A Train to Chennai

What was the big deal anyway? I had survived a war where I had made stressful journeys across four countries, camped in refugee shelters and stayed unwashed for about a week. This was not going to be half as bad.Just a matter of one night. Six hours to be precise. All my feminist studies over the years had made me model myself on a new-age Penthisilia. I looked down on the Rapunzel varieties who waited for men to come and rescue them. So, in spite of my husband voicing concerns about how I would manage three pieces of luggage and an 18 pounder, I poohed-poohed his worries, reminded him smugly of my exalted status as a war-veteran and got ready for an overnight journey to Chennai. By train.

All was picture perfect till we got into the train. It was past 11:00p.m and most people had pulled their berths up and retired for the night. Vivek helped me load all the luggage and I whistled my way to my berth. No 40. And my jaw dropped. As luck would have it, what awaited me was a "side-berth", every Indian traveller's promise of a cramped quarter. No 40, to my chagrin, was an "UPPER-side-berth" too which is the worst nightmare of every Indian mother travelling with a baby. And if all this was not bad enough, the lady occupying the seat below mine had loaded all her luggage into the hold leaving no place for mine.In a classic case of Indian-callousness,she had turned her ample behind towards the aisle and gone off to sleep.

Vivek and I stood there wondering what to do. The train stopped at the station for just five minutes and I asked him to get off rather than try any Bollywood stunts jumping off a moving train. Still feeling like Penthisilia, though not a very confident muscular one, I said I would "handle it".

I stood for a while, analysing the situation. Samarra, thankfully is a Zen-baby and all she did was look as analytical and critical as I did. After a number of excuse-mes, to which I got no response, I prodded the lady and she woke her up from her sweet dreams. I did not make bones about her luggage. I feel genuine pity for obese people and I knew there was no way that lady could have managed to pile all of herself and her luggage on that narrow berth. I poker-facedly asked her to hold Samarra for a minute. I lifted the large suitcase onto the upper berth along with the other two pieces of luggage. That left me with half a berth. I climbed onto the top and the lady passed Samarra up to me. Then, all the fun started...

Indian men are not very tall.The average height of the Indian male is about 5ft 7 inches. The side berths are exactly that length. I am about 5ft 5in and without luggage, am almost a snug fit when reclining on a side berth. Now, with a large suitcase and two overnight bags taking up half the space, I was cramped like a Pygmy squatting in the bushes. I put Samarra next to the wall and tried to figure out a comfortable position for the night, given our luxurious circumstances. My husband, wanting to do his bit in making what he predicted to be a tiresome journey more comfortable for us, had booked us in an AC coach. So I had the AC outlet right next to my left ear blowing cold draughts.Before my nose could stiffen into an icicle, I reached for my sweater which was tied around my waist and in the process of loosening it and restraining Samarra from peering over the edge of the berth and falling on her head, lost grip on the sweater. It fell to the floor of the train.

Murphy's law, I forget the number- A bad situation can only get worse. I looked down in frustration. There was my sweater lying partly on the floor, one sleeve draped obscenely over the obese lady's lower behind.There was no way I could come down and get it. Samarra would do the flying fox number if I budged. As it is, I was having a hard time restraining her from climbing over me and falling over. I had no choice but to reach for the blankets and linen that the train provided in the AC coaches.

Friends accuse me of being anti-Indian.What they don't realise is that I am no slave of the West at all and when an NRI Indian like me comments on things, it is blown out of proportion. Of course it is ok for a resident Indian to crib about power cuts, mosquitos and people taking a crap on the roads. But NRIs have to smile and nod their heads in approval at all that India manifests.I have heard horror stories about blankets provided on Indian trains. From resident Indian friends of course, so you can be assured it is not a stuck-up NRI over reacting. About nose gooey and cockroaches and even about pasted crap. My blanket seemed crisp and ironed well. I pulled it up till my chest. I imagined for a moment, piles and piles of blankets from this train, in a huge Dhobi Ghat, being washed in a one large drum.The slop water. And all the images of nose gooey, roaches and crap. But it was darn cold with the AC shaft next to my ear. I soon pulled the blanket over my head.

That's when Samarra decided to get social. She can get really vocal at times, talking to herself. With all the lights off in the train and everyone asleep, she sounded like the local drunk shouting in the dark. After much shoo-shooing on my part and boo-booing on her part, she finally turned around and in a pose reminiscent of the obese lady's below, went off to sleep. Just when I though that the Heavens had begun to look down favourably on me, and I thought I could finally get some shut-eye, the night light went on. And in the entire train, the light above mine was the chosen one. So there I was like an Egyptian Museum exhibit, spotlight on my face, arms crossed across my chest like Tutankhamen's, feet up against the wall, surrounded by my belongings. Of course, Tutankhamen had treasures, not diaper bags and tins of baby cereal. And certainly much more space than I did! Only thing missing was a sarcophagus.

Around 2 in the morning, I felt two fingers on my bum. I was about to swing a table tennis back hand when the face of the friendly ticket checker beamed at me. He was holding up my sweater. In India, it is ok to prod parts of another's anatomy. It is considered absolutely polite in fact. Thankful and displeased at the same time, I put it on and pushed away the blanket of bug-infested dreams. I went back to my mummified pose with the spotlight on my face. We reached Chennai at 5 in the morning.

Sorry my Indian brethren, but I have no choice but to say that most of you are selfish, unmannered, unchivalrous boors! There were people looking up at me and Samarra stashed up there and not a single human being offered to help us. The women! I expected at least the women to offer some help. At least to hold the baby while I got down. But most of them bustled about their business, getting their luggage together, hiring porters. The few who did look up at us, smiled and said cootchey-coo to the baby. Fat help that was...

I waited for the area around us to clear. Finally, when most people got off, I jumped off the berth. Samarra was peering over the edge and I got her down. I was suddenly in Penthisilia mode again. I kept her on a lower berth while I quickly got the other stuff down.There were were a few people on the train watching us like we were on reality T.V or something. And smiling in appreciation. Fat help that was...

I had a bag on each shoulder and holding Samarra, pushed the large suitcase with my KNEE. I did this till we reached the entrance of the compartment. An elderly couple, their son and wife all wished us good morning. Fat help that was...

At the door, a young man, like a Godsend, offered to carry my luggage down. He held baby for me while I unloaded the smaller bags.Of course, if he had not been there, my Plan A was to position the suitcase on the edge of the door and kick it full force onto the platform.And throw the overnight bags down as well. And Heaven knows I would have done that given the wonderful people around me and their helpful attitude.

Indians suck when it comes to being chivalrous. I have been on buses where young, able bodied donkeys occupy ladies' seats and suddenly get cataract and incurable blindness the moment women get on. There is no concept of giving seats to the elderly. Even worse, I have seen pregnant women standing while men sit, picking their noses and enjoying the scenery. Who knows, maybe the sight of a fellow Indian crapping on the road side. The crapping Indian is staple Indian scenery after all. Time Magazine rated many cities in India as ranking among the rudest places in the Solar System. So there, now you can't call that the prejudiced view of a Non-resident Indian who has seen better manners. You have it from a credible source.