An Unfortunate Case

It's not surprising to hear that very little ever goes to plan on a train ride through India, especially a 25 hour train ride. You would be surprised however at the number of doctors you can find in a carriage full of 60 people. It's about 12. Or 6. I may have been seeing double at this point. But before medical attention was required by 12 or 6 doctors, I had boarded the 9pm train from Delhi to Kolkata equipped only with the desperation to leave polluted streets and urban cattle behind. My top of the range 300 rupee ticket provided a seat adorned with luxurious Indian air conditioning which proved to be vital for the trip ahead. So as the desk fan taped to the roof above me swirled and swirled and the train rolled by the beautiful badlands of Northern India, I couldn't help but to drift off into a slightly jaded sleep, whilst my eyes slowly narrowed on the suitcase dangling above my head. Previously I had wondered why anyone would put such a gigantic suitcase on such a small and rickety shelf. And then it hit me. Literally.

The badlands

This monstrosity of a suitcase had become free of its owners iron grip. For too long had it bundled along wobbly streets, cowered inside the depths of a tuk-tuk and been stowed above countless balding heads on a flimsy steel shelf. It had quite simply had enough. Or so I would like to think. I would also like to think, if this inanimate object had any conscience whatsoever, that it was infact aiming for its own masters precious face and not my own, but unfortunately I had drawn the short straw. And so there I was, a face with the appearance of going 12 rounds with Mike Tyson, a nose as crooked as Richard Nixon and 12 or 6 Indian men desperate to work their magic on me. If I'm right in remembering, as my memory is a little hazy from the few minutes that followed, I recall reacting with 'bloody hell, bugger, ouch, this hurts'. Which is more than I could say about the girl sat next to me who I, in some way, had to calm down with my face like a smashed pumpkin. But unlike The Smashing Pumpkins, today was not the greatest day I had ever known, it was far from it.

As countless Indian men and women gathered around me from every angle, it dawned on me just how much kindness and compassion I was embosomed in. Sure on the East coast train from Newcastle to Edinburgh you have access to a sanitary first aid kit and clean tap water but when countless unfamiliar faces offer a hand equipped with not just a rag or two but their honest gesture to help in anyway possible, you know you're somewhere special. That feeling continued to surround me on my trip through India. To rely on the kindness of strangers is a risky business and one you certainly cannot solely rely on when stepping out of your front door, however in India there simply is no other way. You are either a local to India or you are lost. Every crevice of each building hides a secret known only to the strangers you pass on the street. I found myself in Jaipur, following a jewellery merchant to the roof of his building, blinded by barrels of spices, climbing and climbing, embellished with simple blessings and humble offerings from a pop up shrine to Hanuman, the monkey god. I reach the peak to an image of the valley unknown. The rooftops reflecting the warmth of the blazing sun, Amer Fort barely visible down through the valley pass to the north, Galta Ji, the monkey temple, rippling with heatwaves to the east, and gazing down upon the pink city, the legendary Nahargarh fort. I would spend the following days tearing Jaipur apart like a 17th century British knock-off conquistador.

Back on the train was a whole other story. The owner of the suitcase, after supplying enough apologies to forgive even Adolf Hitler, soon recaptured his almost liberated luggage and moved on down a few seats to allow for my recovery time, of which I had around 21 hours worth. After a quick stop at the following station to be patched up like a bollywood princess by not only a doctor from the closest hospital but also a dentist to check my valuable two front teeth, we slowly rumbled on towards Kolkata. Slowly. Painfully slowly. So slowly that by the time we were 2 hours away from Kolkata, my connecting train to New Jalpaiguri was already leaving. Which meant I was in big trouble.

With broken nose and bleeding face I headed off to find someone in charge for the slightest bit of helpful information, although I didn't have a clue what or who I was looking for. Stumbling along each carriage, receiving concerning looks from every single passenger, I reached a uniformed man appearing to be in charge. I spoke, he didn't understand, I spoke again, he spoke louder, I didn't understand. I looked around desperately for help, nobody could understand, most passengers thought the facial incident had just occurred and I was looking for medical help and so offered me a rag or handkerchief. I returned with less time, less distance, and just as much information as the minute I left my seat. That is until I returned to a single young boy grasping tightly to a piece of paper, bearing the name of a train station. But not just any train station, the only train station in which both my current blundering donkey and the beautiful heaven sent stallion of a train I would ride to New Jalpaiguri, would both cross paths.

It was 10pm. I counted down, 3 more stations. 2 more stations. 1 more station. I was up next. Gathered by the door, the awake population of the carriage waved me goodbye adorned with good luck wishes, it was truly a hero's send off. We approach the station. Rolling. I turn frantically to the countless young boys gathering behind me watching in anticipation, because they knew what was happening.

We reach the station at speed and once again I turn back to the boys. "Jump!" one of the shorter boys says.

"What?"

"He say jump," replies another, taller boy.

"Jump," the shorter boy repeats. I'm assuming by now he knows only one English word and so doubt if I should indeed jump, until he is echoed by a chorus of young boys all bearing the same motivational speech.

"Now?"

"Yes, jump."

The bags go first, rolling and bouncing along the platform, within seconds we are beyond them, out of sight. I'm next up, but running out of platform. My hours of playing Tomb Raider and Uncharted have prepared me for this moment. The moment I touch down on the platform, a wave of overwhelming relief floods my body. I stand for a moment just listening. Listening to the laughing and hollering of the young boys who remained aboard, the grinding metal as the locomotive dragged itself away and the whistle of the wind it carried with it until finally, silence.

As I stood watching the train roll away into the setting sun, I practically collapsed with relief to have 30 minutes of peace. This dark, dreary remnant of a railway station became a haven. I hadn't slept in 35 hours, waiting on a train arriving in 30 minutes which would take me 8 hours in the direction of New Jalpaiguri from which I would take a mountaineering jeep another 4 hours on towards Darjeeling. But as I wandered over to collect my intrepid luggage, I couldn't help but smile with sheer excitement at everything that was still yet to come.