The Howrah Express

A few years ago director Wes Anderson made a film called The Darjeeling Limited in which three estranged brothers—played by Owen Wilson, Jason Schwartzman, and Adrian Brody—mend their differences and find spiritual enlightenment during a cross-Indian rail journey. Ensconced in a private berth, the brothers engage in fistfights, clandestine affairs with stewardesses, and copious amounts of smoking. They participate in a traditional Indian funeral and even see a tiger.

So when Nimanthi and I booked tickets on the Howrah Express for the 36-hour train journey from Bangalore to Calcutta, I looked forward to all the romance and adventure the Orient had to offer. I would be the new Rudyard Kipling (or at least the new William Dalrymple), boldly reporting from the heart of darkest India.

The journey started promisingly enough at the picturesquely squalid Bangalore train station. As Nimanthi and I wended our way through the crowds, we passed a few hundred Indian soldiers sitting in neat rows, evidently waiting for a train. A small scrum of people was staring at them like exotic animals in a zoo. Finally we made it to our sleeper-class car and hoisted ourselves and our baggage aboard. We were immediately confronted by a swarm of human activity—passengers arguing over seating, conductors answering questions, children running about, hawkers selling chain locks to secure people’s valuables, cups of chai being poured for impatient customers.

Our berth was exactly like the one in The Darjeeling Limited, except with half the space, none of the amenities, no privacy, zero charm, and smoking strictly prohibited. Oh, and the presence of berth-mates: five formidable, middle-aged sisters from, coincidentally enough, Darjeeling. These women were evidently seasoned train passengers, for they had managed to pack 36-hours-worth of meals for five people into a single large plastic bag. This bag must have been designed by a magician, since no matter how many packages of food they took out of it there always seemed to be more food underneath. They hadn’t packed drinks, however, and drank chai steadily throughout the trip. The sister occupying the berth above mine, the youngest of the five, managed to spill her chai twice and her water once, each time narrowly missing my head.

Since Nimanthi and I had not packed as wisely, we were compelled to order our meals from the train staff. Given the general condition of the train, I was skeptical about the cleanliness of these meals, but Nimanthi assured me that it was safer to eat them than the snack foods being sold by passing hawkers. (Later, after arriving in Calcutta, a knowledgeable friend informed us that the case was precisely the reverse. “Railway food is the ultimate test of your stomach,” our friend said. “If you can eat that stuff, you can eat anything.”)

After finishing the first night’s meal of tasteless chicken curry and watery lentils, I collected my trash and stood up to look for the garbage bin. Failing to find one, I asked a fellow passenger. He smiled and pointed to a gap in the floor where the cars connected. “Indian style!” he said. Taking his advice, I discreetly bundled up my trash and stuffed it into the gap, watching it disappear under the train. Trash, of course, isn’t the only thing Indian trains leave behind—a helpful sign in the bathroom asked passengers not to use the facilities while the train is at a station. I imagined how the railway tracks must look, and smell, in between trains.

Our first night aboard the train Nimanthi was woken up at 5 a.m. by the chai- and coffee-wallahs, who were already making their noisy way up and down the narrow aisles. Soon our berth-mates were chatting away, forcing Nimanthi to climb down from her middle berth and start the day. Tucked away on the top berth, however, I managed to slumber through the commotion, only arising at a later, more civilized hour. This prompted no small amount of resentment from Nimanthi, who complained that my sleep habits were made for the Indian railway.

To pass the time we played card games and read books. The afternoon of the second day, Nimanthi was immersed in David Copperfield when a twenty-something man walked up to our berth. “Give me that book,” he said. Perplexed by his strangely insistent tone, Nimanthi handed over the novel. The man took it, sat down across the aisle, and opened the book to the first page. Brows knitted, he read silently and intensely for several minutes. Then he abruptly shut the book and demanded that Nimanthi tell him where she got the book.

“In America,” she said. “But you can get it at any bookstore—it’s quite famous.”

Evidently unsatisfied by this answer, the man continued to cross-examine Nimanthi about why she was reading the book, where she was from, and what she was doing in India. Unexpectedly, he then turned to me and offered to buy the book on the spot. I declined this generous offer, explaining that Nimanthi had brought it along to read. He frowned and returned sullenly to his seat elsewhere on the train. Later in the day, I returned from the bathroom to find this same gentleman deep in conversation with Nimanthi, who quickly managed to excuse herself and retreat with her book to my upper berth. Left alone with me, the man soon lost interest and wandered off. Nimanthi and I later agreed that the entire affair had been an elaborate attempt at flirtation by a lonely passenger on a long journey.

The last night on the train neither of us got much sleep. The temperature had dropped dramatically, forcing us to don an additional layer of clothing and huddle beneath our thick wool blankets. When we arrived at Calcutta’s Howrah Station early the next morning we were both ready to sleep in a real bed, in a room we didn’t have to share with five garrulous sisters. I hadn’t seen a tiger or seduced a stewardess, but I had experienced my first long trip on India’s legendary railway, and that turned out to be adventure enough.

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