It’s hard to believe it’s been 20 years—two full decades—since my last train journey in India. I remember double-checking the math because it seemed almost surreal. But yes, it’s been that long, even if it doesn’t feel like much has changed.
I can’t even recall exactly how we ended up on that train, grappling with whether we had seats and wondering if we’d be able to stay on for the entire evening. Before diving into the adventure, let’s rewind a bit.
* * *
It was a cool morning in Bangalore, cool by local standards anyway, and a welcome escape from the frigid Polar Vortex that was gripping the Northeastern U.S. We had arrived in Bangalore after a stuffy, overnight bus ride and thought a train trip back to Hyderabad might be a refreshing change. My cousin was skeptical, reminding us that train reservations usually require booking well in advance, but we decided to give it a shot.
Dodging traffic, open sewers, and other hazards, we made our way to the train station, a bustling spot not far from our hotel and the bus terminal. Travel agencies lined one side, calling out for business, while taxis and rickshaws beckoned from the other. We finally joined what seemed like a ticket line, which turned out to be for a bank, adding to the overall confusion.
Inside the station, we found a large, unadorned room with ticket windows on one side and train schedules on the walls. People milled about rather than forming any sort of orderly queue. These printed schedules were like cryptic puzzles, and despite my extensive travel experience, I felt clueless. Even now, I can’t tell you which train we took.
My cousins, M and S, were of little help. M insisted this was all a great idea while S complained that we should have booked days ago. An uncooperative computer terminal added to our growing audience, and an information booth seemed off-limits unless we already knew what we wanted. We left dejected, considering a bus ticket when my cousins started chatting with a travel agent.
Before I knew it, I was reserving our spots on a sleeper train for the evening, a process that felt more like navigating a maze than making a reservation. My cousin assured me we’d get our tickets.
* * *
After enduring bus rides, lackluster tours, overpriced tourist traps, and even a Starbucks grand opening, we returned to the train station and travel agency. As S had predicted, we were wait-listed. I hadn’t realized how bad that was, but S was fuming, blaming M for the predicament.
Oh, and the ticket was for another train station, far away and time was ticking. Perfect.
We navigated through crowds, filth, and traffic to reach the bus that would take us to the other station. We ended up in an unfamiliar part of Bangalore, dropped off at a crowded city street with a large gravel yard ahead. Following groups of people carrying luggage like us, we made our way across the gravel and train tracks as if fleeing into the night.
The station, though dark, was crowded. A snack stand stood in the center, surrounded by benches. People either seemed in a rush or occupied any available space. We settled in to wait. S continued his grumbling, and I found a spot to sit, only to have a sweaty stranger wedge in beside me, attempting to sleep. Lovely.
I took a walk to gather more information. Train wait-list postings were minimal and unhelpful. Time ticked on, and then our train arrived.
* * *
“Follow me,” S directed as the train started to slow.
We moved along, looking for our designated cabin. Inside, it was an aged sleeper car with bunks lining both sides. A hurried, open bathroom sat at one end. My cousin negotiated with nearby passengers, convincing them we had three seats. Even though the ticket numbers didn’t match, no one objected. I wondered if everyone was just claiming seats and hoping it would stick.
I prepared for the night, avoiding further argument as everyone settled in. The scene was a mix of exhaustion and restlessness as foods I both recognized and didn’t were shared around. I climbed the middle bunk, aware that the conductor might rouse us at any moment to eject us trackside. Sleep was a challenging proposition.
* * *
Morning came, sunlight peeking through closed windows. The rhythmic train clicks and my neighbor’s loud snores kept sleep at bay. When I finally sat up, I noticed someone new beside me. He looked annoyed, a mystery I couldn’t solve, so I hopped down instead.
Most of the train was still asleep. S was awake, grumbling about our situation, while M still slept. Over the next few hours, people came and went. Vendors sold pungent foods and chai from tin cups. I avoided them, fearing illness on the train.
Cousin S asked for some money, which I handed over. A transgender person came down the aisle, loudly clapping and talking. S gave her some money to avoid trouble, explaining the intense prejudice transgender individuals face in India. It’s overwhelming considering the vast intersecting lives around you.
* * *
Leaving S to his brooding, I found a spot in the open doorway. Outside, the world rolled by in a scene out of an Indian dream: kids laughing on dirt roads, families packed into trucks, and women working in endless fields. It’s a stark contrast to the high-tech cities and traffic jams, a slower-paced life speeding by from the train window.
S popped by, concerned, but I kept my door-side seat as towns came and went. More passengers boarded, shifting me from my spot. M and S counted the minutes until our arrival, still fuming about the night’s journey. Despite their complaints, moments like these made the miles worthwhile.
I smiled at S and said, “At least we had seats still…”
He glared but half-smiled, too tired to argue further.