Too much pampering
Calcutta Int'l Airport - the Sify Cafe (now a card-carrying member)
Clearly have been pampered till now. Windamere and the hotwater bottle thing making me soft, and scared. No call for my whinging about a second class train seat, and no need for upgrade. The Uttar Banga, while the least romantic of the three trains that leave NJP for Calcutta every eve (splashier competitors: The Darjeeling Mail and the Kanchenjunga Express), it may be the least intimidating.
Once it had revealed the secret of which of the nameless, numberless identical sleeper cars was my S1, all fell into place. No call to lash myself and bag to the seat. My berth faced the berth of a grandmother whose some came round to make her bed and switch off her reading light. Below me, a chubby lady happy to stow my case beneath her seat. Across the train aisle, a fellow who slept from start to journey finish with his head on a cheap nylon case and his entire form covered in an embroidered Kashmiri shawl. And the conductor kept doubling back to check on me. With my head on my own daypack, reading Indian Travelers Tales, fell right back in love with India. Magic moment as only India manages to throw at you.
For all the good vibes, sleep still not so easy. My berth, #3, in the compartment's social neighborhood of men's smoke breaks, morning throat clearings, women pacing the aisles with toothpasted-toothbrushes, bathroom queues and chai/coffee wallahs. The stations themselves - save for the vendors who boarded at them - were quiet in the morning, only birdsong.
C
Clearly have been pampered till now. Windamere and the hotwater bottle thing making me soft, and scared. No call for my whinging about a second class train seat, and no need for upgrade. The Uttar Banga, while the least romantic of the three trains that leave NJP for Calcutta every eve (splashier competitors: The Darjeeling Mail and the Kanchenjunga Express), it may be the least intimidating.
Once it had revealed the secret of which of the nameless, numberless identical sleeper cars was my S1, all fell into place. No call to lash myself and bag to the seat. My berth faced the berth of a grandmother whose some came round to make her bed and switch off her reading light. Below me, a chubby lady happy to stow my case beneath her seat. Across the train aisle, a fellow who slept from start to journey finish with his head on a cheap nylon case and his entire form covered in an embroidered Kashmiri shawl. And the conductor kept doubling back to check on me. With my head on my own daypack, reading Indian Travelers Tales, fell right back in love with India. Magic moment as only India manages to throw at you.
For all the good vibes, sleep still not so easy. My berth, #3, in the compartment's social neighborhood of men's smoke breaks, morning throat clearings, women pacing the aisles with toothpasted-toothbrushes, bathroom queues and chai/coffee wallahs. The stations themselves - save for the vendors who boarded at them - were quiet in the morning, only birdsong.
C
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