Wintry Train Trippings

Let's face it, most of our trains are dirty, most of our train travelers are opportunists intent on getting the most out of their berths, everyone treats the bathrooms and vestibules (at the very best as their colony's garbage heap and yet...and yet...there is that mystique to traveling by train.

Especially if it is winter and you don't feel being slow-cooked into Biryani by that most Indian of seasons -- summer.

Then again there is the affordability -- a Sleeper Class railway ticket to Delhi costs less than what a cab to the Airport does, in fact costs so much lesser than you can treat yourself to Beer and Biryani with what you have saved.

And, as I had already mentioned here earlier, train journeys are a nice way to unwind with nothing much but a book (or the prospects of a snack) to occupy your mind :-)

***


This time (I was headed for Delhi and then onto Chandigarh, from where I was to ride down for Rider Mania) my train was from Kacheguda and that meant taking an early morning Auto that cost almost half what the train ticket itself did. The incongruity of "urbanization" and "development" is it not?

This time (unlike the trip during September) I had a reservation, and the train was an early morning one (and post the launchitis of Ink Dries), so I started my unwinding with a long snooze that finally broke when the smell of Samosas -- that divine cocktail of a smell, of masala-laced potatoes and fried oil broke through my languor, latched into my olfactory sensors and summoned me into wakefulness.

And I do love Samosas, so it meant one or two did not suffice, but three did. I will also be shameless enough to mention that these were big and pretty hard) Samosas, but then I will also remind you that I had had no breakfast.

This was in January of what was a very very cold (especially by Deccani standards) and the weather was still mild so I enjoyed the fortune of gazing out at and drinking in from an un-ending cinemascope of bright blue skies and verdant greens, passing through what was once the Kakatiya kingdom, fertile expanses irrigated by the plenty of irrigation tanks -- the landscapes I have seen so often on my motorcycle wanderings through the lovely Deccan, on interior roads without name...rice fields sparkling with the liquid green-gold glint of growing rice, like giant bird eyes and the dark massifs of stone too, at least one in every sweep of my eye -- the Kondas I know not the names
of -- as a reminder of the aridity of this land.

Then I did nothing much till Ballarshah which (if as all the readers of my blog know) is where one comes across those famous and sinfully inexpensive Puris. And no, ravenous though I was, I did not order the lunch from the pantry car, such was the memory of familiarity and trust of those Puris.

Ballarshah comes but seems to have been wiped clean of all the hawkers. Absolutely wiped clean, so no Puris for me. But then, I scour the platform (the trains stop here for a fair amount of time, in fact, many get a cleaning / scrubbing here) and luck it out by finding a chap selling warm-to-the-touch meal packets out of a shoulder borne carton and get one. Open sesame -- there's a brick sized lump of rustic small-grained and unpolished rice, like what I have eaten across many a hostel mess in Orissa, along with small packets -- of green peas and potato curry, what looked and smelt like lentil soup (Dal), watery buttermilk and even mango pickle.

All this for 30 INR only, simple, wholesome and honest food that doesn't pretend to be anything else.

Please do remember that I don't claim to be a foodie, before you blame me for having forgotten what I did for dinner. Maybe I did do something unique but honestly, I don't remember. What I do remember is sleeping a bit early and then tossing and turning all night, feeling more and more frozen --I had forgotten to pack any blanket -- with ever kilometre of the train's progress into the cold of the north. And yes, it was really cold, the kind when you want to draw you feet into your legs and your fingers into your hands, the kind when you try that part foetus like, part dog like curl to conserve body warmth.

But then whoever designed the berths of the Indian Railways did not account for somebody as big as me, so the curling wasn't that effective either. Yes, my self-inflicted travails are legion but what matters is that somehow I survive them all, so the long cold night passed and I lived.

To wake (late) and find the train slowly making its way through heavy fog all the way into Delhi with splashes of sunlight here and there, as infrequent as butterfly sightings in December. Catnapping, I spent most of the time in a sleepy reading, of the meanings revealed in the mingling of my frosty breath with the vapours rising out of hot tea.

***

I had arrived at Hazrat Nizamuddin (and since I was prepared for the deluge of taxi-drivers and hotel touts) did not have much issues getting out of it. Or rather, since I was looking for a place to "refresh" myself (or to use the motorcycle tourer / outdoors types equivalent -- go behind the bushes) and move on to New Delhi Railway Station to catch the Una Jan Shatabdi, probably most of the touts did not find me a potential prospect.

I managed to "refresh" myself at much effort (and with a leap of faith that involved leaving my luggage unguarded right outside the loo) breakfasted on some delicious roadside Chana Kulchas and then got into a bus headed for New Delhi Railway station with the vague idea of buying woolens somewhere near it, if time permitted.

Did I not tell in an earlier blogpost that I have developed an eye for birds, that I see them everywhere, even in very humdrum urban settings? What I forgot to say is that every such sighting, even of very "common" birds leaves me with a soul-soaring of joy, something that is simply indescribable in prosaic terms. So here I was groggy after a night lacking in warm sleep -- the ideal thing for me was to ask a co-passenger (there were quite a few good looking ones wearing bright sweaters and scarves and what nots) where I should go (near NDLS) to buy some decent woolens. Instead I was looking all around and marveling at the Black Kites of New Delhi, the sheer multitudes of them, as common as me and literally everywhere and flying in unhurried nonchalance all over early morning barricaded-for-Republic-Day New Delhi.

In fact, I almost pulled out my camera (it was not in a backpack, but a suitcase rather) and almost got down from the bus and almost...but better sense prevailed and I reached New Delhi Railway Station.

And oh yes, I did not find any good woolens but I found some "okay" Chole Batore to tuck into. And then I was onto another platform, ready for another train journey. And then, there was the "foodie" discovery of the day -- on P.F. No. 10 -- a packet marked " Indian Railways Puri Sabzi, Rs. 10" surprisingly mine for 10 INR only. The contents weren't hot air either, 6 odd small (but thick) reddish, coarse-grained (hence immensely flavoursome) Puris, Potato curry and (just a dash of) pickle too!

Discovery isn't exactly the right word, I had a feeling of deja vu, have I found (and gorged on) such packets before?

Then I was again in a train bound for the greenness of Punjab and the bonhomie and paranthas (and butter) of the Panjab, in the Una Jan Shatabdi.

The Jan Shatabdi is "not" a bad way to go to Chandigarh, its in fact convenient, clean and middling "fast", but its also a "populist" train which means it is cheap and totally a "seater"( I could of course be wrong about the AC section) with barely more than enough leg room with three seats on either side of the aisle, seats that are again not meant for 6 feet types like me. Especially if the passenger besides happens to be equally big as me and intent on sitting "chaati phaad ke". But I was sure that I will somehow survive it all and reach Chandigarh and be in a position (even if fairly late) write this up :-)

The mild discomfort of being a bit closely packed apart it was yet another cinemascope of green fields and blue skies all around (rather when viewd from one side of the train -- the other had a weak, benign sun flaring into my eye and then fading into a blood red sunset while the train passed through what our history tells us were once battlefields red with blood -- Kurukshetra and Panipat and the quaintly evocative ones like Diwana and Aman. And to boot, the quaintness got heightened even further because my co-passenger (for a bit of the journey) all of nineteen years and a very charming kid with immaculate manners was reading Jane Eyre. Ha, reading and that too Jane Eyre!

Ambala arrived and I ate some more Kulchas, but I will not mention the rest, I am sure I have written about it somewhere on this blog itself recounting my earlier trip to Chandigarh by this very train...

But I must make mention of the Black Kites, again in large multitudes silhouetted against the flaring skies, which meant I again had that urge, of pulling out the camera and getting off the train, etc, etc.

Of course I didn't; and reached Chandigarh, surviving the cold getting colder with the evening. To be received at the station by K revving his Bullet and asking me to hop onto it with suitcase and all. He had even considerately brought along a helmet for me.

All that K and I did in Chandigarh (starting then on) deserves a dedicated blogpost and maybe I get around to missing Chandigarh a lot and will do it soon too.

Delhi -- Vignettes of this and that

The Autorickshaws here in Hyderabad are bug like, bright yellow
and black and thanks to the cussedness and perspicacity of their
drivers -- when it comes to getting the most out of every
passenger (especially with no other dependable means of public
transport), downright infamous. In Delhi, they are a eco-friendly
green -- run as they do only on CNG -- and their drivers
are positively chatty, if in a so what "let's show this
tourist the ropes of the capital" way. And not exactly looking
at stringing you for a million bucks, either.

Must be the effect of working in the shadow of the metro, or
the fact that migrants and movers (most of the auto drivers are
from Bihar and U.P., the archetypal Bhhaiyas) aren't exactly
there in the same league with local hicks when it comes to driving
a hard bargain. Or, for all I know, considering the volumes of
Autorickshaw users in Delhi, they get enough bakras and fight shy
of tangling with a Ray Ban wearing south Indian looking fellow
speaking in unaccented Hindi.


#$#@&^

The Delhi Metro is surprisingly seductive and far more efficient
and user-friendly (with amazingly polite and courteous staff) than I
expected it to be. Cameras cannot be used on the platforms (I
did not know and was merrily clicking away in one of the entrance
tunnels, but all that an armed policeman -- security is tight but
more or less non-invasive -- did was to wave at me in a minor
reprimand, no tongue-lashing, no checking, etc.) but it would be
fun to do some slow shutter speed photography on one of those
"junction" platforms when the passengers are moving from one
train to another, or running up or down, indistinct motion blurs
of a city's constituents on the move.

Getting buffeted by the slipstreams of all the moving humanity
is of course part of being the city's.

Yes, I traveled quite a bit on the metro and would say that
its easy enough to use. Also, evidently it is okay to be confused
and unaware of which train you should catch to get to your
destination. A lot of passengers around me were in the same
predicament. But then, there are enough staff (and police) around
to point in the right direction, so one learns and catches yet
another metro train.

#$#@&^

Sadar Road -- which passed through what seems like a continuous
village of two and three storied, un-plastered brick houses ill
at ease with the cheek-by-jowl sprawl of being part of a
city -- was where my hotel was at. And since it was a budget
hotel (but surprisingly clean and comfortable) not that stand-out or
hat ke from the environs all
around, either.

All of which meant that I had the proverbial room with a
view -- of a two laned road (with one under repairs), vegetable and
fruit hawkers (most of them in the middle of that road, under the
shade of bright yellow and green polythenes) the "one old teak chair
and a mirror is all it takes to be a saloon" barber shops. So many
rickshaws and tongas too, itinerantly at work all through the
heat and dust, going and coming.

Then there were the Black Kites in the skies above; along with
swarms of pigeons flying in formation -- probably from one coop
to another. Surprisingly, I did not take any photographs, the
atmosphere of impersonal strangeness in the hotel room helped
along my procrastination and the angles I could mentally
compose did not seem wide and encompassing enough as that
of a narrative. And the heat and dust didn't help either.


#%$@&

I am artless, unsophisticated and very, very middle class. So
I have no compunctions about eating anywhere as long as the place
is clean and the food promises an adventure for the palate. My
lunch and dinner was right on Sadar Road in two hotels that were
more or less holes in the wall. The food was rustic, honest and
right in tune with the in-your-face character of Sadar Road
(okay, I know it leads to Paharganj which has a reputation for being
seedy, but I never ventured that side). Paranthas (and curd) for two
(A ate with me on the first day, after helping me move in and settle
down in the hotel) as brunch and then Paranthas for one as a late
lunch. The hotel was run by a Sikh who surprisingly welcomed us
with a very salesman like Namaste (totally A's doing and his
Delhiness, I said or did nothing much but pronounce Parantha
the right way). The other culinary adventure (again in Sadar Road)
was at another hole in the wall type of eatery where I had
Rajma Masala (surprisingly hot) that came with grated cheese and
Matar Paneer (served with a big blob of butter) and Rotis (small
and saucer sized and served right out of the Tandoor) at Rs. 2
each. Nice and filling and the bill wasn't even in three figures
which was a welcome salve to my middle class wallet.

And yes, I ate elsewhere too. Like near the metro stations. While
watching the rickshaws queue up in neat orderly rows. I ate food
that was as inexpensive as a rickshaw fare -- Chole Bhatureys and
Channa Kulchas -- and as simple and unpretentious.

BTW, no Delhi Belly to report.

Orange City and a train to Delhi

For as long as I remember Nagpur's shown the way to get to
Vizag from Orissa when a particular bridge would go down
(during the monsoons) near Rayagada. But then, the credit
for that goes more to my brother who stays at Nagpur
(again for almost as long as I can remember), as in his
presence there used to make the longer haul worth the effort.

Nagpur is also where I have brethren in the form of the
Wanderlust Motorcycling Club and though I haven't really
managed to bond with them collectively, Anukaran (their
founder member and moderator) is a fellow tripper in a number
of ways dealing with belief and faith and an old, old friend.
Not that I needed a reason to ride to Nagpur, but these two
and Rider Mania were why I had been here on the Bullet in 2007.

You can say I have developed a soft corner for Nagpur's
laidback character and even developed some kind of a
familiarity with its bucolic and easy-going nature. All this
of course in comparison with the chaotic and wannabee hi-tech
city nature of development (or at least the traffic) in the
Deccan. Nagpur also means excursions to Tadoba (where I have
been lucky enough to "experience the mystique of a forest"
twice) and Kanha (where I haven't been yet) and catching up
on various types of entrepreneurial planning with my brother
-- in bars where they serve salted groundnuts on the house and
every second middle aged patron seems to be having an
adulterous affair, all alone with a glass of his tipple...

And of course, Nagpur means oranges and all the delectable
namkeen eats -- of which I never tire and about with my brother
knows more than most people who work for Haldiram. And Shahji
cuisine -- primarily non-veg food cooked with extraaaaa spice
and supposedly hot enough to make a mule do cartwheels.

However, all this sampling of Namkeen, Oranges etc. stayed
behind me in the past; because this time my brother (and bhabhi)
were fasting on account of Navaratri. I did manage to eat two
big (and really filling) samosas (on the way to my brother's
place from the station) -- the traditional Nagpuri way, broken
into pieces and doused with generous helpings of kadhi and a
watery channa / choley gravy. And yes, not to forget, served
along with a very long and very hot, raw green chilly.

I did manage to meet Anukaran for a bit and we discussed
development, tripping, books and this and that over Coffee.
Need to catch up with him more often and try and trip more
in Nagpur itself :-)

My train to Delhi was to leave in the afternoon. And it did
(with me in it as a reserved passenger, thanks to my brother's
efforts). But the highlight of that day was the Sabu Daana Poha
that my bhabi made for breakfast. Absolutely otherworldy, with
a wealth of slivers of potatos (and a dash of onions) fried
golden brown and the Sabu Daana looking like pearls with a
rice-whiteness at their centre. I had two helpings. Or did
I have two and half of them. Oh bliss.

After my brother saw me off at the station and into what was
already a badly smelling compartment (the train comes from up
ahead, somewhere near Mumbai and must have baked to stinking
point in the Vidarbha heat) I read a bit of Pessoa and then
promptly got down to stealing a "sitting" nap. Which meant
this was the second time I was taking a post prandial nap --
without a very heavy lunch, mind it -- in two days. Must be
something to do with the to and fro clackety clack of the
trains...or must be something to with the aimlessness of my
mind's wanderings...but anyway, there you have, I promptly
fell asleep.

I must have slept a couple of hours -- in the "now on,
now off" fashion that is possible when the concerned sleep
is in the presence of the comings and goings of a large
, breathing and brushing by you...when the silence of a
train that has stopped woke me up. And I found myself in
the middle of probably more trees than there are in all of
Hyderabad.

Oh, well maybe I exaggerate, but I am sure I was somewhere
in the midst of what is Kanha National Park and not so
surprisingly enough there was no signal on the phone. With
nothing much on my mind and a now very stationary and now
chugging along at a snail's pace train inviting me to do
something photographic, I pulled out the camera and spent
the next half an hour or so going along with the flow of
my eye...till the train gathered pace and became more or
less too unstable (and fast) to do any shooting from. I
mean, I am a veteran of taking photos from moving trains --
in the bygone era of film cameras, in fact -- so it was
evident to me that the exercise would be wasteful even
in digital. So I desisted after shooting a couple of
sunflares.


Then, it was time to desist and pack up the camera and
start looking out for the wares of the mystical orient...
okay, okay... I mean look out for what seems worth the
effort that it take for a gallop -- to and fro from the
moving address called a Sleeper Class Compartment -- but
then I was kind of lethargic this time around. For one,
there was a packet packed for me -- by my bhabhi -- that
was supposed to be either lunch or dinner or whatever else
I wanted to eat it as. And on top of it I had got two
Samosas and a Batata Wada packed at Nagpur Railway Station
(I forgot to mention I also had another two Samosas here,
the traditional Nagpuri way...with Kadhi and Channa / Choley
curry). Which meant that unless I was intent on stocking up
like a hibernating bear it made sense to cut down on my intake.

Besides (like I doubt if I am a photographer because photography
doesn't obsess me) I doubt if I am foodie, if being a foodie
means putting food above everything else.

After all, there is only this much one can eat.

I am not saying I went on a fast just after I realized this
home truth. I do remember having something else in the train...
either a plate of Samosas or a plate of Batata Vadas...can't
remember, must be the constant snoozing that I was resorting to...
or the other type of writing that I was doing on the phone.

I do remember getting down to stretch my legs and "see what's
on offer" on the platform at Itarsi. And almost pinching myself
at the sight of a small "chaat bandi" -- with a steaming Tawa --
one corner of a regular refreshments centre of the type where
sometimes you will find people selling Idlis hard enough to
replace cricket balls and bread that's staler than most Bollywood
jhatkas.

Yes, a "chaat bandi" selling fresh, hot piping chat on a railway
platform. So for a minute I did think that maybe I am dreaming it
up...and missing the Durga Puja Pandals of Rourkela where I used
to gorge on Chaat, Gol Gapas and other delectables every year...but
then, I decided to lay aside that nostalgia trip for later; and waded
into the crowd around the steaming Tawa.
This wasn't exactly Chat on offer here. Maybe the patrons (around
the time I was there) are mostly from ex-Mumbai trains...so what
was steaming on the Tawa was "postered / signboarded" as "Paav
Bhaaji" and though the Paav was lilliputian and the "Bhaaji" but
the peas you get in normal Chat, I must say it was really tasty.
And at 10 Rs. for a plate, I wouldn't report these people to
the guardians of Paav Bhaaji purity either.

Then it was time to go back to the train and peform the required
contortions. To get into the topmost berth (the one assigned to me).
After I had finished my packed dinner and one of the Nagpuri Samosas.

What did I do with the rest, you may ask...

Lurched across half the swaying train (mentally kicking myself
for my greed) and found a dhoti-attired Sadhu sleeping in the
vestibule, his head ( with the hair in Jata) resting on a woolen
blanket. Patted him gently and when he came awake, reverentially
put the polythene in his hand.

I was still kicking myself mentally for my greed, but at least
it turned out in a good cause and I ended up feeding a man of God.

I do remember I was thinking of food while I was trying to sleep;
that led to some happy dreams of Kukkad and Lassi, or rather
mountains of Kukkads and waterfalls of Lassi.

Nothing called greed when it comes to dreaming, no?

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?