That’s Shanghai: In the tracks of India’s history

Once the arteries of imperialism, the Indian railway exudes a raw charm, derived from its imperfections. From its open doorways to six hour delays, nothing beats a ride on the Indian express. Set off with an open mind, and prepare for a few diversions. 

Delhi- The journey’s starting point and a baptism of fire for the newly-initiated tourist. In order to tackle Delhi’s plethora of sights, hire an all-day cab driver from your hotel. Bask in the meditative aura of the Lotus temple and accustom yourself with the Hindi gods in Lakshmi temple. Be prepared to wrestle against some of India’s most persistent hawkers, silence is the best option. 

Agra-The home of the Taj Mahal and its voluptuous curves. Wake up at 6am to view this milky-white wonder with the sun on her back, and get the perfect desktop photo. A half-hour cab ride away is the hauntingly deserted Fatehpur Sikri. The sandstone city was abandoned in 1599, after only 14 years of habitation, due to the lack of a water supply. 

 

Jaipur- A vibrant and chaotic city, Jaipur is coined the ‘pink city’ because it decorated its buildings in pink to welcome Queen Elizabeth II in 1876. Nowadays, such sights are rare but the pyramid-shaped palace of Hawa Mahal is an architectural feat to marvel. Sample Rajasthan’s distinctive dishes such as Gatte Ki Sabji, a rolled paste of chickpea flour and curry. 

the palace of the winds

Ajmer- Ajmer is a comparatively serene city, religiously significant because it houses a shrine to the Muslim prophet Mu’īnuddīn Chishtī. 11km away is the lakeside town of Pushkar, with 500 temples to accommodate the Hindi pilgrims who come to bathe in its lake and cleanse their sins. Unfortunately, the lake is now dried-up, after the local government dug up the lake bed, but its beauty remains. 

Pushker's dry lake

Jodpur- Jodpur holds the title of ‘blue city’, thanks to a sea of painted blue houses around the Mehrangarh Fort, a hill-top fort that is one of the largest in India. Get lost in the labyrinth of Jodpur’s markets, where you can browse the colorful array of hand-dyed fabrics. To escape the city, venture into the desert by camel and camp overnight in the dunes to catch a desert sunrise.

Udaipur-Udaipur has earned its title of Venice of the East because it is situated on a cluster of lakes. The city’s previous role as capital of the Merwar kingdom has yielded a number of majestic palaces. The most prominent of which, the Lake Palace hotel, is a five star hotel on its own island. The carvings adorning Jagdish Temple are a wondrous spectacle and the entrance is guarded by two stone elephants.

The city of lakes

Mumbai- Be wary of arriving into Mumbai too early, otherwise you’ll catch the city with its pants down, literally. The railway tracks are a communal toilet for local’s early-morning bowel movements. Dhobi Ghaut, where the city’s laundry is washed by hand, is a uniquely Indian spectacle. At night, take a taxi across the Bandra Worli Sea Link to look back on the city from the sea. Colaba’s art stores are a chance to pick up unique pictures, some of which have been painted with a single squirrel hair.

Dhobi Ghaut, Mumbai's laundromat

In the train waiting room

My travels around the north of India, and namely Rajasthan, had brought me once more into the arms of the Indian railways and I arrived on its dirt-laden platforms like a prodigal son returning home. Unfortunately, my inflated sense of confidence was somewhat undermined by the absence of accompanying equipment and my overnight bag, slung camply over the shoulder, looked out of place next to the guerrilla rucksacks of my travelling companions.
Once we had established that consistent advice on the location of our train would be a luxury, we chose instead to bide our time in the waiting room, which held an assortment of characters comparable to the board game Cluedo. One of whom -a Korean student- announced his presence with an act of gentle masochism that involved placing a number of burning coals across his forearm. A remedy, their box said ambitiously, ‘for all kinds of disease’. These tools were swiftly concealed when a good-looking girl, motivated more by a lack of alternatives than anything else, sat down in the chair next to him.

Sensing an opportunity, he reached  into his rucksack, brushing aside the Badminton travel kit for another occasion. Presumably he had read too much into the courting techniques advertised by Greek Mythology and withdrew instead a wooden pipe with a princely flourish. Whilst it did not have the desired romantic effect, his passionate display instead succeeded in rousing the resident population of rats from their subterranean lair. Once liberated, the horde wasted no time in inhabiting the nearby side room, whose sparing decorations and general decrepitude rendered it better suited for waiting to die than waiting for the train.
Despite its flaws, the Korean had already cast his sanitary eye over the room and deemed it acceptable to host his lifetime goal of sleeping overnight in a train station. I couldn’t help thinking that, whilst being a country of many firsts, India is not best-suited for this particular aspiration . Before leaving, though, I trusted he would value the information I had on his potential bedfellows, but his vocabulary did not extend to ‘weasel-sized rats’ and he offered me instead a naïve laugh before leaving to wash his hair in the bathroom sink. Blissfully unaware.

Sleeper train: Jaipur to Mumbai

The train itself was sectioned into a range of different classes and the quest for the right carriage was a journey in itself. I was momentarily joined by the ‘flying Dutchman’,  a tourist from Holland who had occupied the previous half hour sprinting desperately across the platform, occasionally leaping onto what he thought was the right carriage before emerging seconds later, beaten back by a group of squabbling locals. As his panic mounted, the scene offered a small allegory for the Dutch colonial success in India.

I eventually found my carriage, which had been given the title of 3AC and thus housed a primitive ventilation system and a bunk bed comprising three platforms. The twist being that, by day, the middle bunk was temporarily retracted, making a back rest for passengers sitting on its bottom counterpart. This set-up inadvertently created a silent and strategic contest as to who would seize the top bunk. Other passengers had already laid weak territorial claims with the use of bags or by ostentatiously reviewing its mattress, but experience had taught me that these were mere frivolities and bore no influence on the eventual outcome.

I concluded that Machiavellian guile would be best-suited to the situation and so, feigning a visit to the toilet, I waited until relevant guards had been lowered, and scrabbled up the ladder and onto the top bunk. Gracious in defeat, the other contenders accepted the return of their baggage as the olive branch of peace, leaving me free to turn my attention to the fact it was only 8.30pm and I still had all three of the bunks’ bedding, sandwiched between my calf muscles.

Having severed diplomatic ties with my section of the carriage, I turned to the Eastern front for a means of depositing the, seemingly, goat-haired blankets. From my perch, I could make out a suitable space on the other bunk and, leaning across, placed my offering at the feet of its slumbering occupant. My assumptions that the recipient’s sleep would be long-lasting proved incorrect and, when I returned from the train‘s kitchen, the blankets had been stacked innocuously by my pillow.

Although his features betrayed little, I recognised the subtle invitation and, when he was forced to heed nature’s call, I readdressed the temporarily skewed balance by returning the pile. Defiant in the face of my advantageous high ground, he retaliated as soon as the situation allowed it and this war of attrition continued late into the night. As it breached 2am the effects were beginning to show on the carriage, blankets were strewn haphazardly across the theatre of conflict and, mercifully, a silent truce was agreed.

This, however, was by no means the end, and he exacted his revenge minutes later where, amongst the demonic orchestra of snores, his chainsaw-like offering distinguished itself in both pitch and tone.

The seventeen hour journey from Jaipur to Mumbai was buoyed by the train’s primary asset of doors which could be retracted when the train was in full flight. Undeterred by the 200 rupee fine (£2.80) , passengers used the area as a smoking section. The most prolific amongst this gathering were the train’s kitchen staff, whose professional perks included an uncontested position at the helm of the doorway.

During the quieter hours, the doorways offered an enclosed insight into rural India. If you can tolerate the track’s occasional encounters with gaping ravines, the mosaic of scenery is a stark contrast to the overflowing hue of cities. Glimpses of life present themselves in clusters of crude, wooden huts or the rhythmic bobbing of a farmer.

My position was located near the train’s kitchen and, during a routine night time stop, a band of country folk emerged from the veils of darkness surrounding the train. As I watched them clamber on, they were led, as if by natural intuition, to the awaiting cooks. After a round of handshakes, the visitors were handed the neatly-wrapped leftovers from dinner before returning into the night. The evidence was not conclusive enough to suggest a regular occurrence, but I feared the one-sided nature of the deal left the recipients in a precarious position, should there be a next time.

The breaking of dawn saw the surrounding bunks twitch into motion before the, now calming, sound of snores were replaced with awkward and ungainly shuffling that suggested the approach of Mumbai. I reached the doorway in time to see that the train was heading southwards through the city, and away from my flat in the suburbs. Having deemed my seventeen hour sentence as sufficient to experience the sleeper train and noticing the train had reached a manageable pace, I threw my bag onto the tracks before following shortly.

As I looked around for the recognisable features I had grown accustomed to in my previous stay, I noticed that I had caught Mumbai at a particularly vulnerable moment. The local men were firmly accustomed with the guilty pleasure of the early morning shit and had, for some reason, chosen the railway tracks as deserving of their waste. Whether as a sign of protest or appreciating the element of danger, the established technique seemed to be to squat directly over the train line, and the orderly line followed the track as far as my stomach would allow my eyes to see. With head firmly down, I passed in between a momentary gap and, seeing the relieved face of someone who had thought I was going for his spot, continued into the city.