First published in paperback in the United Kingdom in 2008 by empty canvas

This revised edition published by empty canvas at Smashwords 2012

Copyright Mark Helyar 2012

Illustrations, images and maps copyright Mark Helyar 2012

The rights of Mark Helyar to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holders

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thnak you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Minh Hue-Vashon

The author would like to thank the following for permission to use copyright material: The Panos Institute, London, for use of material from the Mountain Voice project; Universal Music Publishing Group on behalf of Neil Hannon for use of The Divine Comedy song lyrics. If any copyright holders have been inadvertently overlooked, the author will be pleased to make the necessary arrangement at the first opportunity.

to

MANIHARA NORTON

and

BHAWANI BHAI

now passed into their next lives,

and to all those big-hearted people

whose voices are rarely heard

When a great people rises from the dust…

what power is the resurrecting force of its resurgence?

Sri Aurobindo

CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

Preface to this Edition

Journey Timeline

THE SOUTH

Map of South India Journey and Timeline

1. Innocence is Bliss

2. Little Acts of Kindness

3. Festive Road

4. Freedom Road

5. Here Comes the Flood

6. Bad Ambassador

7. Logic Vs Emotion

The Rise and Fall

THE NORTH

Map of North India Journey and Timeline

8. In Pursuit of Happiness

9. The Booklovers

10. Don't Look Down

11. Note to Self

12. Going Downhill Fast

13. The Wreck of The Beautiful

14. Charmed Life

15. The Certainty of Chance

16. Love What You Do

17. If…

18. There is a Light that Never Goes Out

19. Tonight We Fly

20. Regeneration: Three Years On…

National Express: Seven Years On…

Key Players

Acknowledgements

Glossary

Notes and Source Material

Further Reading: Articles and Reports

Further Reading: Books

Organisation Links

About the Author

PREFACE TO THIS EDITION

I never intended to write a book, just as I never had any great desire to travel to India. But I went and, somewhere in those six months, the book found me. This is the story of how it happened.

Some episodes may seem incredible, but everything I recount is based on real events. Though I’ve taken a degree of artistic licence with the stories, I’ve not consciously misrepresented any information. A few people’s names have been changed to protect their identity and some events and characters are composites of several incidents or individuals.

It is profoundly difficult to write about India without falling into cliché, stereotype and generalisation. At times, I’m guilty of all three. My intention is to offer an honest portrayal of my experiences and to place them in my understanding of their context. In so doing, I present difficult, unpalatable issues for debate. A few years on and, despite the incredible pace of change in India in recent years, many of these issues remain deeply pertinent.

The book is amply scattered with anecdotes informed by personal experience, conversation and copious research. Every opinion could be counter-argued by a dozen others. That’s India: a land where nothing and everything can be true at the same time. Just as many of my observations could be preceded by it appears that, many of the facts should be qualified by about.

That said, I've verified all the facts and information as far as possible, including those that conflict with one another. These, along with other sources of material, are attributed in the hyperlinked notes at the end of the book.

In this new 2012 edition I've provided links to new and updated information released since the book was first published in 2008. However, for consistency, I've kept the content of the book and its references within the original time framework.

I’ve used italics on each occasion that words in Hindi, Sanskrit, Telugu or Garhwali first appear. Though I’ve aimed to be consistent in the transliteration, I encountered many variations in spelling. In most cases I’ve leant towards simplicity rather than strict authenticity. There is a glossary of less familiar words at the end.

If you enjoy reading this book, you can find out more about me and my work here:

Website: www.emptycanvas.co.uk

Blog: www.markhelyar.com/wordpress

Twitter: www.twitter.com/markhelyar

Smashwords: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/markhelyar

Facebook: www.facebook.com/markhelyar

LinkedIn: www.linkedin.com/in/markhelyar

JOURNEY TIMELINE

The story of this book took place between December 2004 and May 2005.

A map and timeline of my journey can be found at the beginning of the South and North India sections.

This edition also includes a summary of my adventures between leaving Cochin and travelling up to the Himalayan foothills six weeks later, recounted through a series of emails sent to friends in the UK.

Between 2006 and 2008 I returned to India several times to gather further stories and research material.

Regeneration: Three Years On… was written in Goa in March 2008.

National Express: Seven Years On… brings the story up to the present day.

THE SOUTH

SOUTH INDIA JOURNEY AND TIMELINE

Timeline

» 9 December 2004: flew into Delhi

» 11 to 13 December 2004: train from Delhi to Nidadavole

» 13 to 30 December 2004: Hebron Hostel, Nidadavole

» 30 December 2004 to 24 January 2005: SKCV, Vijayawada

» 25 January to 2 February 2005: Mamallapuram

» 3 to 15 February 2005: Kodaikanal

» 16 February to 3 March 2005: Cochin

1

INNOCENCE IS BLISS

‘KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN, don’t stop and follow me,’ instructed Mark as he strode out ahead.

‘Easy for you to say,’ I muttered, watching with envy as his wheelie suitcase glided effortlessly along the grey tiled floor. It sounded like a good plan but within a few metres I was struggling to keep up. Burdened by a hefty rucksack that grew weightier by the second, I was bent double, my nose almost scraping along the ground. After a tiring nine-hour flight, my first taste of Indian soil was a shuffling mass of trouser legs, sari hems, pyjama bottoms, ankle chains, painted toenails, sandals and slippers.

It’s not as if I’d pitched up on a whim. I’d planned fastidiously for months, devouring my local library’s healthy stock of travel literature; avidly reading the Lonely Planet, Footprint and Rough Guides for information; gathering equipment, medication and toiletries from Millets, Blacks, Boots and Superdrug; and scouring innumerable websites late into the night for travel tips, tricks and advice.

Anticipating an exit from Delhi Airport into a mass of clamouring arms desperate for a piece of me, I’d harboured fears of hungry hands waiting to wrench my rucksack from my back. Visions of thieving fingers trying to snatch my Velcro-sealed wallet from my pocket had haunted weeks of planning.

But I was prepared. My rucksack featured a whistle cannily incorporated into one of its toggles and a weighty chain attached my wallet to the belt on my khaki combat trousers. Every compartment secreted emergency contact numbers and back-up copies of important documents.

By contrast, my travelling companion, Mark Thomas, carried just one small case and a laptop. He was Operational Director of CHILD’s Trust, a UK-based charity that supported several children’s development programmes in India. Although he and his wife, Julie, ran the trust voluntarily, he flew out at least twice a year to visit the projects.

When Mark asked if I wanted to join him on his next trip, I jumped at the opportunity. I had a good reason: her name, Lakshmi Roja.

Lakshmi lived at Hebron Hostel, a girls’ home situated just outside Nidadavole, a small town in Andhra Pradesh, South India. I had sponsored her, through CHILD’s Trust, for the past five years. I always looked forward to reading her Christmas letters, translated by the hostel staff, in which she described her friends and her favourite studies at school.

Although we’d never met, Lakshmi had become an integral part of my life. How could I refuse the chance to meet her? Yet I felt apprehensive.

‘Are you OK?’ Realising I wasn’t by his side, Mark glanced around.

‘I know you said don’t stop, but can we pause for just a moment?’ I gasped. ‘I need to re-group.’ Turning awkwardly to look for a seat, I swung my rucksack around, almost propelling a mother and her two young daughters into a cleaning trolley.

‘Sorry!’ I exclaimed, putting my palms together, Namaste-style, but somehow managing to tangle my fingers in the strap of my rucksack. ‘Er, I’m sorry!’

Stepping backwards, I collided with a spectacled man in an open-necked cotton shirt. His withering glint of contempt froze me to the spot. He marched off, briefcase in hand, trailing a scent of sweat and sandalwood in his wake.

‘You are looking verrry heavy traveller!’ observed the woman. ‘India first time?’

I nodded sheepishly. The youngest child, adorned in beads and frills, giggled. Her gum-chewing sister eyed me coolly.

‘Happy enjoying!’ Tugging sharply on her daughters’ arms, she scurried off.

Mark smiled. ‘What’s in there that’s so heavy?’ he asked as, bending my knees, I gingerly lowered my rucksack onto a plastic seat.

‘My medical kit for starters,’ I replied. ‘Sterile needles, syringes, bandages, plasters, dressings, pills…’

‘…Enough to found a small hospital!’ he teased.

‘Wait, that’s not all! Thanks to Dentanurse,’ I added proudly, ‘I’ve got all the tools to do my own emergency fillings.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Then there’s…’ Mark listened patiently as I itemised:

1. The pocket-size personal purifier (guaranteed to clean enough water to keep a whole village hydrated for at least a year)

2. The dozen rehydration sachets (to combat potential dehydration)

3. Two bags of peanuts (to replenish lost salt)

4. Six muesli bars (to replace lost sugar)

5. Three bottles of antiseptic handwash strategically placed in each compartment, and

6. Four packets of vacuum-packed toilet paper crammed into the remaining crevices

‘What’s more, I know exactly where it all is,’ I finished, brandishing a comprehensive list. ‘I’ve got six copies of this.’

Though I was armed with an assortment of tablets to combat every conceivable form of diarrhoea ranging from mild to acute to explosive, I needn’t have worried. Belted, braced and prepared for all eventualities, no one could have arrived in India more anally retentive than me.

‘What about anti-malarial medication?’ asked Mark.

‘Ah.’ I hesitated, realising that he’d spotted the one inconsistency in my plans.

Mark looked concerned.

‘I don’t have any.’

His frown deepened.

‘The nurse told me that the most common drug would make me nauseous every morning,’ I explained. ‘So I asked her for an alternative. She suggested one I could take weekly.’

‘Mefloquine?’

‘Something like that. Anyway, she said it had hallucinogenic side-effects. I didn’t fancy those either.’

‘So?’

‘So I decided to get a second opinion. I consulted a private doctor.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Not to take anything…’

‘What!’

‘…apart from common sense. He advised me to use the local mosquito cream and cover up at dusk. Then he gave me a packet of four tablets to take if I showed any malarial symptoms and told me to find a hospital. I’d be fine, he said.’

‘Hmm.’ Mark looked dubious.

His concern was well-founded. We were only going to spend the first two days together. He then had business to conduct for CHILD’s Trust in Delhi before returning to the UK. I was sailing closer to the wind. My flight was booked for six months later: 29 May 2005, the day my visa expired. I believe in getting value for money.

‘Taxi! Taxi!’

‘Auto rickshaw, yes?’

‘Taxi, yes?’

‘Good-good price!’

‘Sirs…?’

Ignoring the touts, we aimed straight for the pre-paid taxi booth. Then, swiftly negotiating the throng of demanding eyes and outstretched hands outside the airport doors, we located our waiting cab and jumped in. It may have been a different story had I been on my own but, having flown into Delhi on several occasions, Mark knew the score exactly.

~

TO DO

1. Buy water

2. Confirm arrival time at Hebron Hostel

3. Set watch alarm

Hello: Namaste: NA-MA-STAY

Thank you: Dhanyavad: DAN-YA-WODD

Two days later, I was on my own, or about to be. Having experienced a hectic tour of Delhi’s proud monuments to ancient religion and modern retail, Mark and I would soon be parting company. He was staying in the city for a few more days; I was travelling south to Andhra Pradesh. Two days of sight-seeing was more than enough for me, especially as it felt like two months: every moment seemed to stretch.

‘They call it Indian time,’ said Mark, as our white Ambassador Taxi rattled and honked towards the station, its tinny beeps adding to the din that exhausted the choking city air. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

As we paused at a set of traffic lights, a lanky youth tapped on my window. Beaming toothlessly, he held out a basket of red-skinned peanuts. I smiled back and shook my head. The lights turned green and he darted to the pavement, nimbly dodging between the lurching mass of cars, taxis, trucks, rickshaws, bicycles, buses and carts.

Indian roads are like pasta. In the UK we drive like raw spaghetti: hard and straight, possibly too fast, but generally in a linear direction. Delhi streets are more like a tangled mass of tagliatelle: vehicles pass on both sides of the road, zigzagging backwards and forwards in the most complicated series of manoeuvres.

Only two rules seem to apply—

1. Honk your horn when overtaking

2. The vehicle in front has right of way

—to which there’s one exception: the cow, goddess of the road. Drivers would rather hit each other than collide with this sacred beast wandering willy-nilly through the traffic completely oblivious to the erratic clamour around her.

‘Are you looking forward to seeing Lakshmi?’ Mark asked as we narrowly avoided four people and a baby on a wobbly moped.

‘Of course! And slightly apprehensive, if I’m honest.’

‘Why?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Lots of things. For a start, I’m not sure what to say to her. Can I give her a hug—what’s the right thing to do? Plus I don’t speak the language!’

Mark smiled. ‘Don’t worry! Just behave respectfully and take your time,’ he advised. ‘Many of the staff at the hostel speak some English. They’ll help you.’

‘Good.’

‘But be mindful of where you are.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s unusual for sponsors to visit their children,’ said Mark. ‘In fact, many charities discourage it.’

‘Why?’

‘Sometimes it sets up unrealistic expectations for the child and their friends. It’s important that they’re treated equally and not shown favouritism. You’re very privileged, you know.’

‘Ah.’ The responsibility suddenly felt quite daunting.

Without warning, our taxi swerved across two lanes of traffic. Tooting casually, the driver overtook a truck on the inside. I gripped the edge of the seat.

Mark laughed. ‘Still sure you want to go by train?’ he asked. ‘You know you could have flown. It would have been much quicker.’

‘I want to see India at ground level, not from 30,000 feet above it,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, I’m not in any hurry—I’ve got six months!’

At which point I realised that, having crossed the central reservation, we were cruising up the other side of the road headlong towards an elephant heavily-laden with wooden crates.

‘True! But, you’re not going on the regular tourist trail, so you must look after yourself.’

The taxi, shimmying back onto the correct side of the road, squeezed neatly in between an auto rickshaw and a bicycle. The elephant continued to plod obliviously away from us. I looked at Mark. ‘I’ll take care, don’t worry.’

‘What are your plans after you’ve visited Lakshmi? I’m sure Jennie would love you to stay until at least Christmas.’ Jennie was the Superintendent of Hebron Hostel.

‘I’m hoping to spend a few weeks with the street kids project in Vijayawada. You remember me telling you about SKCV, the place run by Manihara, a friend of my family’s?’

Mark nodded. ‘Then?’

‘Dump half the contents of my rucksack.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘And?’

I shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Observing Mark’s expression, I knew I was on dodgy territory.

‘I’m not going to do anything stupid,’ I assured him.

‘You’ve got your Rough Guide to India?’

‘It’s in the rucksack, next to the emergency toilet paper.’

‘And your mobile?’

‘In my pocket.’ The previous day Mark had helped me to buy a SIM card and connect my phone to Airtel, one of India’s many phone networks. I wanted to be able to keep in touch with my family and friends throughout my trip.

‘Call if you need anything.’

‘I will. Thanks.’

‘And make sure…’

‘Mark,’ I interrupted, ‘I’m getting the hang of things now. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’

~

With the train lumbering through Delhi’s sprawling suburbs and Mark’s cautionary advice duly noted, I sat back, put the Rough Guide on the seat next to me and pulled the tickets from my pocket. A long, 36-hour journey lay ahead: a 30-hour stretch followed by a change at Vijayawada Junction to board a second train for Nidadavole.

The 2AC, Second Class Air-Conditioned, carriage in which I was travelling consisted of several cubicles, each one able to accommodate four people. Separated by a blue curtain, every compartment contained a pair of shiny blue seats above which two bunks were suspended.

On the other side of a narrow corridor, which ran the length of the carriage, were two further berths. Mine, the lower one, converted into a bunk by folding down the backs of the two facing seats. The upper berth, accessed by climbing two metal rungs at the end, was unoccupied.

‘Sir?’

A moustached young man in a light khaki uniform handed me a brown paper packet containing two white sheets, a pillow case and a face cloth. Dropping a thick, grey blanket onto the seat beside me, he continued down the carriage. A tiny brown mouse peeked out from under the seat opposite and scampered along the floor after him.

No sooner had it disappeared than another moustached young man in a khaki uniform appeared, notebook in hand.

‘You are making dinner order, sir?’

I wasn’t expecting this. ‘Er, what do you have?’

‘Veg-pilau-and-khichari, sir,’ he said quickly.

I hesitated, confused. ‘OK, that sounds good, thank you.’

‘Which, sir?’

‘What you just said.’

‘Veg pilau or khichari.’

‘Ah, I see. What’s ki-char-ree?’

‘Rice and dal, sir,’ he replied patiently

‘Vegetarian?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll have that. Danyawodd.’

‘Sir?’

‘Dan-Ya-Wodd,’ I tried again.

He looked at me as if I was mad. ‘Sir?’

Good effort, Mark, but speak English. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Ah, welcome, sir!’

Two hours later a glutinous mound of fragrant rice, lentils and vegetables was served, with a fork and a smile, in a disposable tin tray. I spent the rest of the evening picking fragments of cumin and cloves from between my teeth.

~

During my months of preparation, I knew I’d miss one thing more than any other: my piano. From the age of four through to leaving university and music college, I was one of those annoying kids who loved to practise. But, lacking the temperament and technical skill, I knew that I’d never reach the standard required of a classical concert pianist. Besides, I could never memorise the dots. That said, I exploited every other professional outlet—cabaret, accompanying, gigging, teaching and composing—to pursue my career. As far I was concerned, being a pianist perfectly complemented my work as a theatre director, the other professional string to my bow.

Though Tony Hawks may have done it with a fridge, travelling the length and breadth of the country with a piano on my back wasn’t the kind of challenge I sought. A guitar would have been the obvious choice but, despite many attempts, I’d never been able to progress beyond the chords of A and D. My fingers wouldn’t stretch over the frets.

I searched the Internet. Criteria: a small, light instrument on which I could pick out a tune with ease. Three days later I was the proud owner of a petit mandolin, handmade from Romanian maple. All I had to do was learn how to play the thing. Now, though, wasn’t the time to start.

I propped the instrument against the wall at the end of my bunk fearing it may get damaged stowed under the seat with my rucksack.

Drawing the faded blue-flocked curtain across my little side compartment, I felt a tremendous sense of adventure. I recalled my first camping expedition when, aged nine, I swapped my bedroom for the back garden one night. Separated from the crawling bugs by only a thin layer of canvas I had felt, nevertheless, cosy and safe. Now lying in my own little tent on wheels while this strange, new land rolled past in darkness, I experienced that same irrational sense of security. I couldn’t look out, ergo, no one could see in. I was out of harm’s way, doubly protected by a warm blanket and freshly laundered sheets.

Putting my headphones in my ears, I plugged the other end of the cable into my mobile phone. Before leaving the UK, I’d loaded a number of CDs onto its MP3 playlist, including the complete works of The Divine Comedy, one of my favourite bands.

Over the next few hours I enjoyed a fitful sleep, disturbed first by a young Delhi couple in the next compartment tucking into a pungent meal extracted from various pre-prepared tiffin tins. Then again by a family of seven embarking at Gwalior just before midnight who took forever to squeeze themselves and their luggage into their compartment before noisily swishing across the curtain. On each occasion, however, I was soon lulled back to sleep by the clatter and sway of the train and the familiar tones of The Divine Comedy:

There’s not enough lines on the stave

to capture the music I crave

~

As dawn broke, an intoxicating brew of coffee, fried nut cutlets and toothpaste teased the air. A steady stream of people, face flannels and tooth brushes in hand, had started to shuffle up and down the carriage to the small washbasins situated at either end. I kept my blue curtain drawn across, dozing, contemplating a further day and half another night on the same train. There was no rush.

I was fully awake, washed and dressed, however, by the time we pulled into Bhopal just after six o’clock, site of the world’s worst industrial disaster. I converted the bunk back into a seat, sat down and found my Rough Guide.

Reading about the event that had occurred close by, I was struck by the horrific scale of the tragedy. Late in the evening of 2nd December 1984 a toxic chemical explosion annihilated 1,600 people, leaving over 100,000 survivors to suffer with chronic health problems for the rest of their lives. A further 20,000 were to die in the ensuing weeks and months. Accompanied by a flask of sweet coffee delivered to my seat, this was sobering information to digest so early in the morning.

The Rough Guide remained by my side throughout the day, periodically gleaned for information about my odyssey through India’s heartland. It added little more to my knowledge, though, than the experience of viewing everything first-hand through the yellow-tinted carriage windows which, due to the air conditioning, were sealed shut and mottled with streaks of condensation between the glass panes.

Madhya Pradesh: a landlocked expanse of scrub-covered hills. Yes, definitely. The next state, Maharashtra: vast and rugged. It was difficult to disagree. Everything was vast.

By the time we reached Warangal, the once-booming capital of the Kakatiyan Empire in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the scrubby trees had yielded to elegant coconut palms that bountifully graced the horizon. The landscape, though predominantly flat, was distinguished by an occasional rocky outcrop bursting through the earth like the head and rump of a semi-submerged dinosaur. The smouldering glow of the setting sun enhanced the prehistoric ambience, silhouetting the palms against a blazing haze.

‘Beautiful, sir?’ I looked around. The question came from a middle-aged man who had just slid onto the seat opposite.

‘Definitely a moment to savour.’

He peered at me intently. ‘Meaning?’

Meaning? I thought. ‘Ah… meaning. Yes, I agree—it’s beautiful. Yes?’

Nodding vacantly, he continued to stare into my face. Two hoary eyebrows, arching above his steel spectacles, exaggerated the size of his probing eyes. Edging in closer, his tilting head offered an arresting view up his nostrils.

I swallowed. ‘Er…’

‘You are being married?’

‘No.’

Pause.

‘Why?’

‘Because I, er, I…’

But he wasn’t interested in my answer. His attention had shifted to the cell phone extracted from the top pocket of his drab grey shirt. He fiddled with a few buttons and then, pointing it at my face, twisted the angle one way, then another. Unsatisfied, he stretched across my body and, drawing the blue curtain, enclosed us both intimately in the corner.

I gulped.

Flash. A semi-approving nod.

Another flash. A purr of content.

And I allowed all this to happen? Well, yes, what else to do? Maybe this was customary practice on Indian trains. I was a virgin passenger; what did I know?

‘Your good name, please?’

‘Mark.’

He tapped the information into the phone’s keypad. ‘Native place?’

‘Er, England.’

Tap, tap.

‘Your number.’

‘Don’t know.’ True; I hadn’t memorised it yet.

I decided to play him at his own game. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Viraj.’

‘Your job?’

‘Seed seller.’

‘From where?’

‘What?’ he barked.

‘Live. Where. You?’

‘Vijayawada. Home. Going.’

A momentary lull.

He yawned. ‘You liking whisky?’

I hesitated.

‘You want?’

‘No, no, no…’ Well, maybe, but I was unsure where this dialogue was leading. I’d heard stories of guys offering spiked food and drink to tourists, then making off with their luggage once they were safely comatose. I’m sure this inoffensive grey man intended me no harm, but I declined nevertheless. Besides, I had my own hip flask, a gift from my parents, stashed in my rucksack.

‘My wife is not allowing it,’ he whispered as if she were within earshot. He then sloped off to the other end of the carriage. I never saw him again.

~

When the train eventually pulled out of Warangal station, I was introduced to new neighbours. Two young men, each carrying a small satchel, nodded cheerily as they sat down in the opposite compartment.

‘Hi,’ said the slightly younger of the two, dressed in jeans and a denim jacket. ‘Your name?’

Exchanging pleasantries I discovered that Mukesh and his jovial travelling companion, Dinkar, ‘but my friends are calling me Bunty’, were partners in a construction company. They, too, were on the way to Vijayawada to negotiate a potential business deal.

‘The market is looking very strong,’ explained Dinkar. ‘It is making good work for us.’

The fact that they were travelling Second Class AC was a clear indication of their success.

‘Vijayawada was major trade and hub of industry since nineteenth century,’ Mukesh informed me. ‘It is known as gateway between north and south India.’

‘Are you both from Andhra Pradesh?’

‘Of course,’ replied Mukesh proudly. ‘It is a verrry good state. Generally we are calling it the rice bowl of India. Verrry verrry fertile land.’

‘It is the largest state in South India,’ added Dinkar, ‘and having the most people.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Actually, it’s a fact.’

‘Our rice is so, so tasty,’ said Mukesh.

‘I’m sure.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

The train eased up, as did the conversation. We smiled, looked down, looked up, looked out of the window…

‘Do you…’

‘Are you liking our trains?’ Mukesh and I broke the silence simultaneously.

‘This is the first one I’ve been on. It’s very comfortable.’

‘Indian Railways is having at least nine different classes of train travel,’ he said. ‘It is world’s largest employer of people.’

‘Really? That’s interesting. How many?’

‘Over one point six millions.’

‘Yes and it is transporting twelve million passengers each and every day,’ added Dinkar, keen not to be out-facted by his friend. ‘Forty-two thousand miles of track.’

‘Wow, that’s a thing.’ I stifled a yawn.

‘Yes, it is second biggest rail network on our planet.’

‘No?’

We continued to chat for a while until my head, sated with rice and railways, began to ache. I politely suggested that I ought to rest before reaching Vijayawada. Scheduled to arrive at 23.10, the train was running at least an hour late, but I wasn’t too bothered as my connection to Nidadavole Junction wasn’t due until 3 am.

I picked up my notebook to check my TO DO list. A photograph fell out.

Smiling up at me was a young girl, aged about ten, seated on a blue wooden chair. Wisps of dark hair, trickling down the side of her face, framed a mid-brown complexion. Two softly-cushioned cheeks, slightly paler than her other features, highlighted the crescents under her eyes. She wore a pale yellow dress, slightly too big, puffed at the shoulders with a delicate floral pattern embroidered above her tiny waist. Two little green bows and a short length of ribbon dangled from the neckline. She looked dressed for a party.

With the thought that in less than 36 hours I would finally be meeting Lakshmi, I drew the curtain, closed my eyes and nodded off.

~

I woke with a start.

‘Sir, we are nearly before Vijayawada.’ Mukesh was nudging me. I glanced at my watch: just gone 00.30.

I undid the combination padlock that attached my rucksack, via a cable, to a metal hoop under the seat. The moment the train stopped, three porters in maroon uniforms boarded the carriage.

‘Carry, sir?’ demanded the first, just as I’d hoisted my rucksack over my shoulders and picked up the mandolin.

‘No!’ I shook my head.

‘Help? Please.’

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

‘Goodbye, Mark!’ called Dinkar as he and Mukesh walked the other way down the platform. ‘Happy journey!’

I was surprised by the station’s liveliness for the time of night, not dissimilar to Clapham Junction at rush hour. Unlike Clapham, though, there were sleeping bodies to climb over, piles of tea chests and trunks to navigate around and greasy smells of fried pakoda to inhale.

I found a sign indicating a waiting room for first and second class passengers on platform one. Most information was displayed in Telugu, the state language, and English. On entry, I was immediately stopped by a shrewish woman in a brown sari.

‘Name!’

‘Helyar,’ I declared, digging into my pocket for my ticket.

‘No! Name!’ she repeated, tapping a hefty black book on the table in front of her. Evidently I had to sign in. I then slumped into a blue plastic chair that was riveted to the wall, securely looped my arm through the strap of my rucksack and watched the world pass by for two hours.

After what seemed a lifetime, my next train was eventually announced:

Train number 2738 Goutami Express to Kakinada Port will shortly be arriving at platform number five.

Everything about Vijayawada Junction was oversized, especially the length of, and distance between, the platforms. Scaling the broad, busy staircase, I was swept along the footbridge by a swell of people cascading down the steps to platform two, surging up from platform three. Watery eyes stared up at me and limbs stretched out from bundles of bones huddled on the steps.

I lost my bearings; all the English signs had disappeared. I guessed I was near platform five but I wasn’t certain. Panic set in.

‘Five?’ I asked a man rushing towards me. I held up my hand, fingers splayed to emphasise the question.

He turned, pointed behind him—‘Straight, straight,’—and carried on. Trusting his direction, I found the staircase he was indicating. Before descending, I checked once more with someone else.

‘Yes, yes, that is correct.’

‘Thank you.’

‘German?’

‘English!’

‘Very good, sir. Happy journey!’

Although it took nearly ten minutes to reach platform five, my haste was in vain: the train didn’t arrive for a further twenty. A number of coaches chuntered past before mine made an appearance. Catching up with it, I found the chart of seat reservations pasted on the side of the carriage. Glancing down the list of names, I spotted one I recognised: mine. Coach A1, Seat 0029.

I climbed on board.

‘Sir, I am expecting you.’ It was the TTE, the Travelling Ticket Examiner. ‘Come!’

He led the way down the narrow corridor of blue curtains to my bunk, the bed already prepared.

‘I would wake you before Nidadavole?’ he offered courteously.

‘Thank you.’

‘You are most welcome, sir.’

I lay back, amazed. Not only was I greeted personally on a train in the middle of the night but also my name, spelt correctly, was printed and glued to the side of the carriage, along with those of all the other passengers.

My love affair with Indian Rail was cemented. For the time being at least.

~

Just over two hours later, the train staggered to a halt: Nidadavole Junction, five o’clock in the morning, thirty-six hours from Delhi. Though hot and frazzled, I’d arrived in one piece.

As my luggage slumped wearily onto the platform, I was approached by a young man whose broad smile lit up both our faces. Here, I presumed, was my promised escort to Hebron Hostel.

‘Mark Uncle?’ he asked. ‘Come, sir!’ Effortlessly throwing my rucksack over his shoulder, he led me to the waiting Ambassador Taxi. Relieved of my burden, I felt a rush of anticipation course through my veins.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Raju, sir.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Raju. Your job?’

‘I am working at Hebron.’

‘Good man. How far is it to the hostel?’ I asked.

‘Just two years,’ Raju replied, his teeth glowing in the dark.

He wasn’t far wrong. The road out of Nidadavole was in a parlous state. Ruts and deep holes made the journey to Hebron Hostel, though only two miles, seem much further. The taxi swerved continually to avoid getting stuck or losing a wheel.

‘Bumpy, bumpy!’ laughed Raju.

‘Ye-es,’ I replied, grasping the front passenger seat to steady myself.

A canal ran parallel to the road, one of many in the region that formed part of an extensive network of waterways throughout the district of East Godavari.

‘Canal built by Cotton,’ said Raju. ‘Very good man.’

Raju was referring to Sir Arthur Cotton, a British engineer, who served as a General in the First Burmese War. Claiming that there is water enough in India for every conceivable purpose ten times over, he devoted much of his life to constructing a comprehensive network of irrigation and navigation canals. He brought water to millions of people who, to this day, worship him as a demi-god for his unstinting achievement in averting famine. Bronze statues erected in his honour are evident throughout the region.

Thanks to Cotton’s endeavours, Hebron Hostel sits amid lush green paddy fields and coconut groves in a band of land, half a kilometre wide, located between the railway track and the canal. Originally established