So, I did something that I was not sure I could do. That I was not sure I’d be able to figure out how to do. And something I never thought I’d have reason to want to do.
I booked a train ticket in India online!
The books I read about life in India made the Indian Railway System sound so complicated and confusing, I was intimidated by the whole process. Granted, it is weird with the various codes (which Seat 61 explains well) but in the end, it wasn’t prohibitively difficult to figure out what I needed to do once I knew where to start, which is either of the two sites I link to here. The only frustrating part was that my booking kept on failing. Five times in a row. Two different cards (an Indian Visa and an American Mastercard). One seat left.
I called customer service for Indian Railways whom, to their credit, answered quickly and were very nice but they could not do a darn thing to help. His advice was more just encouragement. “Try again!” “Don’t give up!” He showed no available seat, but I was looking at it.
Oddly, the sixth time, it worked!
I got a seat! Or more accurately, a bed on an overnight train. The last reserved slot from Delhi to Khajuraho in “2A” available through the railways site, which uses IRCTC. I printed myself out the ticket and got the requisite SMS on my mobile phone which is pretty much as good as paper. You can also get these tickets through agents, apparently, but I had no idea how long that seat was going to last. Nor where to find an agent in my neighborhood. But getting a place on this train was the only way for me to pull off a one-day journey to another city.
That was a over a week ago.
Mapping My Train Station
Now comes the evening of boarding. I took a government auto (which I had never done – cheap!) to get from central Delhi – following the Bollywood workshop in the previous entry – to Nizamuddin Station. Notably, not New Delhi Station or Delhi Catonment, the other two railway stations I had been to. I just looked it up. Apparently, there are *twenty-four* railway stations in Delhi. Whoa.
Nizamuddin, I suppose, is not all that large a station, comparatively speaking. Just seven platforms. All in a row. I walked among the locals of various economic classes, trying to determine which one was mine. I had arrived about an hour early so was pretty sure my destination should be listed by now, but not positive.
I walked all the way to the end of the overpass that had stairs going down to each platform. Then I walked back, checking and re-checking the signs flashing in Hindi and English. Nothing showed my destination. Nothing showed my time. Um…? On the far side (another entrance on the opposite side, perhaps?), the Enquiry counter lines were so intimidatingly long as to not be worth it. But oddly, the Enquiry counter back at the side I entered was virtually empty. I handed my ticket (that I had checked and double checked) to the person inside and asked “Which platform?”
With no hesitation, the worker said, “Platform 7.”
So I walked back, this time using the other of the two overpasses that led to the platforms. I strode all the way to the final one.
The sign said a lot in Hindi, not a lot in English. It did not say Khajuraho. But it was leaving at 8:15pm, the time shown on my ticket (on the other overpass, I had seen no train leaving at 8:15 — perhaps I had missed the final platform?) And possibly Khajuraho was not the final stop? Only slightly worried, I walked down the stairs.
I has never seen anything like this. The platform was full of people. Not standing necessarily, the majority sitting. People from every economic class. Families on blankets. All sorts of folks (and cargo and men prepared to load cargo) filling almost all available floor space, many looking as if they had been camped out there for some time. There was a diagram for figuring out where your class of car was, but I was having trouble sorting it out exactly. “SL” was “Sleeper”, I got that. I was definitely not on that. But I wasn’t on “1A” either, which was first class. There were a couple classes that, by process of elimination, I assumed I must be on. The Class on my ticket “2A” did not match any shown.
As I walked around, between, and through people, around snack booths and massive amounts of mystery cargo, trying to get my bearings, I was the definition of not fitting in. A foreigner. A Westerner. A woman alone. (And with no luggage to boot, as I was traveling light!) But no one seemed to take much notice of me. I think they were too concerned about getting on their train…
When the train pulled up, it was a spectacle I’d never seen before. I saw young men jumping up into doorways while the train was still moving. As it pulled to a stop, those folks gained entrance and were on the inside quickly, pulling in hastily passed-in luggage through the windows. It looked a lot like a very large amount of people were competing for a limited number of seats. Or perhaps they just wanted good seats or seats together. Or space for luggage. On the Seat 61 site, I assume these sought-after spaces are either the “Second Class Unreserved” or just an overbooked “Sleeper Class”.
In any case, there are no words for how glad I am that I did not have to participate in such a competition. And how much I dearly hope that I never have to. (Even if some of the folk were laughing as they rushed the luggage (did I see people shoved in, too?) through the windows, as if it was all a good adventure.)
Though, there was still the problem of finding my own carriage. Assuming this was the right train. In a spate of confusion, I ended up walking up half the platform to something that looked like it might have been my class. It was not. Then a helpful man looked at my ticket and confidently pointed me back toward “AB1” which had been the carriage I’d originally been standing next to.
Still, I was pretty sure I was not in any sort of “1”.
My fears were relived a great deal by the fact that a printed list of reserved passengers was posted outside the door! I found my name too quickly to get anxious. Then later, as I looked at my ticket in greater detail, I saw that although my “Class” had been “2A”, the “Coach” was listed as “AB1”. Ah! Exasperated sigh.
My Train Car!
(Disclaimer / Spoiler: photo taken when I arrived the next morning. I never saw the boarding platform this empty.)
Once I found my bed number (upper bunk, yay), I was sitting with a nice Indian family. Everything was organized. Sheets, blankets, and pillows (all “India clean”) were stacked on the upper bunks. (Apparently, Sleeper Class gets no bedding at all.) Quiet. Nothing like the craziness outside on the platform.
The train took off like a mouse and we were off. Not long after, the ticket taker came to check tickets. A dinner tray was offered (I declined) and snacks and water went by but I had brought my own (including a breakfast pastry and juice.)
My Bed!
One thing I did not get (and did not count on getting, luckily) was this: privacy. There were curtains to block the group-of-4-beds from the corridor. There were two stacked beds across the corridor at 90 degrees that could have theoretically gotten privacy, but I was in the group of 4. There was nothing blocking me from the dude laying across from me on the other upper bunk. But based on my previous experience in sleeper trains, that is not unusual.
I made the bed best I could from below. No fitted sheets in India. Just some tucking to do. At least there was an upper and a lower sheet. The others made their beds as well.
Luckily, I had not brought any luggage. I fully planned on sleeping in the clothes I was wearing and would wear tomorrow, choosing my loose-fitting outfit for precisely that purpose. All I had to do was get under the covers and I was set. I still was not positive Khajuraho was the final stop, so I set my alarm just in case. There is no way to tell from my bed which station we are stopped at; all I had was a time. And luckily, the train left only about 10 minutes after schedule, so I could get a rough estimate.
Out the window
Eventually, the main light went out and I drifted off to sleep with the rocking of the train.
I’ve only had one other sleeper train experience and that was in Russia doing the Trans-Siberian Railway. Compared to that, the beds here were thinner and shorter and the 4-bed area didn’t have a private lockable door. The bedding also wasn’t as nice, but on the whole, the experience was similar. In fact, I found this overnight journey through India to be quieter and darker compared to the Russian journey, which often had blindingly bright lights pass through the window, had many stops in the middle, and the sound of the door opening was jolting.
Given that, I would not say I completely slept through the night, but I did not sleep badly! I woke up before my alarm. Made use of the (nicer than the Russian counterpart) toilet. And the seat next to the window was open since I think some of the other occupants had left during the night. I looked out the window and enjoyed my breakfast.
View out the window near the destination
Luckily, there was no ambiguity about which stop was mine. 30 minutes before (and after, heh) the scheduled stop time, there were no other stops. And I managed to glimpse the station name through the window. And, judging by the large number of people getting off, it may very well have been the final stop.
It is 6:30am. The sun is rising. And I am in Khajuraho!