Every journey, they say, teaches you something. I fully agree. The 3,000-kilometre jaunt that I undertake every year, spanning six Indian states, forces me to imbibe, if nothing else, patience and tolerance in large quantities. My annual pilgrimage home is a trip I look forward to. But it has to do more with what lies at the end of the journey than the period in transit. The pampering and royal treatment that I receive from my family and friends! A rather welcome change from the kind of attention that my husband and colleagues can spare me in this mad city called Bombay. When I boarded the dreaded Guwahati-Dadar Express (the 'Express' bit being the Indian Railway's poor attempt at humour, I presume) I resigned myself to three days of ennui. In that time, I could finish writing a novel (all right, a short story perhaps?), taken pottery classes, become an expert Chinese chef, or even learnt to swim (Mickey Mehta performs wonders, I believe). But there I was with a very angry husband who had my luggage in tow, ready to kill me because I had made him walk for what seemed like a kilometre in search of my coach. When I finally found it, I sank into my seat with relief, looking around, my eyes turning saucer-like when I saw my travelling companions for the first time. I was lucky to be in the company of seven very holy men, all back from the Haj, each equipped with a large container filled with what seemed suspiciously like water. It was revealed to me later that this was holy water, all the way from Mecca. Thankfully, we did not run out of water. The thought of using up all that blessed water would have filled me with guilt. The first day went by like a breeze. I was too stressed out thinking how I would spend the time that the very thought put me into a deep slumber. Some people actually complain about getting no sleep on train. Contrary to that, I would probably sleep through an accident, unless someone woke me up to tell me about it. We must have passed three states. The train, surprisingly, was whizzing past the countryside. The seven holy men were continuing their animated discussion into the second day. Though they belonged to my state, their conversation made little sense to me. They had by then teamed up with a few more of their contingent. I looked around desperately seeking female companionship. In vain! One of the bearded gentlemen, sensing my apparent discomfort, tried to make conversation. It went something like this: HE: So... where do you live? ME: Bombay. HE: Ah... so what do you do in Bombay? ME: I work for an Internet services company... HE(with no clue about what I was talking): Ah... very good, government service, very good. So... how much do you earn? ME(a little startled): Enough... Not quite liking the direction this particular talk was taking, I quickly mumbled something under my breath and retreated to the safety of the upper bunk with my reading material. Three hours into my book, The Magic of Thinking Big, which I was told had enough inspiration to uplift depressed spirits, I descended... to see another holy man on my seat. I began to get really stressed out. But my patience and tolerance shone through; I walked across to the adjoining cubicle and quietly occupied a vacant seat, hoping that its owner had gone for a very long walk. The holy man, despite my occasional unfriendly glances, refused to get my message. By the time he had ended his three-hour discourse, even I had moved on to an enlightened plane. Which brings me to another vital part in my journey: Bihar and lawlessness. Everyone dreads this phase, and not without reason. This is where the train stops at every station, which is about two minutes apart, and also in between, since Laloo Ram wants a quick ride from home to his paddy field. If we did not have just this one state to pass through, I am sure the travelling time would be cut in half. And of course, transform it into a more peaceful and pleasant affair. Bihar is a place where people are reluctant to move from their seats unless absolutely necessary. When you turn around, your seat might not be yours anymore! The ticket collectors disappear and all you see are strange, unfriendly men, looking furtively around, trying to spot an empty space. My prayers were answered as by nightfall we were out of the state. At least I presumed so, since we were actually moving again. The next morning when I peered out of the window, I caught a glimpse of a green and verdant countryside. The train was moving through West Bengal. In the morning sun, the fields looked golden. I could almost hear Sting, "as I walked the fields of gold..." The peace and tranquillity only lasted a few minutes and we were rudely awakened by a cacophony of very unsynchronised human sounds. "Pencil torch, pen-set, telephone, camera, rechargeable battery..." At 0600 hours in the morning, when my mind screamed for coffee and quiet, it was definitely not to be. Some passengers tried hard to drown the voices by pulling up their blankets, but the hawkers only got more insistent. There must have been at least a hundred of them, walking up and down the aisle, selling almost the same things. My mind screamed in agony each time a hawker screeched his wares. I sent frantic signals to my brain, telling it, "Just one more day, and this will all be over." By late afternoon, the shouting had more or less died down. I didn't know who was more tired -- us or them. At that point in time, I was literally willing the train (and my watch) to move faster. One loses the sense of time and purpose in such situations and I was beginning to realise why. "The train is running five hours behind schedule," commented a fellow passenger. I nearly did a little jig on the spot, since I had been forewarned that the train was normally anywhere between 10 and 15 hours late. How can I describe my feelings when we finally crawled into Guwahati station, at 1800 hours in the evening of the third day. Joy, elation, a sense of achievement and, of course, a desperate longing for a hot bath and a decent, hygienic meal. Back in Bombay, I narrate my adventures to a friend, who is aghast. The flight home, I am then told, would only take three hours! Yes, I agree -- but it costs more than a trip to Dubai and back. "What on earth do you do for THREE days?" "Ah, well," I shrug, a seasoned traveller now, "It's not really that bad. Once you're on the train, time just flies by. All you need is some good music, a couple of racy novels and good company." So if you have yet to discover the North-East, or just want a slice of the non-stop excitement of travelling by the Guwahati-Dadar Express, I will be looking for train mates on my next trip. Any takers out there? Anita Bora, a Web writer at rediff.com, is on leave preparing for another visit home. Tell us what you think of this diary
HOME | NEWS | CRICKET | MONEY | SPORTS | MOVIES | CHAT | BROADBAND | TRAVEL ASTROLOGY | NEWSLINKS | BOOK SHOP | MUSIC SHOP | GIFT SHOP | HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL | WEDDING | ROMANCE | WEATHER | WOMEN | E-CARDS | EDUCATION HOMEPAGES | FREE MESSENGER | FREE EMAIL | CONTESTS | FEEDBACK