Around India in 80 Trains (9 page)

That the Indian Maharaja was a feat of excellence was indisputable. Towels were fluffed and beds laden with nightly gifts, bartenders beamed, crisp wine breathed in crystal and plummy gulab jamuns sweated syrup on silver spoons. But sitting in a lace-curtained window, book in hand, watching the world slip by, was a shelved dream. For practical reasons the train travelled at night. During the day he stood quietly in local stations, being fed and watered by his engineers until ready to leave again. Throughout the week the train would jolt during dinner and by the morning be waiting at Udaipur, Sawai-Madhopur, Jaipur, Bharatpur and eventually Delhi Safdarjung. It was like travelling in a luxury tardis.

One morning I sat in the doorway watching the engineers fill the water tanks, spilling most of it onto the tracks. Benoy appeared and edged his way past in a wide arc, apologising as he did so. I invited him over to chat but he hovered reluctantly.

‘Ma’am is it permissible that I sit at your level?’

I made space for him in the doorway, but he declined. He rested on his haunches, relaxing a little.

Benoy was a 30-year-old from Kolkata with a wife and a new-born son. He showed me a photograph of them both on his phone, wiping the screen on his sleeve. He would only see them again in three months’ time. Benoy was well-read, had a degree from the University of Calcutta and seemed over-qualified for his job. He explained that one day he would like to live in England and run his own hospitality business. I asked him why he wanted to leave India, just as it was reaching a turning point.

‘It is true that India is now doing very well,’ he said. ‘But this is only true for some people.’

‘But I thought Indians who went to university abroad are now coming back to India because this is where it’s booming. Even Indians who have never lived here?’

‘Yes ma’am it is booming, but for people who are low on the scale, this makes no difference. The rich are even richer, but the poor are even more poor than before. And now they want many things that they see but can never afford.’

‘What do you think will happen?’

‘They are slowly learning their rights and they are no longer keeping quiet. The time will come. One day they will refuse to accept this. But it will take some time.’

Another butler appeared from around the corner and Benoy leapt to his feet.

‘Enjoy your afternoon in Udaipur ma’am, it will be very special.’

The day in Udaipur sailed by like the boats on Lake Pichola. A tour around the palace ended with the distribution of traditional pagris for the men, and scarves for the women, their vegetable dyes leaving splodges on my neck like angry eczema. A sound and light show boomed and beamed before dinner and a tired troop flopped early to bed, as the following morning was Tiger Morning!

A damp chill clutched my chest as I jumped down the train steps. It was barely dawn, the birds were asleep and a handful of crickets was burning the midnight oil. Sleepy talk floated on puffs of breath and a mist curled itself around the carriages. Three tank-like jeeps were parked nearby and the Bumpkins squeezed into the front row of the first. Everyone else scrambled towards the other two. Sweeping the pools of dew from the seats with his hand, Raju the driver jumped down and passed a mountain of rough blankets over the sides. He wrenched the gear stick, scraping metal on metal and the jeep roared off to Ranthambore National Park. A steady blast of wind tugged the skin from our bones and dragged tears down the sides of our cheeks. At the gates to the park the jeep had a seizure, the engine cut out, and Raju jumped out and disappeared for ‘something’. While we waited, a stack of bodywarmers rose up at the side of the jeep and a row of baseball caps bobbed past. Men in shawls stood around, hands behind backs, eyes shining in the light of their beedis. Each wore a pair of camouflage-coloured earmuffs that clipped around the backs of their heads.

‘Bulllllll-a-clawa!’ a man called, who was wearing a holey sweater, a bodywarmer, a tasselled shawl, a scarf and open-toed sandals. He hurled a handful of balaclavas over the side of the jeep.

‘No, no thank you, we don’t want anything,’ Bob said, pushing them back.

‘Yes, bulllllllllll-a-clawas, very good price, very warm,’ the man insisted, standing on his toes and pushing back on the other side. He and Bob engaged in a tussle while at the back of the jeep a selection of baseball caps landed in Marie’s lap. She tried to hand them back as Cyril put one on.

‘Can we please go?’ Bob asked, looking around for Raju, who was sipping coffee between thumb and index finger, nattering to a group of friends. There was nothing wrong with the jeep. It was standard procedure to break down by a group of hungry vendors. By the time Raju strolled back, Cyril was grinning from under a new baseball cap and Bob was sporting a new bodywarmer. He sighed. ‘It is very warm, I have to say.’

After a couple of hours the sun had climbed high enough to wink through the trees and warm patches in the jeep. Bob had shed his bodywarmer and the blankets had slid onto the floor. Jane was listing species of kingfisher on her notepad, pointing to a pair of chubby turquoise specimens wearing orange bibs, when a yelp punctured the silence. The guide held up a hand and tapped the driver on the shoulder to stop the jeep.

Silence.

A rustle of wind blew crispy leaves around the ground and the sound pierced the air again.

‘This is a warning call from a deer … this means she has sensed a tiger.’

He tapped the driver on the shoulder who careered over the bumps in the track and revved up the hill. Startled, two sambar deer jumped away from the road. Another jeep was parked ahead, its passengers standing on seats, leaning on each other’s shoulders. All eyes were glued to a movement in the trees where a body was slinking away, his tail flicking behind him. Keen for a better view, the driver strained the jeep up and around the bend, desperate to beat the tiger before it emerged on the other side. As the jeep rounded the corner, a muscular pair of shoulders appeared on the track and the tiger paused, turning to look directly at us. Unruffled by his audience, he leapt onto the road and sloped around the back of the jeep and into the trees. We sped downhill into a clearing, ready to head back to base. But the driver braked sharply.

Less than 20 metres away, a striped body was picking its way through the undergrowth. Sunlight bounced off patches of orange that gently rose and fell. He moved as though a wave was rippling from head to tail. Suddenly his shoulder blades sprang up, his head dipped and his paws lifted with calculated precision. He had seen something. Following his gaze, we saw that hidden in the trees was another tiger, named Machli. Machli was known as the Queen of the Jungle. She was 15 years old and had provided five litters for the reserve, making her the pride of Ranthambore. She was still, watching him with a front paw hovering off the ground, her tail curving like a cobra. When he was less than a few metres away, they bounded towards each other and at the last second leapt up, paws outstretched, and clashed mid-air, sinking claws and teeth into each other’s necks.

An apocalyptic roar ripped through the jungle, lifting birds off branches, as the pair wrestled on hind legs, snarling and growling, flanks of muscle and fur merged into one. But Machli was not known as the Queen of the Jungle for nothing. She slashed her claws across his face and gave one final bark as he loped off to lick his wounds. She watched him go, black lips curling around white teeth, shoulders rising and falling, before turning around and picking her way to a tree where she threw herself down and licked her paws. The guide watched her, a fatherly smile playing on the corner of his mouth.

‘The 15-year-old tiger has won the battle,’ he declared, before tapping the driver on the shoulder and taking us back to base.

Once the excitement of tiger-spotting had died down, the remainder of the week was devoted to ticking off tourist boxes: rickshaw rides through Jaipur; elephant rides up to Amber Fort and a cockeyed group photo that made the Taj Mahal look as though it were sliding to one side behind us. On the last night, we joined Cyril, Marie, Bob and Jane to toast a wonderful week with steaks and wine, before slipping between the duvets for the last time. From tomorrow it would be five-rupee tea and bedding from brown paper bags.

4 | ‘Excuse me Darling, I Have a Message for You’

‘Pipty.’

‘What?’

‘One hundred and PIPTY!’

Our stationary auto shuddered in the middle of an angry traffic jam leading to the Paharganj side of New Delhi station and the driver signalled for us to get out. He refused to navigate his vehicle through the mash of metal and bodies thronging at the entrance. Plucking an extra
`
50 from my hand, he swung round and wove off, leaving us standing in the middle of the road to die. A Maruti 800 was approaching from the right, an auto from the left and a cycle rickshaw pedalled in diagonally. The rule was simple: attack, or be attacked. I marched forward and somehow, all three swerved to avoid me. Back in Wembley, Shankar had issued precise instructions on how to get to New Delhi station’s tourist bureau: don’t look left or right, ignore the touts and agents scouring Paharganj’s Backpacker Ghetto, and go straight to the IndRail desk. On cue, a skinny man, like a stick insect in flares, appeared at my side.

‘Tickets ma’am? I can give confirmed tickets.’

He had the shifty body language of a sixth-former trying to flog poppers at a bus stop. I ignored him and contemplated the least fatal route across the road. Further along, Passepartout was shouting and trying to fend off a group of touts.

‘Ma’am, where are you going? … I can get you tickets … how many tickets? Official
government
tickets.’

This last claim confirmed that they were anything but legitimate tickets. Across the road, more touts had spotted us and were winding their way around autos and tripping over bike wheels. A beggar with a withered forearm wandered over and began to flick the useless limb back and forth with his good arm, tapping intermittently at my own healthy arm. To make it to the bureau unscathed, our field position was crucial. Passepartout went into a scrum, holding back the mob. Free to run, I broke out, dodging wheels, bonnets and elbows, and made it to the other side as the touts relented. They had spotted a trio of rucksacks bobbing by and moved on to new prey.

The high-ceilinged hall of New Delhi station was crammed with endless queues, meshed windows and neon signs, few of which made sense. A man wearing earmuffs gripped his nostrils between his thumb and forefinger and blew hard, throwing the contents on the floor, then pointed us towards a staircase. It led up to a landing that looked like the scene of a mass murder. Paan splashed the floors and mounted the walls, one well-aimed spurt obscuring the final ‘t’ on the
Do Not Spit
sign. Another sign pointed to
Refreshment Room
and a pair of blondes appeared from that direction and came down the staircase holding tickets. Both girls wore glittering bindis and Pushkar Passports—threads around their wrists. Touts and fake priests often pounce on tourists new to the holy town, offering flowers and blessings in exchange for a few thousand rupees. In return, a sacred thread is tied around the wrist, representing a vaccination against further hassle. Pious passport-wearers preserved the thread for months after they had arrived home to Fulham, and wore it until it smelt, rotted and fell off in the shower. This was definitely the right way to the tourist bureau.