When I first began life as a travel writer six years ago, things were a bit different. I don’t mean this in the sense that the actual travelling part was any different – no, the sense of excitement and, indeed, uncertainty, is still the same. What I’m referring to are the nitty-grittys and the logistics involved, chiefly to do with my budget and my means of transport. When I did trips out of Bombay, of course, I would normally jump straight into the nearest available car and point it towards my destination. Travelling in other parts of the country, however, usually meant getting to a major hub, such as Delhi or Madras or Calcutta, picking up a car there and then driving off. All of this still holds true, of course, but in the days of smaller budgets, getting to these hubs meant a fairly long journey by train.
Preparing for one of these journeys was an event in itself. The Indian Railways website wasn’t especially reliable, so trying to book a ticket on it was an effort fraught with the danger of credit card double-charging and so forth. Also, since trains almost always ran full, there was no guarantee of actually getting a ticket, even if I tried to book one well in advance; last minute tickets were laughably out of the question. Given these circumstances, I relied on the mysterious ‘Ashok bhai’, travel agent non-pareil, to work his magic. I never met the man (all contact was over the phone) but his reach obviously extended deep into the bowels of the railway mechanism – only he could conjure tickets out of thin air, albeit for an additional consideration.
Ticket finally in hand, I’d prepare myself for the journey ahead. A Bombay-Calcutta leg, for example, meant at least 30 hours in a train, so that meant fortifying myself with enough snacks, music and reading material to last the trip, not to mention basic bedding (I can’t deal with the stuff handed out by the railways) and toilet paper –  although one glance at the average loo in a train usually guaranteed instant constipation. Arriving at the station, there’d be a definite sense of anticipation – would the train be on time? Would my travelling companions be amiable or borderline-nutters? The only way to find out was to actually get on.
I normally specified an upper berth, so that I could climb up there and be undisturbed if I so wished, and also because I could put my bag right next to me instead of under the bottom seat (I’m paranoid like that). Thus would begin a journey full of sights, sounds, tastes and smells – kids waving cheerfully at the train, bullocks in passing fields, ascetics meditating by the riverside, fellow passengers singing and playing boisterous card games, the train’s horn piercing the air, spicy samosas and dal-vadas, wood-smoke from villages and, if I was unlucky enough to be thus situated, the powerful aromas from the toilets. Arriving at my destination, I’d be dead tired and covered with a fine layer of dirt, usually necessitating a very long shower and a day’s rest – but there was a sense of satisfaction at having survived in one piece.
These days, it’s all become much more flexible. I have a somewhat larger budget, cut-price airlines have grown in number and tickets can be had literally a few hours before my desired time of departure. Flying also means I can spend that much more time on the road, rather than on a train, which in turn gives me greater leeway when I come up with an itinerary. It must be said that I’ve also become lazier; if I can get somewhere in two hours rather than 24, I’ll go with two hours any day, all things being equal. Still, I can’t help feeling sometimes that flying is rather impersonal, sterile even. Sitting in a metal tube for a couple of hours doesn’t give you the sort of sensory experience that a train does, and I miss that experience every now and again.