Tripping on food -- on a train to Nagpur

I slept barely three hours or so and then (with K accompanying
me) caught an auto to the station, all set for the adventure
(and trepidation) of yet another "unreserved travel" train
journey. I know this may sound in keeping with my characteristic
"shall decide soon" and last minuted-ness, but till Sunday I
was caught up in a number of things that, though of not much
corporate or national or international importance, still
needed my attention.

And yes, I need to add that since most buses headed out of
Hyderabad are not running, almost all trains have been booked
solidly for the last 10 days or so.

The train I was to catch was A.P Express and it was scheduled
to depart from Secunderabad at 6.40 in the morning. Thanks to
K's worry about unreserved travel and horror stories of having
to face serpentine queues at the booking counter, we reached
the station pretty early -- and were pleasantly surprised to
find not much of chaos at the booking counter. It took just 10
mins to get a general ticket, all of Rs. 135 only.

The train was to arrive at (and leave) from Platform No. 10,
so having K along was a godsend as he helped lug my
gear / luggage (books, a camera, two lenses, a laptop and
other mandatories like clothes) being the nice guy he is.
Yes, oh yes, being afoot and having to lug gear is when I
miss my Bullet the most. But what to do, these aren't
exactly "unwristwatched" times, even for me...

The yawns arrived long before the train did, even as I was
checking out the spanking new platform, with its steel railings
and acreages of red and black granite. To digress a bit here,
I saw a wealth of the same red and black granite acreages
across most of the platforms all the way upto Nagpur. Looks
like some rich contractor has made a fortune thanks to the
inability of SCR to think of any locally available stone, or
to get out of their mindsets of considering only granite
"aesthetic". Whatever's wrong with Tandur / Betamcharla /
Normal Granite?

Oh I do agree Granite looks good, especially the red
one...but I am sure it must have costed quite a packet,
and that money would have made more impact if used for
something else.

Getting back to our narrative, I remember gently berating
K about the desertedness of the platform and broaching the
possibility of getting a berth pretty easily. To which his
response was a queer smile which kind of said -- wait and
watch. Sure enough the platform started filling up, by and
by and before it was 6.30 it looked more or less like PF
No. 1 does when (incidentally my favorite train) the Godavari
Express steams in, for a departure from Secunderabad. And when
the train pulled in (it starts at Hyderabad), I was greeted by
two completely full general compartments (and a look of horror
on K's face).

So I resolutely boarded the Sleeper Class compartment, found an
empty berth and plonked my butt on it, pushing the strolley below
the seat. And positioning the backpack safely besides me. In a bit,
the train left and I could see the same look of worry / horror
on K's face and in fact the lad even astonished me with an
"Om Namaha Shivaya", did not know if it was on account of my
intention to go to Varanasi or because he was stressed out with
worries on my behalf.

The first half an hour or so was spent by me in observing my
fellow passengers and it didn't take me long to figure out that
most were also "unreserved". Some clues that helped me Sherlock
this conclusion --
1.) No luggage
2.) Intent on climbing into an upper berth and grabbing
a snooze (some of these guys are in fact ticketless)
3.) An overall air of unconcern as opposed to a "this is
my berth, mind it" kind of just below the surface hostility
that's fairly evident in case of a passenger with a reservation.

Thereafter, I tried to snooze, but failed, as the early morning sun
was pretty much of "in your face" laddie presence and the
petulantly continuous presence of the draught from the windows
wasn't helping either (apart from cooling me, of course). Not
that I am that much of an expert when it comes to sleeping while
in motion, never did it on the Bullet, can barely manage it in a
train and hate the very idea while in a bus, if you must know. But
then, in that in-between territory -- pilloried by the glare of
the sun and the insistent clamour of the wind -- bordering
wakefulness and sleep two poems came and were promptly
jotted down on the phone.

And then, some 3 hours into the journey a nice gentleman
dressed in black, the TTE came. I explained properly and
politely (K had stressed on it) and the TTE invited me to
sit down, took my ticket from me and wrote me a reciept for
the Sleeper Class surcharge and (go ahead and rub your eyes)
berth charges. All of Rs. 135 again. And now I was S3, 53 a
passenger with a reservation hurtling at speed in a train run
by the great Indian Railways. How nice of this TTE to just get
over things with barely minimum fuss! And not even looking at me
askance or asking me to follow him or wait till he comes
back, etc. All normal tricks used by TTEs to check out how
desperate you are for a berth (and what they can wheedle out
from you, for the same).

BTW, auto fare to the station costed me Rs. 200, and the
train travel was costing me Rs. 270. That's a lot of food
for thought for our urban planners and the like, no?

Coming back to the train, leaving behind the chaos and the
utter political mis-management of the city -- What would you
have done to celebrate being allocated a berth in such trying
(in terms of increasing number of Indian travelers) times? I
hope you know that the Indian Railways doesn't serve Beer, BTW.
Also it was kinda early, even if you are from Goa or some
uninhabited island in the South Sea Pacific.

But I did find out that the catering guys served Bread
Omelets for the princely sum of Rs. 21. Two pieces of bread,
one pretty fluffy omelet and a small sachet of ketchup too.
So I put all that away without much ado. And then caught up
on snoozing (this time with the shutter down on the window).

Then it was time to travel to berth number 53 -- luckily in
my compartment only -- and secure (meaning more or less like
before) my luggage and assess all my fellow passengers again.
They come and go, gather a bottle here, a newspaper there,
basically in a more or less avuncular fashion but all the same
indicating that I am responsible for making them move, just when
they were about to digest their morning breakfast. Or maybe I
exaggerate and its just the touchiness of having too many
people all around.

But then, anyway, I snooze a bit more and then pull out
"Speaking of Siva" but before I can do any reading comes
along another hawker; this time with Batata Wadas /
Alu Bondas. A plateful is four of these round, slightly
bigger than an average onion size snack. And I get two
sachets of Cremica sauce / ketchup along with. So again,
without much ado, I put away all four of the wadas --
basically potato dumplings seasoned with green chillies,
garlic, onion and an assortment of spices, dipped in a
batter of besan and deep fried till golden yellow --
thinking fondly of what the little man would have said
when face to face with two sachets of sauce / ketchup.
Okay, let me explain -- the little man is a hogger of
sauce / ketchup / jam; it seems he uses the concerned
snack as an adult safe excuse to attack the sauce /
ketchup / jam on offer.

While I was busy noting down flavour and taste data being
broadcast by my tongue and being, by and by the train moved
from Alu Bonda land to Batata Wada land. Which in this case
meant that it moved through the shadows cast by a stand of
teak trees into the shadows cast by another stand. It was
my phone that told me; very smartly and schoool-masterishly
I must add, told me something to the effect of -- now you are
roaming, be careful with your data usage, etc.

Apart from being an aficionado of commonplace things like
Omelets and Alu Bondas, I am also a bit of Samosa hogger,
so I had an eagle eye all peeled and ready for this
triangular / conical snack of which I can never have enough.
But instead I was hectored and harangued by any number of hawkers
offering Egg and Chicken and Veg. Biryani. All of which --
with the hindsight of previous experience and the pedigree of
being a Hyderabadi -- I turned up my nose at. And instead got
around to window gazing and bird spotting of a type far removed
from what the average urban dweller does at malls. The sightings
were of the usual drongos, lapwings, bulbuls and one peafowl.
And (speaking of butterflies) a common rose. I mean these are
sightings I do remember. Maybe I should have jotted them down,
the way I used to jot down the name of platforms on
earlier (far, far earlier) train journeys. Or maybe I should
have managed to sleep more and managed to reserve a ticket
and managed to give K less reason for worry and concern.

The sun that had been in my face had by now climbed up into
the noonday position, and the weather in this part of the
country can be burning hot, even in late winter. For now,
there was a patch of hot sunlight slowly broiling my bare foot
(I was given a side berth and half sitting / half sprawled out)
and I had managed to run out of water.

But before the compartment's denizens were made to witness a
tandav inspired by thirst, the train reached Ballarshah. And
a number of bells started ringing in my head. Or maybe the
bells were ringing somewhere lower down, in my far from full
stomach.

The platform was sun-drenched and I spotted quite a lot of
butterflies too (many species are active around 12.00 -- 1.00)
but for once I had other things on my mind. Like, food. Also,
I wouldn't have risked being the object of suspicion of a train
load of passengers and the RPF, something bound to happen if I
was spotted with a long lens screwed onto the camera.

So, prudence and palate both dictated I hunt food and I did just
that. First off, my attention was directed at another encounter
with the humble dish called the Omelet. Again hawked with bread.
Two pieces of bread and a not so fluffy (got to be hurriedly made,
A.P Express aa rahi hai!) omelet, with a dash of chat masala
sprinkled on the omelet. All of Rs. 15 only. How was it, you may
ask? Scrumptious and as omeletely heavenly as any I have tasted.
Okay, I exaggerate -- it was cold, the bread was far from fresh;
but since I have had worse omelets priced twice as much as this
in the city, I will still give it high marks. Next, I found a
"drinking water" tap and after waiting a bit for a dude (who
incidentally was wearing a Tee that said "Sorry girls, I date
only models") who was washing his hair as if he were Rapunzel, asked
him to go to beauty parlour and filled up my water bottle. And then
emptied it into my vitals there. And filled it up again.

It was hot. Or else, it was the lack of the sleep. Or it was
that dude who was standing in some shade and giving me an eyeful
of his teenage ballsiness and insouciance. Whatever it be;
I -- the experienced traveler who knows of more platforms
than any software engineer -- stepped wrong, for the first of
two times. Or rather, I purposefully set forth for a cart heaped
with golden brown snacks, betting to myself with the certainty
of a 300mm lens bird photographer that they have to be Wadas for
sure. And, once at the cart, mentally patting myself on the back,
I ordered a plate of Wadas, for a measly sum of Rs. 15. Well,
they were anything but Wadas, even to me. I could have just turned
around and thrown them at the hawker and caused him serious
harm -- they were that tough, that hard -- as opposed "to the
crispy on top, soft inside" goodness of a Wada. But I did no
throwing and resorted to no violence apart from masticating
it all down (I hate wasting food, I am apalled at and by how
so many people equate being rich or being able to pay with
the superciliousness of throwing away food; are they aware
that people die hungry in the same city, state, country, world?)
and then found some shade right in front of my compartment. To
indulge in my favorite pastime -- as a veteran of Indian Railway
Platforms -- of watching passengers.

(Note to sharp-eyed readers who are keen on a career in
Sherlocking in food : this cart selling alleged Wadas was
the only one moving all along the hot sun scoured platform.
Elementary -- to conclude that the so claimed Wadas weren't
selling as hot cakes, eh? Also, the train that this cart was
serenading was a Kazipet bound train, meaning a "southwards"
bound train. Elementary again, no? That someone had tried his
hand at "cooking up" Wadas and was now trying to sell it to a
captive market which would soon be too far to complain. Eh?)

While I was torn in between deciding if I should give into the
temptation for some bananas or opt for a Slice, yet another hawker
approached. This time with a cartload of assorted nuts and
sweetmeats. Among which I could see roasted groundnuts (my
all time favorite) at Rs. 15 for a small packet, raisins and
cashewnuts at Rs. 25 a packet, pistachios (yes, I am not putting
you on) for Rs. 45, packets of dates (though they looked more
like a lump) for Rs. 25 each, some other coloured sugar candies
and packets of (what I found out on examination) of what could
have only been Mavudi Tandra (Mango Papad is the Hindi equivalent
if I am not wrong) again for Rs.25 (for a portion lesser than a
cigarette pack in size). I did a double and a triple and a
quadruple take. Believe me. I swear on Mavudi Tandra. I mean,
I have always been led to believe that Mavudi Tandra is not
made like any other papad (or bought like any other papad for
that matter). And that the best is sold only on the Vizianagaram
platform. So I put it back. I should have just walked away.
Instead I bought some groundnuts and a packet of dates. Ha!

(This incidentally was wrong step two, dear reader. As it
turned out, I did not even open the packs; nor did I take
photographs of them. Just let them gather heat all the way
to Nagpur and then lugged them to my brother's place. Call
me thrifty if you will, but Rs. 40 is a big amount to waste
while traveling in Sleeper Class, no?)

Oops.

So why did I not eat the afore-mentioned "snacks as colourful
as India"? One reason was that I went back into that ill-defined
territory; in between slumber and wakefulness thanks to the
torpor of the afternoon heat and my lack of sleep the earlier
night. The second is that I got full. I mean I ate something
else that made me feel happy, content and oh so full.

I ate a plate of Ballarshah Puris. A plate of rustic simplicity.
Six medium sized puris, a very, very tasty potato curry and two
dangerous looking green chillies stuffed into a transparent plastic
constitute a "plate" of this dish. In fact, the glint of the
transparent plastic in a gent's hand is what led me to realize /
remember that Ballarshah means these puris (oh yes, I have eaten
them earlier here on this very platform, but forgot all about it)!
So, I set out on an expedition to the almost the very end of the
platform and found a cart which surprisingly still hadn't run out
of this awesome plate of deliciousness. A princely sum of Rs. 15
changed hands and I ran back to my compartment exulting inside, as
if I had managed to get the tickets to a "first day, first show"
screening of one of Mr. Bachchan's legendary movies.

I did buy two more Batata Wadas in the train later on, but that
was more or less because of my anxiety about how long the train
will take to reach Nagpur (it just stopped in the middle of lots
of Plain Tigers -- and nowhere -- a bit before Hinganghat) and
meant to be a comfort snack, but if you really want to know,
the plate that really matters in this long rambling is the plate
of Ballarshah Puris. The rest were all side dishes.

Oh, two more things, tidbits rather. Somewhere after Ballarshah,
while turning around to help my foot escape from the magnifying
glass effect of a very afternoonish sun, I saw a hawker dressed
all in white, his face shaved to an millimetre of his skin and
wearing the dark glasses that the visually impaired do. He would
have been in his early forties, had a blind man's cane in his
hand and an assortment of guthka and other packets all over the
front of his chest and draped on his shoulders (or so it seemed
to me). He also had a massive black bag slung on one shoulder.
From which (on being asked for -- by one of my fellow passengers)
after 2-3 minutes of groping he produced a pack of playing cards.
If all this seemed incongruous and strange, what happened next
took the cake. The hawker was paid a sum of Rs. 20. And I could
see him spread the tips of his fingers all over the two currency
notes.

Did he have eyes in his fingertips?

Respect.

The second thing (incident)?

I saw a group of 4 middle aged gentlemen (they were headed
for someplace in MP) put away 6-8 plates of Ballarshah Puris.
They ate it all from the same newspaper, the way nomads and bikers
and other footloose people have done for as long as they remember.
Was nice to see, yes. Also, they folded the newspaper and did not
throw away the green chillies. After all, this is India and this
is Indian Railways; with a little bit of thrift, you can go a
long way.

No?