Anna Seaman
India, the land of mystery, has always attracted me. When I was younger I was fascinated by tales of men called yogis who could raise themselves off the ground and walk barefoot over coals. As a fashion conscious teenager I always wanted brightly coloured clothes with tassels and bells and to drape myself with big gaudy jewellery.
Last year I read a novel which drew me into the world of the people from the slums and this year, with the wealth of Bollywood movies in the Gulf, I became convinced I had to go.
But standing on the train station in Agra I had to really remind myself of that. I had imagined a scene from The Darjeeling Limited and was met with something more like Animal Farm meets Piccadilly Circus.
There were people everywhere, sitting, standing, running, eating, sleeping, begging. A man with two laden mules sauntered past while no-one batted an eyelid. Trains pulled in and out of the platforms with no signs suggesting their destinations and the smell in the air was pungent.
Sometimes it smelled like freshly cooked food, sometimes spicy chai and sometimes stale urine.
My mission, to get to Delhi, seemed simple. But my suitcase on wheels was hugely impractical, the Hindi timetable was indecipherable and everyone seemed more interested in squeezing themselves on the nearest train than helping me. Nevertheless I had to get to Delhi so I paid a man to carry my silver suitcase (which he impressively hoisted onto his head, using only a rolled up scarf as a cushion), and followed the silver box through the crowds.
Children swarmed at my feet doing back flips and holding their hands out for pennies. As I scrabbled in my wallet for coins I began losing sight of the suitcase. Leaving the kids to pick up the hail of change I’d dropped, I scurried on, weaving my way through the throng.
Finally the suitcase stopped in front of a train which was literally
overflowing with people. Arms poked out of barred windows and two or
three people crowded each doorway. I looked at him bemused, did he
really expect me to get on there?
....
My moment’s hesitation proved too much apparently, the train pulled off and the porter shrugged dismissively. My heart sank, I had been told the next one wasn’t for two hours.
Within seconds the teeming platform emptied and the beggar children re-appeared. I scanned for an official and thankfully found a man in uniform.
“Delhi?” I asked hopefully. “This one or this one,” he said pointing to two platforms. “Will go there by chance.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But I knew I had to take the “chance”. When the next train shunted into the platform I boarded, assured by the gathering of locals who had noticed a white blonde standing on the platform, that I would indeed reach my destination.
Amid the sweltering carriage I found myself a window seat and searched the passengers for friendly faces. They all nodded when I said the name of their capital city so I relaxed.
And three hours later, by the some divine grace, or possibly chance, I arrived in Delhi. Only to find more people, more beggars and more smells. I told myself that it’s not the destination, it’s the getting there that counts.
Comments