I'd planned to visit an uncle and aunt who live in the city of Chandigarh, a city famous for being designed by the architect Le Corbusier. My dad had sent a small parcel to Chandigarh for me to collect, but incompetence by DHL and the Byzantine bureaucracy of Indian Customs officers (you would have thought I was trying to import a huge quantity of industrial machinery rather than a guide book to Myanmar!) meant that it never materialised. It became a bit of a saga, but not one with a happy ending. DHL expected me to send them an electronic copy of my uncle and aunt's electricity bill in advance of my arriving there for them to deliver it. Trying to explain to DHL that as a backpacker this was completely unfeasible fell on deaf ears. The logic of the madhouse!
So I left the New Delhi hotel in an autorickshaw with enough time to catch the train, but the mother of all traffic jams meant that I got to the station with about 7 minutes to spare. Standing on platform 1, with no information available on the electronic noticeboard regarding my train number, a man on the platform assured me that I was at the right place to catch my train, only for the man at the bookshop behind me, who had overheard our conversation, to shout that my train would be at platform 10. Who should I trust? A middle class lady with excellent spoken English backed the man from the bookshop, so off I hurtled up a long flight of stairs to the bridge, dragging one foot in front of the other, my backpack feeling as heavy as a sackful of coal and getting on the train with seconds to spare. Only to realise that the compartment I had entered was around half a train's length from where I needed to be! So began an unpleasant trudge through the train's narrow passageway, my backpack and me colliding with numerous commuters, many of whom had started on their home-prepared evening meals. Thankfully I kind gentleman came to help me out, walking ahead and creating a kind of pre-emptive human shield. Suffice to say that if I stood for elected office based on the votes cast by my fellow commuters on that train, I wouldn't have retained my deposit!
Around 4 hours later, the train reached Chandigarh and I reached my uncle and aunt's house shortly afterwards, lovely to spend an evening with them after so many years. Great fun.
So I left the New Delhi hotel in an autorickshaw with enough time to catch the train, but the mother of all traffic jams meant that I got to the station with about 7 minutes to spare. Standing on platform 1, with no information available on the electronic noticeboard regarding my train number, a man on the platform assured me that I was at the right place to catch my train, only for the man at the bookshop behind me, who had overheard our conversation, to shout that my train would be at platform 10. Who should I trust? A middle class lady with excellent spoken English backed the man from the bookshop, so off I hurtled up a long flight of stairs to the bridge, dragging one foot in front of the other, my backpack feeling as heavy as a sackful of coal and getting on the train with seconds to spare. Only to realise that the compartment I had entered was around half a train's length from where I needed to be! So began an unpleasant trudge through the train's narrow passageway, my backpack and me colliding with numerous commuters, many of whom had started on their home-prepared evening meals. Thankfully I kind gentleman came to help me out, walking ahead and creating a kind of pre-emptive human shield. Suffice to say that if I stood for elected office based on the votes cast by my fellow commuters on that train, I wouldn't have retained my deposit!
Around 4 hours later, the train reached Chandigarh and I reached my uncle and aunt's house shortly afterwards, lovely to spend an evening with them after so many years. Great fun.
No comments:
Post a Comment