’m soon proven right when

another auto agrees to take us there for Rs 50. The first autodriver’s last attempt

to get us to take his auto is a hissed “he is commission agent” to us as we get into

the other auto. This is rather ironic, considering that we’re paying the new guy

half the price. The Taj is ten kilometres away from the station, and fifty rupees

seems quite a good bargain.

We reach the compound and start to head in after paying the entry fees (“Indians

– Rs 20, Foreigners – Rs 750”). I head in without hassle, before hearing a slight

commotion behind me. Apparently Anay had a flower sticking out of his carry-

on bag. Some security guard, displeased by this, decided to confiscate it. Anay

has been deflowered for the second time on his trip – again, all too literally. I’m

highly amused, especially as nobody seems to be bothered by the Swiss army

knife I’m carrying in my sling bag.

* * *

The Taj is – well, the Taj. I will not spend too much time trying to describe it;

there are more than enough pictures that do just that. It does feel odd to actually

be visiting a place you’ve seen so many times in postcards. The Taj is incredibly

popular - it is 9 am on a Monday morning and the place is already beginning to

look crowded. We spend an hour and a half there before heading back – the

visit has worked out fairly well and hasn’t felt too rushed.

55

Was the Taj the highlight of the trip? I wouldn’t say that. It’s possible the hype

around it created expectations of it that could never be fulfilled. It is a beautiful

monument though, and I’d love to visit it on a full moon night.

* * *

After the efficiency of the morning’s Shatabdi from Delhi to Agra, the next train

would always seem slow, and it doesn’t help that train I’ve chosen to Jhansi – the

Khajuraho Express – is a very low priority train on the route. We are travelling

Non-AC Sleeper Class this time, and I lose count of the number of times our

train is sidelined at a nondescript station to allow a cooler train to overtake us.

Eventually, the train – which left Agra 20 minutes late – reaches Jhansi almost 2

hours behind schedule.

* * *

56

Orchha

Orchha is the last stop of our massive trip. It is a small town about 20 kilometres

west of Jhansi, its claim to fame being that it was the capital of the Bundela

dynasty. Located next to the river Betwa and in the middle of fairly thick jungle,

its environs are fairly scenic.

Too lazy to search for a bus bound for Orchha, we charter an auto from Jhansi

railway station to Orchha. The ride takes around 45 minutes and we reach the

town at around 5 pm. Finding a guesthouse isn’t very tough, and after freshening

up, we head to a rooftop restaurant with a view of the palace. As evening

descends into dusk, we relax, tired after all the travelling of the day. After dinner

– which is surprisingly good – we head back to the guesthouse and hit the sack.

* * *

We have two full days in Orchha. While planning the trip, I figured (correctly)

that we’d be pretty tired by this stage of the trip, and a relaxed stay at Orchha

would allow us to see the place properly. Here I am wrong; we laze around the

whole of the next morning before heading out for lunch. The restaurants in

Orchha remind me of some in Hampi; churning out cute indigenised variants of

foreign dishes, some interesting in their own right, some disastrous.

In the afternoon, we spend a good two hours relaxing in the fort. While there is a

steady stream of tourists – mostly foreigners dropping in on their way to

Khajuraho – the fort is still fairly empty. There are several small balconies that

open out onto the forests of the Bundelkhand region. An inviting cool breeze

tempts me to sit down and gaze into the horizon for a fair amount of time.

In the evening, we head to the palace, followed by a visit to the market to pick up

stuff for the folks at home. Fairly successful in this endeavour, we head for the

sound and light show, held in one of the lawns of the fort complex. It is a slightly

cold evening and the sound and light show has a grand audience of four people

including the both of us. It turns out to be surprisingly well done – far better than

several I’ve seen in Rajasthan – and is a good crash course on the history of

Orchha, and the dynasty that made the town its capital. We learn of courtroom

intrigues, of massive battles fought between the Bundelas and other powers in the

region, of tales of gossip and courtroom intrigues, of prayer and dance, of doubt

and infidelity, of courage and valour. Sitting in the darkened fort with lights

flashing dramatically, the narration is quite powerful. It is also the best way to

quickly learn a little more about the place we’re in.

57

After the show, a dinner with a view of the fort, followed by sleep. This is the last

night of the trip that we’ll be spending in a guesthouse; tomorrow, we catch our

last train of the trip – the long southward journey back to Bangalore.

* * *

The next morning is spent doing – well, nothing. There are plenty of interesting

things to do in the immediate vicinity of Orchha, but the effects of hectic travel

for over two weeks are beginning to show – we are perfectly content sitting in our

room and watching predictable episodes of Castle on TV. We check out early

and have a heavy lunch. After this, we hire an auto to take us back to Jhansi,

from where we catch the Sampark Kranti Express back to Bangalore.

Jhansi easily accounts for the worst cases of honking I’ve seen in India. As

vehicles clog up the narrow roads somewhere in the city, the only thing drivers

seem to do is incessantly blare the horn. Sitting in an auto with six cars honking

at you from all sides is an experience I don’t particularly care to repeat.

We reach the station at 2 pm with an hour to spare. Soon enough, the train is

announced on platform 3 and a few minutes later it pulls in, running ten minutes

behind schedule. We’re almost done with our trip – I say ‘almost’ as the journey

back home is the longest of the trip at 39 hours.

* * *

58

Take the Long Way Home

The Sampark Kranti Express – the last train of our trip – takes a rather circuitous

route to get to Bangalore. Starting from Delhi, it proceeds south to Jhansi (where

we catch it). It then continues southward to Bhopal and Itarsi before heading

southwest all the way to Pune. After Pune, it corrects course, heading southeast

through several important towns of North Karnataka (Belgaum, Hubli,

Davanagere) before reaching Bangalore. On a map, this route resembles an

inverted question mark – without the dot, of course.

So why did I choose this train, especially when there are several alternatives that

are much faster? Firstly, most of the faster trains pass through Jhansi in the

middle of the night, and if left with an option, I avoid getting on a train in the

middle of the night – there is invariably somebody sleeping on your berth and

waking them up and making them move can be a long, annoying process.

Secondly, the roundabout route had the advantage of avoiding Andhra Pradesh –

if a major row erupts over the division of the state of Andhra Pradesh into

Telangana and Seemandhra, it’s likely that trains passing through it would be

halted (and consequently heavily delayed).

All in all, the Sampark Kranti Express seems to be a good choice. I reserve

berths as soon as bookings open. For some reason, the reservation system

doesn’t place us together – we get berth 16 (an upper) and berth 19 (a lower berth

in the next bay). Berth 19 is an excellent berth to get – it is a sort of ‘coupe’ of

just two berths, almost as good as First AC for the price of Second AC. It is a pity

we don’t have berth 20, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to get the person in 20 to

shift to berth 16.

Or is it? As we reach berth 19, we find both berths occupied by a fairly young – I

would assume mid to late twenties – couple. The guy tells us they have berth 14

and 20 and suggests we swap our berth (19) for his (14). He is not particularly

polite about it, assuming that we’ll oblige, being slightly younger.

This is not a particularly good exchange for us – we will have two upper berths

and no windows. The lower berths below the berths they want us to switch to are

occupied by two senior citizens that look like they plan to sleep all the way to

Bangalore. My desire to remain confined to an upper berth for 39 hours is

minimal.

I stare at my ticket. It isn’t helpful – it just tells me I do have berths 16 and 19 in

the coach.

The woman, noticing that we haven’t moved away yet, adds, “It’s only a request”

59

She smiles complacently.

The smiles vanish when I reject their request.

I tell them I’m not exchanging a lower berth (and consequently, a window seat)

for an upper berth. I went to the reservation office at 6.30 on a rainy morning

two months ago specifically so that I could get at least one lower berth and

window for the 39 hour journey, and I’m not going to be particularly altruistic to

an obnoxious couple that appear to have no disability that prevents them from

using their upper berths.

They storm off, the guy muttering something that I suspect is an unflattering

remark directed at my lineage. The effect of their storming off is diluted when

they realise they’ve forgotten some of their belongings – they have to come back

and request for it.

Phew, that left a bad taste in the mouth. The upshot, though, is that we have a

pleasant two-person coupe for the long journey back home.

While all this was happening, the train has been industriously making its way

towards Bhopal, its next halt. The scenery isn’t particularly engrossing and I

stretch out with the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Following a now

predictable routine, the rocking of the train and the AC soon lull me to sleep.

* * *

I wake up to find it’s already dark. The train is crawling and we’re at the outskirts

of Bhopal. We pull in for an extended halt, during which I pick up dinner from

a platform vendor – I think it was a terrible plate of idli-vada and a couple of

bananas.

Soon, the train is making good progress through the mountains of Central India

and after making equally good progress through the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the

Galaxy, I fall asleep.

* * *

The morning sees us in Maharashtra. At a quarter past nine, we pull into the

town of Daund. The train reverses direction here, which means that the engine

has to be uncoupled from the front of the train, run around to the other end and

coupled to the train again. We’re going to be here for at least 25 minutes.

Daund is – strangely enough – known for biryani, and there are stalls located

roughly every 20 metres down the platform vending precisely that. I buy a packet

of chicken biryani. Further down the platform, a man is frying omelettes. I get a

masala omelette straight off the frying pan. Delicious! The biryani isn’t

60

particularly great, but it’s definitely better than anything we would have got from

the train’s pantry.

I have plenty of time to pick up more food and some cold drink for the rest of

the journey. I then join the gaggle of curious onlookers watching the engine being

recoupled to the train. Soon, we’re off, cruising through the undulating fields of

Maharashtra.

* * *

We reach Pune about an hour later, and as the train has another change of

direction here, I hop off and walk out of the station. There is – rather tragically –

nothing thrilling to see just outside the station, and I head back in.

A sign catches my eye:

“Why visit London???”

This is followed by:

“Visit SUNIL’S CELEBRITY WAX MUSEUM, Lonavala”

I’m sceptical whether this is a perfect substitute for London, but anyway.

At 11.20 am, the train departs Pune on time.

* * *

Shortly after Pune, we enter the hills. As the train huffs its way up the ghats, I get

to see just how barren the countryside is – it is flat, stretching for miles,

surprisingly starved of greenery. I stand at the door for close to half an hour,

watching the world roll by down below. Soon enough, we exit the hills; the train

begins to gather speed, and I return to my book.

* * *

Shortly after 1 pm, the train comes to a halt. I peer out – we are at a very small

station called Lonand. Since the line from Pune to Bangalore is mostly single –

that is to say, there’s only one track – I assume we’re waiting for another train to

pass in the opposite direction. After about twenty minutes of waiting, I get slightly

annoyed, wondering why the Sampark Kranti Express – arguably the most

important train on the line at the moment – is being detained for so long.

Forty five minutes after we reach, I decide to find out exactly what’s going on.

Making the long walk to the engine, I reach just to find the main driver getting out

and walking into the station master’s room. Confident in the knowledge that the

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train cannot leave without a driver, I follow the driver (Whom I mentally christen

“Balu”) and ask him what the problem is.

“Another train derailed further up. Koyna Express,” he says, jovially.

“How long do you think we’ll be waiting here?”

“Don’t really know. They have to repair the tracks ahead. Single line, no? So at

least two hours,” he replies.

I head back to our coach to apprise Anay of this new development. We decide

to make the most of the delay. Getting off the train, we head into the town to

have lunch. Lonand is a fairly small town and appear to be concentrated around

its bus stand and train station – both less than 500 metres away.

We have a thali at a small restaurant down the road. On our way back to the

station, we stop to buy some junk food. We picnic on the platform.

* * *

Two hours goes by with no sign of progress. A little later, a repair train heads

through the station, honking impatiently. The station authorities aren’t very

helpful – nobody seems to know exactly what’s going on.

* * *

As afternoon blends into evening, a thriving economy emerges at the station.

Almost every passenger has decided to wait on the platform, and several vendors

are taking advantage of this, selling chaats, nuts, cucumber and juice to frustrated

passengers. The platform is pretty lively – at one end, I can see a group of

passengers playing football – the football being improvised out of a small bottle.

Children are running around; the parents keeping a close watch on them. Several

other passengers – like us – are strolling up and down the platform.

A large crowd of people has gathered around the engine. Balu, far less jovial than

earlier, is being harangued with questions. No, he has no idea when the train will

be allowed to depart – all he does is obey the signals, all of which are red at the

moment. Unfortunately for him, for every passenger that understands his

explanation and walks off, there are at least two new passengers coming forward

to ask him precisely the same questions. After a point he gives up and stares

resolutely at the signals, ignoring the growing crowd outside his window.

Something needs to be done here – the station authorities are doing a very bad

job of it. Once the sun goes down, the irate crowd, starved of information, is

quite capable of venting their frustrations on the train or the station – this has

happened before.

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At 6 pm there is a loud honk and another train slowly pulls into the station to a

rousing cheer from the passengers of our train. This is the Koyna Express which

derailed, causing our train to get held up here. The derailment has been minor –

nobody has been killed or injured. A few minutes later, it departs for Mumbai,

running hopelessly late. Everybody gets back into our train, expecting us to

depart now, but this is a false alarm – we are detained for a further twenty minutes

to allow yet another train to pass by in the opposite direction. Had we been

made to wait further, I’m pretty sure somebody in the restive crowd would have

turned violent, but hardly has the other train passed when all the signals turn

green and Balu, impatient to be off, beats a trumpet on the horn. After a six hour

wait at Lonand, the train is finally on its way again.

It is dark now and I’m almost done with my book. Rather annoyed that we’ve

been delayed so much on the last leg – I would have been quite happy to be back

early next morning as scheduled – I soon drift off to sleep.

I wake up at around 6.30 am to find the train leaving Davanagere. We are still

running six hours behind schedule. The fields around the railway line are

illuminated by the rising sun; “fields of gold” quite literally. Anay, who was up

much later than I last night, tells me that the couple got down at Belgaum, which

the train reached at midnight instead of 7 pm. Probably not their best journey.

* * *

As the morning progresses, the train trundles steadily through Karnataka.

Arsikere, then Tumkur. The distance to Bangalore is now a two-digit figure.

* * *

We’re right outside Yesvantpur railway station. Fittingly, the train gets stopped

here. It has considerately stopped at a level crossing, and I watch the line of

stopped vehicles grow longer with great amusement. Finally, we’re let in, and the

train sighs to a halt just before noon, almost six hours behind schedule.

The arrival board on the platform evokes a chuckle. There is a column stating

delays of various trains. We’ve beat every other train handsomely in this

endeavour – the Kacheguda Express’ 15 minute delay is nothing to ours – 325

minutes behind schedule.

* * *

The lines at the prepaid auto stand are long, so we skip them and head out the

station to directly flag down an auto. The first one I flag demands twenty rupees

extra. I am no mood for such games and bluntly tell him I will pay him exactly

what the meter says, and if he wants more, he can find another customer. Taken

aback, he decides to take me for the correct fare, though I do have to listen to his

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grumbling about how miserly I am. Unfortunately for him, the fare home turns

out to be exactly 200 rupees; there is no change that he can pretend not to have.

Over 160 hours on trains and three weeks of travelling later, I’m back at home.

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Epilogue

If you’re expecting a deep, insightful quote about the nature of travel at this point,

you might be disappointed.

What I did notice a few days after returning home is just how restless all the

travelling had made me – I had gotten so used to the rhythm of visiting a new

place and spending two days there before heading out that Bangalore seemed

unbearably – well, dull. Sleeping in my own bed – as opposed to the moving one

of a train – also felt oddly foreign. Of course, travelling forever isn’t really an

option, and at the end of a trip as hectic as this, I was quite happy to head back to

the relative comfort of home.

If I had to reflect on the trip as a whole, my first emotion would be surprise –

surprise that it happened at all. It seemed so ambitious that I was it would fail

some way or other. Barring a few illnesses, it went off unbelievably well – we

found nice guesthouses to stay at most places we visited, and the trains were – by

and large – fairly well behaved.

Many people ask me what the highlight of the trip was. It is difficult to shortlist

just one, especially from the diverse range of places we visited and things we did.

There are, however, three instances that stand out, and I think they’re fairly

obvious from the way I wrote about them. Use your powers of deduction; I’m

sure you’ll figure them out soon enough!

I hope my account of the trip was interesting and that I was able to take you along

with me. If I’ve managed to inspire you to make a similar trip of your own, I

would consider this travelogue a job well done.

* * *