India: An Unexpected Case
It’s not surprising to hear that very little ever goes to plan on a two day train journey across Northern India. You may be surprised however at the number of doctors you can find on a carriage full of 60 people. It’s about 9. Or 18. I may have been seeing double at this point.
I had boarded the 9pm sleeper train from Delhi to Kolkata equipped solely with the desperation to leave polluted streets and urban cattle behind. My top of the range 300 rupee ticket provided a seat adorned with luxurious air conditioning which proved to be vital for the trip ahead. I had in fact been given an aisle seat, and yet as I boarded, soon noticed a sari adorned elderly lady sat in my seat, and the middle seat in a row of three mysteriously empty beside her. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Settling in to my new middle seat, and after a brief introduction to the young student beside me, clearly more interested in the foreigner beside him as opposed to his family waving him goodbye outside, the train departed and the desk fan taped to the roof above me began to swirl. As the train rolled by the beautiful badlands of Northern India, I couldn’t help but drift off into a slightly jaded sleep, whilst my eyes slowly narrowed on the bulging tattered suitcase dangling above my head.
The next sensation I felt was blood. I felt it on my hands, soaking into my shirt, and under my skin, the numb, pulsing feeling of blood pumping through my face. It was as if I’d woken from a dream into a nightmare. Trying to focus my vision, i quickly began to touch my face instinctively to check what was left, and felt the squishy numbness of a broken nose and puffy lips. A strange sense of relief. As countless Indian men and women gathered around me from every angle, it dawned on me just how much kindness and compassion I was embosomed in. Sure on the Grand Central train from Kings cross to Sunderland you have access to a sanitary first aid kit and clean tap water but when countless unfamiliar faces offer a hand equipped with not just a rag or two but their honest gesture to help in any way possible, you know you’re somewhere special.
That feeling continued to surround me on my trip through India. To rely on the kindness of strangers is a risky business and one you certainly cannot solely rely on when stepping out of your front door yet in Asia there is often no other way. I recalled an expression a local in Qutab Minar had told me, “You are either a local to India or you are lost.” Every crevice of each building hides a secret known only to the strangers you pass on the street. Days before, I found myself in Jaipur, following a jewellery merchant to the roof of his building, blinded by barrels of spices, climbing and climbing, embellished with simple blessings and humble offerings from a pop up shrine to Hanuman, the monkey god. I reached the peak to an image of the valley unknown. The rooftops reflecting the warmth of the blazing sun, Amer Fort barely visible down through the valley pass to the north, Galta Ji, the monkey temple, rippling with heatwaves to the east, and gazing down upon the pink city, the legendary Nahargarh fort unchanged for centuries. I would spend the following days tearing Jaipur apart heeding the advice of living as a local.
Back on the train was a whole other story. The owner of the suitcase soon recaptured his almost liberated luggage and moved on down a few seats to allow for my recovery time, of which I had around 21 hours worth. My original seat, unaffected by the accident, still remained occupied by the unbothered lady. I wondered if she had even noticed, or if she’d simply seen so much in her lifetime that it wasn’t worth her reaction. I was however relieved that I had given her the benefit of the doubt, and taken the hit for her. Who knows how that might have ended up. After a quick stop at the following station to be patched up like a Bollywood princess, my nose was cracked back into place, a self acclaimed dentist checked my valuable two front teeth, and we slowly rumbled on towards Kolkata. Slowly. Painfully slowly. So slowly that by the time we were a few hours away from Kolkata, my connecting train to New Jalpaiguri was already leaving. Which meant I was in a bit of a pickle.
With a pounding headache I wandered off to find someone in charge for the slightest bit of helpful information, although I didn’t have a clue what or who I was looking for. Stumbling along each carriage, receiving concerning looks from every passenger, I reached a uniformed man appearing to be in charge. I spoke, he didn’t understand, I spoke again, he spoke louder, I didn’t understand. I looked around desperately for help, nobody could understand, most passengers thought the facial incident had just occurred and I was looking for medical help and so offered me a rag or handkerchief. I returned with less time, less distance, and just as much information as the minute I left my seat. I returned to a group of young boys, clearly train hopping and avoiding conductors, scribbling away on a piece of paper the name of a train station. They thrust the paper into my hand and pointed at my phone. I realised they’d written down the only train station in which both my current blundering donkey and the beautiful stallion I would ride to New Jalpaiguri, would both cross paths. I decided to spend my remaining time aboard entertaining the boys a little, practicing English and learning Bengali swear words.
It was 10pm. 25 hours since I had boarded. I counted down. 3 more stations. 2 more stations. 1 more station. I was up next. Gathered by the door, the awake population of the carriage waved goodbye and wished me good luck, as though they knew something I didn’t. We approach the station. Rolling. I turn frantically to the countless young boys gathering behind me grinning in anticipation. They knew exactly what was happening.
We reach the station at speed.
“Jump!” one of the shorter boys says.
“What?”
“Jump,” replies another, taller boy.
“Jump,” the shorter boy repeats.
I figured there was a good chance his limited English meant he wasn’t to be trusted, until he was suddenly echoed by a chorus of young boys all bearing the same motivational speech.
“Now?”
“Yes, jump.”
The bags go first, rolling and bouncing along the platform, within seconds we are beyond them. I’m next up but rapidly running out of platform. Last chance. I hit the platform and roll to absorb some of the impact. Rising and dusting myself off, I paused to listen to the laughing and hollering of the young boys who remained aboard. The grinding of the metal faded as the locomotive dragged itself away and the whistle of the wind it carried with it until finally, silence.
As I stood watching the train roll away into the setting sun, I practically collapsed with relief to have 30 minutes of peace. Bardhaman junction was dark, dreary, and had little to offer in terms of food and comfort but as I hadn’t slept in 35 hours, I made do with what I had. A train would be arriving in 30 minutes to take me 8 hours in the direction of New Jalpaiguri from which I would take a mountaineering jeep another 4 hours on towards Darjeeling. But as I wandered over to collect my intrepid luggage, I couldn’t help but smile with sheer excitement at everything that was still yet to come.
