The telephone in our hotel room jangled at 4:30 am. “Yes?” I croaked into the phone.
“Wake up call, Memsahib.”
“Too early. We said to call at 5:30.”
“So sorry! Will call again at 5:30, Memsahib.”
I rolled over with a groan and pulled the sheet over my head.I tried to return to my dreams, but never reached deep slumber again. At 5:30 the phone rang a second time. I mumbled into the mouthpiece, “Yes. Thank you” and lowered the old-fashioned, black instrument onto its cradle. I reached over, jiggled Una’s mattress, and announced, “Up and at’em,” a call we had both heard every school morning from our mother.
Though we had taken a comfortable train from Delhi to Agra with Elderhostel, I had seen many more Indian trains, both on this trip and in the 70s. Trains on the Indian sub-continent were notorious for being late and over-crowded. It was a common sight to see passengers hanging out the doors or sitting in groups on the roof. We had pre-booked our tickets through an agent, but I was still worried.
Una and I were in the lobby at the appointed time. We had arranged for someone to help us get to the train station and make sure we found the correct train. But he was late. Fifteen minutes after the appointed time, our guide arrived. He was little more than a kid who, in typical teenage fashion, simply motioned for us to follow him. Once outside, we were surprised that no taxi waited in the pre-dawn gloom. Our young helper motioned for us to follow him down the street. “Taxi. Maybe Taj Hotel. Too early.” It was immediately obvious that this kid’s English skills were minimal.
Afraid of losing sight of our guide (who never gave his name and thus will be referred to as X), we fast-walked behind him. At one corner, X flagged down a lone taxi, haggled with him for a few minutes, then waved him away. “Too much rupees!” X declared. We three marched on toward the waterfront—a skinny young Indian kid followed by two middle-aged American ladies, each weighed down by a huge, green travel-pack.
I was seriously concerned about missing our 7:15 am train, but X seemed quite nonchalant. Luckily, he found a taxi near the Taj Hotel and we zoomed through the still deserted streets.
At the train station, our helper proved to be totally useless. When he saw that the main ticket window was closed, he didn’t know what to do or where to ask questions. He moved Una and I to a queue of locals who squatted in a line that extended from the ticket office, out the door, and onto the street. He stood with us, looked around with a lost expression, and did nothing. We would need to get involved.
A small group of Europeans with backpacks waited nearby and they confirmed that the ticket office would open in an hour, at 8:00 am. Our train was scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes, but we had no idea from where in the cavernous station it would depart. Nearby I spotted an open ticket window labeled “suburban trains” and reasoned they would know something.
When I asked the clerk about Neral Junction, the stop where we had been told to switch trains, he waved his hand to the far side of the station, across several platforms and tracks. With Una and X following behind, I hustled across the station and found another open ticket window. Finally, because of his ability to speak his native language, X was of use here. He was able to secure our pre-booked tickets. Now, with our tickets in hand, all we had to do was find the correct platform.
X wandered out to the nearest platform and stood there, looking perplexed. When we questioned him, we received an unintelligible string of Hindi.
Desperate, with only five minutes to go, I returned to the ticket window. “What platform for Neral Junction?” I asked.
The answer, while in English, was still typically Indian. “Number 3 or 4 or 5 or 6, or maybe 7, Memsahib.” I looked so distressed that he took pity and added, “Look for P.K.”
Platforms 3 through 6 were nearby, but none displayed a sign saying P.K. Una now rushed around the huge complex looking for platform #7. While she was gone, a train pulled away from platform #5 and another arrived. Suddenly the sign at the head of the new train flashed “P.K.” Just in time, Una returned and we hurried along the track to the first-class carriage. X trotted in our wake, evidently worried he wouldn’t get paid if he didn’t keep up.
Once Una was settled, surrounded by our luggage, I stood in the open carriage door to deal with X. Our arrangement with the agent had been to pay X for our train tickets and for our previous city tour. I stood on the step and handed X the money. The final ten-rupee note passed from me into his hand just as the train began to move out of the station.
When a kind, English speaking gentleman reassured us we were on the correct train, we finally relaxed, ready to enjoy our adventure. Two hours later we arrived at Neral junction to wait for the narrow-gage railway that would take us up the western ghats (low mountains) for a brief vacation in the cooler air of Matheran.
This was our first train adventure, but not our last.
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