Today was a mix of the best and worst of India. We awoke early and walked to the train station to catch our 6:15 am train. Even at that early hour, the AC of our chair-class car felt good. With chair-class tickets on the express train only marginally more expensive than 3-teir AC tickets about other trains, we splurged on the all-inclusive chair class. As we got under way, the attendants first brought us our choice of newspapers. As we headed south, our express train breezing right through most stations, we were next treated to morning tea: pitcher-thermoses of hot water along with trays of tea bags, sugar packets, cream, and biscuits. It was relaxing; after a two day bus ride from Leh to Manali, a 17 hour bus ride from Manali to Delhi, two nights in chaotic Delhi, this train ride was the most comfortable thing we had experienced in a week. Between sipping our tea and reading our papers, we watched the landscape outside change from urban to rural. Heading south across the Indo-Gangetic plateau, we passed through hours and hours of greenery. I had forgotten how even central India was extremely verdant, the center of the subcontinent filled with green. After so many bus rides, it was nice to look out the window and not see any traffic or dingy roadside towns.

Even without the pampering that came with our tickets, riding an Indian train is one of my favorite experiences. There something nostalgic train travel. Although I wasn’t around for the so-called “golden age” of travel, this style of train travel seems to be a throwback to that glorious era. Yet train travel is not a novelty here, its still necessary, prevalent, and uniquely Indian. The stations are fascinating in and of themselves. Passengers milling around or sitting huddled on benches with their families and luggage. The overcrowded tickets counters full of pushing, shoving, and shouting. The multi-lingual touts assaulting disembarking tourists, while red-coated red-turbaned porters rush at local families stepping down onto the platform. The beggars wandering and tapping at peoples’ elbows or collecting plastic along the vacant tracks. The food stands simmering with hot chai and samosas, served in clay cups and squares of old newspaper. Of course, you experience a bit of the station every time the train stops at one, as the chai-wallahs and snack-wallahs come shouting through the cars. Train travel is convenient in that way- food and drink always offering themselves, reading material and other goodies at each stop, a bathroom in each car, garbage cans, comfy seats, smooth rides. Train travel is the best way to travel.

As our train passed through Taj-famous Agra and past the plateau fort at Gwalior, our train traded tourists for Bombay-bound businessmen. We hopped off at the insignificant town of Jhansi, a quarter past 11, and a half hour behind schedule. Unfortunately, our late arrival meant we missed the 11 am luxury bus to Khajuraho, which had just departed from the train station (and since when does anything leave on time in India anyways). So we caught a rickshaw to the bus station, where we bought two seats on the 11:45 local bus. We considered staying in Jhansi for the night or seeing Orchha before (instead of after) Khajuraho, and catching the luxury bus the next day. But with my past difficulties getting to Khajuraho (that interesting story here) and Joylani’s consent to take a local bus, we decided to just go for it.

So we’re sitting on the bus at 11:30. 11:45 passes. Then noon. Joylani decides to wait outside, where its supposedly cooler. 12:15. I’m still sitting on the bus. 12:30. The bus is almost full, which I assume means we’ll be leaving shortly. 12:45. Joylani gets back on. The seats are filled, but tickets continue to be sold. Dozens of people have filled the aisle. Aside from these standers, several people discover that their seats were sold to multiple passengers. 1 o’clock. A few men yell at the ticket-wallah and demand their 2.5 USD back, citing, among other reasons, they paid for a seat someone already was sitting in and the bus was one and half hours late. 1:15. Despite being overcrowded and the seat disputes not yet settled, the bus leaves. 1:20. Joylani and I switch seats, so I can protect her from the two butts that face us from the aisle. Thus begins my daylong mission of trying to keep our seats and personal space to ourselves. Between a people trying to get some standing/breathing room, multiple people bumping my head with their elbows, a baby’s bright pink-bottomed feet on my forward-leaning back, several fat women inadvertently leaning on me while trying to lean against my seat, and the ticket guy trying to get me to move, it was a tough day. Being a private bus, it stopped every and anytime someone waved at it from the road. The ticket guy kept letting more and more people on, now matter how squished we already were. These stops were, of course, much shorter than the handful of times we stopped for food and goods to be loaded or unloaded from the roof; entire branches of bananas, crates of bread, sacks of grain, and so on. It was a hot, crowded, and miserable ride. Most of the people were poorer and lower class, evident from their clothes and etiquette (or lack thereof). There were three other foreigners on the bus: two Japanese girls and an older European women. About an hour from Khajuraho, hotel touts boarded the bus and swarmed all of us. Drenched with six hours of sweat, Joylani turned to me towards the end of the journey: “I never want to ride a bus like this again.”

looking forward

looking backwards