Murshidabad is in Bengal, home of music, film, poetry and art. Even on the station platform, as I waited for a local train, we were entertained by a blind musician playing a harmonium and singing traditional Bengali songs. Waiting passengers gathered round, some sitting, some standing, listening with rapt attention as his voice soared above the call of the vendors, station announcements and general traffic. Local trains don't run to specific timetables like the express trains. People hang about, buy cups of chai, unripe guavas, samosas, sit on their luggage or on the platform until suddenly everyone leaps up, ready to rush the doors when the train arrives.
Somehow I managed to squeeze in but not to sit. Luckily at every station people get off and people get on, so I soon found a space on a very hard seat beside a woman who was shaking a baby to try to stop it from crying, unsuccessfully. Vendors of every food imaginable somehow managed to squeeze through the crowded compartment, plus sellers of household goods: clothes pegs, toys, tablecloths, rucksacks, drinks, sticky looking chana (chickpeas) that looked like it was going to be spilled over me but somehow managed not to, blind musicians, assorted beggars, loud clapping Hijras, dressed in brilliant red saris, who go up to the men and demand money aggressively; all of whom get out of the compartment at the next station and a fresh lot of vendors, beggars, musicians etc get in and struggle through.
I could hardly hear him crying above the calls of the vendors, beggars, musicians, but noticed that the baby's mother and grandmother were taking it in turns to shake the baby, who continued to cry pitifully, his sweat-streaked hair clinging to his forehead as he writhed in their arms. At the next station they took the wailing infant off the train. On the other side of me were a young couple who'd been married a year, didn't speak a word of English but smiled sweetly and indicated that they wanted to look at my photos. So we looked at photos on my mobile phone. He indicated that his mobile was out of battery. I found a lead and plugged it into my power bank.
At the next station a vendor of dubious looking herbal remedies got on and stood like an orator giving a speech about his wonderful products. A man spent a few rupees on one of his remedies. After about three hours the train stopped, people left their handkerchiefs to mark their seats and got off to buy the better station food, as opposed to the food they'd been eating from the vendors on the train. Presumably there was a toilet somewhere and this was an opportunity to use it since there were no toilets on the train. But I had no idea where to look and anyway was afraid of not finding my way back to my seat and my luggage, so didn't dare venture far. I decided not to drink so that I would last the six hour journey.
When the train started again a very feisty Hijra came into our compartment, clapping loudly as usual, going up to the young men, pushing them roughly, probably taunting them (of course I couldn't understand her Bengali) and demanding money. She came right up to me and looked me in the eyes, tossed her head and held out her hand. My neighbour indicated that I'd better give her some money, so I handed over another ten rupee note. I'd been handing out ten rupee notes, of which I had a huge pile, throughout the journey. A curd (yogurt) seller got on at the next station, with two buckets filled with miniature clay pots of curd. A pan seller arrived, with a marvellous array of different coloured powders, then a man selling pins, toothpicks and combs, who hung his wares from the roof, rattled off his spiel, then unhitched his wares, moved on and hung them up again.
Eventually the vendors began to thin out, a general somnolence began to take over, as all who were fortunate enough to have a seat began dozing off, on each other's shoulders. By now enough people were sitting for me to see out of the window, where the growing rice was clothing the countryside in brilliant green, between fruit trees, banana plantations, saal forests and villages with little houses.
A group of young women went through the carriage singing a Bollywood song at the tops of their voices. A fake gold chain seller held forth loudly, competing with the singers in his attempts to persuade someone to buy one of his chains.
Just as we were leaving DumDum station, someone said that there was a metro station there. Too late for me to get out of the train, I continued on to Sealdah, where a kind man said to me,
"Get off here, cross over to that train there. It's going back to DumDum. Stand by the door and make sure you get off there!"
And so I was able to get the metro all the way into central Kolkata from DumDum station.
Somehow I managed to squeeze in but not to sit. Luckily at every station people get off and people get on, so I soon found a space on a very hard seat beside a woman who was shaking a baby to try to stop it from crying, unsuccessfully. Vendors of every food imaginable somehow managed to squeeze through the crowded compartment, plus sellers of household goods: clothes pegs, toys, tablecloths, rucksacks, drinks, sticky looking chana (chickpeas) that looked like it was going to be spilled over me but somehow managed not to, blind musicians, assorted beggars, loud clapping Hijras, dressed in brilliant red saris, who go up to the men and demand money aggressively; all of whom get out of the compartment at the next station and a fresh lot of vendors, beggars, musicians etc get in and struggle through.
I could hardly hear him crying above the calls of the vendors, beggars, musicians, but noticed that the baby's mother and grandmother were taking it in turns to shake the baby, who continued to cry pitifully, his sweat-streaked hair clinging to his forehead as he writhed in their arms. At the next station they took the wailing infant off the train. On the other side of me were a young couple who'd been married a year, didn't speak a word of English but smiled sweetly and indicated that they wanted to look at my photos. So we looked at photos on my mobile phone. He indicated that his mobile was out of battery. I found a lead and plugged it into my power bank.
At the next station a vendor of dubious looking herbal remedies got on and stood like an orator giving a speech about his wonderful products. A man spent a few rupees on one of his remedies. After about three hours the train stopped, people left their handkerchiefs to mark their seats and got off to buy the better station food, as opposed to the food they'd been eating from the vendors on the train. Presumably there was a toilet somewhere and this was an opportunity to use it since there were no toilets on the train. But I had no idea where to look and anyway was afraid of not finding my way back to my seat and my luggage, so didn't dare venture far. I decided not to drink so that I would last the six hour journey.
When the train started again a very feisty Hijra came into our compartment, clapping loudly as usual, going up to the young men, pushing them roughly, probably taunting them (of course I couldn't understand her Bengali) and demanding money. She came right up to me and looked me in the eyes, tossed her head and held out her hand. My neighbour indicated that I'd better give her some money, so I handed over another ten rupee note. I'd been handing out ten rupee notes, of which I had a huge pile, throughout the journey. A curd (yogurt) seller got on at the next station, with two buckets filled with miniature clay pots of curd. A pan seller arrived, with a marvellous array of different coloured powders, then a man selling pins, toothpicks and combs, who hung his wares from the roof, rattled off his spiel, then unhitched his wares, moved on and hung them up again.
Eventually the vendors began to thin out, a general somnolence began to take over, as all who were fortunate enough to have a seat began dozing off, on each other's shoulders. By now enough people were sitting for me to see out of the window, where the growing rice was clothing the countryside in brilliant green, between fruit trees, banana plantations, saal forests and villages with little houses.
A group of young women went through the carriage singing a Bollywood song at the tops of their voices. A fake gold chain seller held forth loudly, competing with the singers in his attempts to persuade someone to buy one of his chains.
Just as we were leaving DumDum station, someone said that there was a metro station there. Too late for me to get out of the train, I continued on to Sealdah, where a kind man said to me,
"Get off here, cross over to that train there. It's going back to DumDum. Stand by the door and make sure you get off there!"
And so I was able to get the metro all the way into central Kolkata from DumDum station.
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