crazy train ride

On the train from Belgaum to Bangalore. It is a busy time of the year to be traveling: festival season. I have a confirmed seat: seat 22 in sleeper car 5. I arrive, put my luggage under the seat, and sit down. And I see/hear/feel that I have walked into a convention center: confusion reigns in berths 19-27. Those with waiting list tickets and reservation against cancellation tickets (one step up from the waiting list) crowd into our cabin. The conductor is there. The conductor is here. The conductor is surrounded wherever he goes because he is the one with the power to decide who will have a seat to travel on this train. He haggles with many, many people, who crush in on us from all directions, all hoping for a confirmed seat. He tells one man he is on the wrong train. He tells many others to wait. Tickets are shoved under his nose, he marks some with a pen, turns others away. The train pulls away from the station. It is 10:30pm and all of the seats have already been turned into beds. It is difficult to sit upright; we sit crammed into the berths, our heads crooked into the middle aisle, trying to avoid the ever increasing crowd.

A group of 5 people perched into the middle and upper berths, pulls out food: roti, sabzi, sweets, rice, milk and sambar. Woman with scarf tied on her head, in the middle berth, props her feet across the aisle to the other middle berth, sticks her head out to be able to sit up while eating. I am offered food. They even have banana leaf plates. The conductor returns, hounded by three people that hope to get a seat where the diners are eating. The conductor tells the impatient, unseated passengers, “ok fine, it will be your seat, but let them finish dinner first!” His hand goes up and in a small circle demonstrates the reality of what he is saying, showing the undeniable state of things and how rude it would be to interrupt, really. Respect for the meal, at 11pm on a train.

Mother and child bed down on the floor in the aisle between the two berths. I offer part of my lower berth to them, but mom refuses, saying her daughter is too shy. Mom is sweet-faced, daughter is dressed with a fancy barrette in her hair. Girl is uncomfortable, not wanting to sleep, but exhausted. They curl up together on a blanket, leaving dad to look for confirmed seats for them somewhere. To be one of the crowd of men hounding the conductor as he comes to our berth and leaves again, trying to solve problems.

Later, as I told this story to someone else, they said the conductor was most likely trying to take as many bribes as possible, prolonging confusion and chaos for personal gain. I didn’t see it, he seemed to be trying to do his job as best as possible, accommodate those that could be accommodated, manage the mob with equanimity.

In the end, we are ten sleeping in the berth. Three on one side, three on the other, three in the side berths, and one on the floor. Mother and child have been given seats elsewhere; instead it is one of the eating party who has been evicted from his upper berth who is now on the floor. He lays out a sheet, and starts snoring even before the lights have been turned off. Beautiful and amazing.

I put my headphones on at a certain point, in an attempt to sleep. Instead, it brings me back to the situation at hand with acute sensitivity. So many people, crushed together, all going to the same place. All going to different places within the same place called Bangalore. Coexisting just fine. Indeed, we all laugh and shake our heads at the one fellow who is actually raising his voice to the conductor. No need to yell, our faces say. The group continues with the meal. The woman with head scarf sees me seeing her, offers food again. I smile and say no. Keep smiling and she smiles back. We are all ok with each other. Coexisting just fine.