As anticipated, the train was basic and appeared not cleaned since built, likely in the
1950s. But, at least having a reserved seat, meant one didn’t have to run and jump
onto a moving train.
Being the sole foreigner, it felt as if a steady stream of onlookers came to witness this
unusual event and get a closer look at the stranger in their midst. At first, the plan
was to use the time to edit a few pictures, but passengers crowded around to such an
extent, I gave up. Privacy and personal space are different in all countries.
At stations, vendors hopped onboard selling tea, samosas, boiled chickpeas, water,
etc. People subsequently threw their used cups and plates (not paper plates, but used
newspaper) out the window, but I couldn’t get myself to follow suit. Seeing I kept
mine, they must’ve considered me weird or a hoarder.
Lunch was chickpeas (or channa), and my every move was watched with great
interest. I couldn’t help but giggle when my fellow travellers kindly fabricated a scoop
from the newspaper so the foreigner could eat. Little English was spoken and, now
and again, “foreigner, foreigner” could be heard, followed by wide-eyed faces peeping
around corners. The people in my berth felt it their duty to care for me and guarded
my stuff when I wandered about. Train staff came around to take dinner orders and I
secretly wished they would be kind enough to provide a spoon as I wasn’t good at
eating with my fingers.
My assumption that bedding would be provided was incorrect. Mercifully, a fellow
traveller lent the ill-advised foreigner a blanket.