Taking the Train – “for the experience”

Train from Delhi to Agra – “For the Experience”:

We had been told to travel by train at least once while we were in India – “for the experience.” Since we had already traveled the route from Delhi to Agra with Vince by car, we figured that this would be a good time to try it – “for the experience.”

I was in high spirits at the Delhi train station, excited that we would be back on the road again soon. AND very excited to see all the monkeys at the train station, walking on the railings and up the stairs, just feet away from us! Monkeys in Delhi! In what other capital city can you find monkeys!

Boarding the train was an experience in itself. Like the metro in Tehran, but with luggage added into the mix. A dangerous recipe. Heavy bags flew over the heads of passengers trying to board the train, almost knocking some of them to the ground. Chaos is the only word that can describe the situation. People pushed and shoved their hardest to board the train while those inside tried their darnedest to escape. Luggage went flying in all directions. I looked on, ducking, amazed. And this was the upper-second class – I couldn’t imagine third (unreserved) class!

Riding the train was also an experience. First, the benches from sleeper cars had been let down to be used as seats. Theoretically, there were only three seat numbers assigned to a bench. In reality, up to five adults squeezed onto each bench. Some sat on the top sleeper bench above the heads of the other passengers, in between and on top of the luggage. Everyone crammed in. There were seven people squeezed onto our bench, and I was unhappy that the man – who hadn’t reserved a ticket and had taken our seats anyway – didn’t take at least one of his children on his lap. I was stuck halfway out in the aisle, for everyone to step upon. Although the conductor argued with the man for not having a valid ticket, he wasn’t made to change seats.

After the train left the station, more confusion set in. Men walked up and down the narrow aisles selling hot soup, tea, snacks, and cold drinks. A couple of ragged women sold toys; one of them even sat right down on my feet to show her wares to the family next to us. Another spread out her handkerchiefs and clothing on our laps to display them to a woman across the aisle. Young boys – some very young – crawled on the dirty floor, grasping and tugging on legs, begging for money. As we stopped in the train stations along the way, we looked out the window to see cows walking on the platforms and crossing the tracks.

My high spirits at the thought of leaving Delhi disappeared when our bikes were left behind on the platform. After the chaos of getting our bags on board the train, Stephane went to check that the bikes were safely onboard. He found them sitting on the platform instead! As he was about to try to load them, the train started to pull away from the station. He ran after the train, one bike in each hand, asking the conductor to stop. The conductor refused. The train gained speed. A porter yelled after Stephane that the bikes would be on the next train to Agra. Stephane left the bikes behind and jumped into the last car of the train just as it left the platform.

We waited all day for the bikes. The trains from Delhi came and went, one after the other, and still no bikes. We waited until the last train of the night had come, at 1:30 AM, then went desolately back to our hotel.

Even the train station at night was an experience. It seemed to serve as a shelter for homeless people, judging from the numbers of people sleeping on blankets on the floor, squished together like sardines. The ones that had their sheets pulled tightly over their bodies from head to foot looked like the covered corpse that we had seen at the hospital in Delhi. It reminded me of Vince: “There’s dead people everywhere!” The Sadhu sat on the floor in groups. A few men had cleared off the portable pushcarts that they used to sell food in the daytime and slept two of them per cart in the nighttime, in the middle of the platform, in the middle of large crowds of waiting passengers.

As we wandered down towards the end of the platform to inquire about our bikes with the Parcels Inspector, the crowds thinned out and disappeared. The air was smoggy and heavy with pollution, so foggy that every shape appeared shadowy and indistinct. One or two solitary fires were burning on the platform, but there appeared to be no one – only huge sacks of grain or rice or spices. Then, out of the silence, came a sigh or heavy breathing, and one could distinguish figures sitting in the shadows or sleeping under the stairways or on top of the heavy sacks. The empty wagons of a silent train gaped open at us. It reminded me of a fight or a chase scene in a movie, the one where a treacherous shadow comes out of the night to attack the hero in a foggy, deserted part of town. We were at the station so long, though, that it soon seemed completely natural and normal.

As we waited, we saw many trains come and go, and I looked at the cars in the different classes. The third class was especially insane. People were so crowded in that they were literally sitting on top of each other. Many did not even have seats and were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. It looked as if the air in the cabin would soon be used up and they would all suffocate. It looked like a car used to transport cattle or, more macabre, like a car used to transport detainees to a concentration camp.

The following day, we found our bikes waiting for us at the station, safe and unharmed. We were unbelievably happy.

So much for “the experience.”