The Love Detective (12 page)

Oh yuck. Yes it is.

As a big, steaming pile of crap lands on the platform, I stare at it. I don’t remember seeing that in all those glossy brochures about enchanting train journeys across India. I watch as the wheelbarrow man marches straight past the cow without batting an eyelid. He seems completely oblivious. As is everyone, I realise, looking around me and noticing that – apart from a few other tourists staring like me – everyone else is just carrying on as normal.

Because this is India, not King’s Cross, I remind myself firmly. Come on Ruby, pull yourself together. Stop being so pathetic. OK, so it’s a bit scary travelling on your own in a strange country that you’re not used to, but it’s all going to be fine. You just need to find the right platform, that’s all.

‘
Argh
!’ I let out a shriek as a cockroach or something runs over my foot. Oh my god, did anyone see the size of that thing? It was massive! As big as a rat! As I turn to see it scurrying away, my blood suddenly runs cold.
It
was
a rat!

OK, I’m pathetic! I don’t care! I’m pathetic!

Snatching up my suitcase, I head back inside to try and find Tourist Information. I know this is India, and I know it’s this amazing, incredible country, but I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I’m not some brave, adventurous, independent traveller.

I’m the girl who’s terrified of insects (including daddy-longlegs, which even my three-year-old goddaughter isn’t scared of), who gets nervous in crowds and seasick on boats and for whom travelling consists of the Eurostar to Paris and package holidays to Europe. I mean, it’s hardly Bear Grylls is it?

I’m distracted by the sound of brakes screeching and hissing, and I look up as a train pulls in alongside the platform. At least I assume it’s a train, but you can barely see the actual thing itself for people hanging off the sides, piled onto the roof and clinging to the bars on the windows.

And I thought the Central Line at rush hour was bad. This makes a packed commuter carriage look positively roomy, I realise, glimpsing the people crammed inside the sweltering carriages.

Spotting an information office, I quickly weave my way towards it through the surge of passengers waiting to board, and find the door ajar. Peering inside its shadowy depths, I spot a uniformed official smoking a cigarette and sitting behind a desk, studying some ginormous ledger. A small plastic white fan is whirring futilely on the filing cabinet next to him.

‘Ahem, excuse me,’ I say politely, tripping inside. Those damn sandals.

He looks up and observes me with interest. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Actually yes,’ I reply, putting on what I call my ‘best’ voice. It’s the posh one I use on my voicemail and sounds absolutely nothing like me. In fact friends have been known to hang up, thinking they’ve got the wrong number.

‘I’m trying to find the express train.’ I wave my ticket like a white flag.

Stubbing out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, he leans forward and stares at the ticket for a moment before opening a drawer in his desk and pulling out one of the longest fax print-outs I’ve ever seen. Page after page appears from his drawer, like a magician pulling handkerchiefs out of a top hat.

Methodically he starts going through each page, tracing each name with a nicotined finger, until finally he nods satisfactorily to himself.

‘
Roobeee
Miller,’ he says after a few minutes, tapping his finger on a page. I crick my neck upside down and, sure enough, buried amongst hundreds of Indian names, wedged in tightly between Sanjeev Chopra and Rupinda Malik, on a smudged fax print-out in a tiny, sweltering, smoke-filled office, in a train station in Southern India, there I am.

‘Oh wow, yes, that’s me,’ I nod. It feels slightly surreal that in amongst all this disorder, there could be efficiency. A list. With my name on it. I’m impressed. It doesn’t seem possible somehow.

But India, I’m learning fast, is full of surprises.

‘That is your train,’ he gestures to the platform behind me.

‘Oh . . . great,’ I smile. Well, that’s a result, it must have just pulled in, I think happily. I turn around with anticipation—

Er, hang on. That’s the same train as before, I realise, expecting to see a different one, but no; it’s still the same train that’s got dozens of people dangling from it, like a heavily decorated Christmas tree. ‘I’m sorry, but I think there must be some mistake,’ I say, turning back.

‘No mistake.’ The official shakes his head, and lights up another cigarette. ‘That is the express train to Delhi.’

That
is the express train?

My imagination, which has been whooshing along, suddenly screeches to a juddering halt. What happened to the luxurious cabins? Dining cars where I get to sip a gin and tonic? Romance and splendour evoking the bygone era when royal maharajas would travel across India in sumptuous style?

What happened to
The Darjeeling Limited
and Adrien Brody?

I suddenly feel like a prize idiot. What was I thinking? Those trips cost squillions and are just for wealthy tourists on five-star holidays. This is real train travel in India, not some glossy Hollywood version of it.

And I don’t want it to be, I suddenly realise, as I turn to see a family of six climbing on board, and for a moment I watch them with a mixture of awe, disbelief and fascination. Carrying two huge suitcases, a ten-foot-long rug and what looks like part of a car engine, they’re determinedly shoe-horning themselves inside, the huge-bellied father squeezing himself in through the door like an expanded cork trying to fit back into the bottle.

It’s like one of those record-breaking attempts at how many people you can fit inside a Mini and, sure enough, they manage it and all disappear inside. Apart from the little boy who reappears on the stoop and peeps his head out, glancing around the station with the feverish excitement of any small boy on a train journey. He catches me looking and – despite my predicament – I can’t help smiling. Suddenly shy, he pops back inside.

The sound of someone chuckling causes me to turn around to find the official is watching me with unconcealed amusement. No doubt he’s used to lily-livered Western tourists unaccustomed to Indian train travel.

‘It is a very popular train,’ he grins, ‘there are many people travelling today.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ I nod, feeling a flutter of nerves as I wonder how on earth me and my huge suitcase are going to squeeze aboard. Not for the first time do I regret buying all those pashminas.

‘You are very lucky . . .’

Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I could be watching an in-flight movie and making the most of the free bar as I wing my way back home.

‘You have a reservation in AC2.’

I look at him, nonplussed. ‘What’s AC2?’

‘It is a carriage near the front of the train with air conditioning and your own individual bunk for sleeping.’

Hang on a minute, did he just say ‘air conditioning’ and ‘individual bunk’?

In the stifling heat of his tiny office, I feel a sudden beat of joy. ‘You mean that isn’t my carriage?’ I ask, motioning outside.

The official looks at me in astonishment.

‘I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that carriage,’ I add quickly. ‘It looks a perfectly fine way to travel. It’s just, well, it looks a little full and I was a bit worried how I was going to fit on there.’

He suddenly bursts out laughing. He seems to find this hilarious.

‘Not that I haven’t travelled on a busy train before – you should see the London Underground at rush hour, there’s never anywhere to sit, and it can get really claustrophobic—’

‘Miss Miller!’ he interrupts. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’

I fall silent.

‘Except that if you don’t hurry, you are going to miss your train.’

I glance at the clock on the wall. The minute hand is nearly on the hour. ‘Oh bloody hell . . .’ I gasp, suddenly realising the time, then clamp my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh gosh, sorry . . . thank you so very much, you’ve been so very helpful!’

The official smiles and lights up another cigarette. ‘Your ticket,’ he reminds me.

It’s still lying on the desk, and I snatch it up. I have a train to catch and a sister to rescue. And, grabbing my suitcase, I leg it out of his office.

By some miracle I manage to find the right carriage and as I slide open the door and the air conditioning hits my skin, a delicious shiver runs up my spine. Gosh, I never thought I’d be so happy to be in the cold. At home I’m always freezing but, after the sweltering temperatures outside, this is wonderful.

I start looking for my seat reservation. My eyes sweep down the fluorescent-lit corridor and the rows of metal berths. On one side, they’re laid out in single file above the window with two seats underneath, and on the other side of the aisle they’re arranged like vinyl bunk beds into compartments, each separated by a curtain. At the bottom of each berth is a sheet, pillow and a blanket placed in a tidy pile.

I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s basic, but it’s clean and there’s plenty of room. Compared to the packed carriages I spied earlier, this is sheer luxury. The official was right, I’m very lucky. In fact, it’s much better than British Rail. There the seats barely recline, even in first class, whereas here I have my own bunk bed with a pillow and everything!

Though what is
slightly
worrying is that there appear to be four berths in each compartment. Two up, two down, on each side. Which means you’re sharing with three total strangers.
Men
and women, I realise, as a very large Indian man appears from the toilet and plonks himself on the bottom berth opposite. He starts shelling pistachio nuts whilst staring at me unblinkingly.

I’m fast realising foreigners are an object of curiosity and I give him a polite smile but he doesn’t look away. Instead he continues to stare at me, transfixed, a little pile of shells beginning to pile up around him. Still, it’s not like that’s a big deal. I’m only on here for a few hours, I remind myself, happily sitting down opposite. I’ll just read a bit of my guidebook, have a bit of a snooze, and I’ll be there.

‘Excuse me.’

I’ve just laid out my blanket and am getting all comfy, when I hear a voice. It’s male and, by the sounds of it, its owner is American.

‘Um, yes?’

I look up from my book and see there’s a man standing at the end of my berth. Only his top half is hidden by the berth on top, and I can only see a pair of faded khaki shorts, tanned, hairy calves, and bare feet in flip-flops. I have a thing about feet, and I can’t help noticing his are very nice.

‘I think you’re in my seat.’

I frown. All nice thoughts about this stranger’s toes quickly evaporate. ‘No, I don’t think I am,’ I say, to the feet.

‘This is number eighteen. This is my seat,’ he says, a lot more firmly.

I feel my hackles rise. Here I am, reading a book and minding my own business, and this faceless person has to come and disturb me.

‘Well I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ I bristle, ‘but you’re wrong. Eighteen is my seat.’

Seriously, what was I thinking? He’s got dreadful feet. His little toes are all wonky.

‘No,
you’re
wrong,’ he says flatly.

What? I’m startled by his reaction. Honestly, what is his problem?

‘Look, I don’t want to have an argument—’ I begin, but he cuts me off.

‘There is no argument. You obviously haven’t learned how to read numbers properly.’

I’m aghast. Talk about rude!

‘No, you’re the one who can’t read numbers,’ I retort, peevishly. Well, if he wants to act like a child, two can play at that game. ‘Now, if you don’t mind—’

There’s a pause. Good. That must have done the trick. He’ll go away now.

I give a startled jump as a face suddenly appears underneath the berth.

‘Are you always this stubborn?’

He’s got hazel eyes, the whites of which look really bright against his tan, and appears to be around my age, with short, dark messy hair, and stubble. I notice he’s wearing some kind of beads strung on a piece of leather around his neck and an old straw fedora.

Oh God, he looks like one of those really annoying traveller types. I bet you anything he’s carrying a drum and a copy of
Shantaram
.

‘I think you should check your reservation,’ I say tightly, and with as much as authority as I can muster. Honestly, the ego on some men.

‘I’ve checked it. That’s my seat you’re sitting in, lady.’

Lady?
I feel myself physically bristle at the way he says it. God, he’s so patronising!

And he’s not budging, I realise, as his horrible feet stay planted to the floor and his face remains inches away from mine.

Right! That’s it.

Irritated, I close my guidebook and reach for my bag. I start digging around for my ticket. I’ll show this jumped-up . . . annoying . . . rude . . . sexist . . .

‘See!’ I declare triumphantly, thrusting it at him like a fencer in a dual. ‘Eighteen!’