Puri, Orissa. I have a train to catch from Bhubaneswar, an hour from Puri. The East Coast Express leaves Bhubaneswar at 7.40pm, and at 7.25pm Bhubaneswar is nowhere in sight. This rickety bus set off from Puri at 5.30pm, was supposed to take an hour, but ambled along in the rain, stopping at each and every village. I grab my 10kg backpack, and try to make my way out of the bus.
“Where are you going?” asks the man blocking my way in the narrow bus.
Don’t ask me any questions. Just let me off the bus. The Indians love helping out, all at the same time, often not helping very much and occasionally stand in the way — like now, literally.
I am going to get off this bus to get into a rickshaw because it is 7.25pm and my train leaves at 7.40pm and this bus is much too slow.
“Oh, no, no… don’t worry. You will make it. It’ll take just another 20 minutes to reach Bhubaneswar, then you can catch an auto to the station. You will catch the train.”
I don’t know how they do what they do around here — be utterly incapable of calculating time. So this bus reaches Bhubaneswar at 7.45pm, and then I still have to catch an auto to the station, and still think of catching the train? I assert again that my train leaves at 7.40pm.
“Your train is leaving at 8.10pm, no?”
No. No, no, and no. 7.40pm — not 8.10pm.
“But your train leaves at 8.10pm.”
I assert again it leaves at 7.40pm.
Someone asks if it was stated on my ticket that the train leaves at 7.40pm, not 8.10pm. Well — yes. They ask this several times before they are satisfied my train indeed leaves within the next — by now, 10 minutes.
“Then you must immediately get off this bus and catch an auto to the station. Immediately, without fail. Immediately!”
Gee, thanks, that’s what I’ve been trying to do for the last 5 minutes. I jumped off the bus, hopped into an auto rickshaw, sped to the Bhubaneswar station to find the entire station engulfed in the darkness of Indian electricity failures. It was now 7.41pm. The East Coast Express was nowhere in sight on Platform 4. It finally pulled in at 8.05pm, and left the station for the 24 hours’ journey to Hyderabad.
The time was 8.10pm.
I usually have very good meals in trains, but this time aboard the East Coast Express, some slight communication problems with pantry staff about the availability of ‘non-veg dinner with curry and 3 chapati’ resulted in me miserably eating rice, dal, two miserable eggs and chapati. “Eggs are non-veg?” I ask. All eyes are on me, no doubt they find it funny. “Eggs are veg?” Well — no — but the point is, there is no meat, so that makes it not good enough non-veg. I did not grow up in a veg/non-veg dichotomy and honestly the only way I make a distinction is if there is meat or not.
“Is there any chicken on this train?” (I have never been in a train without chicken.) “Nahi, nahi… that’ll be 37 rupees for your NON-VEG meal.” What do you mean that was a non-veg meal? It was just two pathetic eggs! I think I have anger management issues when it comes to food, and nothing gets to me more than having to eat vegetarian against my wishes (sorry, eggs are not good enough, it’s still vegetarian to me), and charging me for what I didn’t ask for. Vegetarianism — the word scares me to death. I have such strong opinions about vegetarianism — good for you if you choose it, but don’t make me do it; much like my take on heterosexuality, I guess — that I have never called back anyone I went on a date with if she professed to be vegetarian on the first date. It scares me that much. Indian vegetarianism, especially, reminds me of potato, cauliflower, and eggplant, all items I dislike (yes I’m one of the rare specimens who honestly does not like potato in any form). Why should I limit myself to a small fraction of all the good and tasty things in the world?
I boycotted all other meals on the train, still fuming about my food, got out at Secunderabad 24 hours later, met three non-vegetarian friends from school, and had a large steak for dinner.
possibly related
First Night in Taipei /
Effort /
India, From the Outside /
In The City of Angels /
Rath Yatra /
It’s a Love Hate Thing
Puri, Orissa. I have a train to catch from Bhubaneswar, an hour from Puri. The East Coast Express leaves Bhubaneswar at 7.40pm, and at 7.25pm Bhubaneswar is nowhere in sight. This rickety bus set off from Puri at 5.30pm, was supposed to take an hour, but ambled along in the rain, stopping at each and every village. I grab my 10kg backpack, and try to make my way out of the bus.
“Where are you going?” asks the man blocking my way in the narrow bus.
Don’t ask me any questions. Just let me off the bus. The Indians love helping out, all at the same time, often not helping very much and occasionally stand in the way — like now, literally.
I am going to get off this bus to get into a rickshaw because it is 7.25pm and my train leaves at 7.40pm and this bus is much too slow.
“Oh, no, no… don’t worry. You will make it. It’ll take just another 20 minutes to reach Bhubaneswar, then you can catch an auto to the station. You will catch the train.”
I don’t know how they do what they do around here — be utterly incapable of calculating time. So this bus reaches Bhubaneswar at 7.45pm, and then I still have to catch an auto to the station, and still think of catching the train? I assert again that my train leaves at 7.40pm.
“Your train is leaving at 8.10pm, no?”
No. No, no, and no. 7.40pm — not 8.10pm.
“But your train leaves at 8.10pm.”
I assert again it leaves at 7.40pm.
Someone asks if it was stated on my ticket that the train leaves at 7.40pm, not 8.10pm. Well — yes. They ask this several times before they are satisfied my train indeed leaves within the next — by now, 10 minutes.
“Then you must immediately get off this bus and catch an auto to the station. Immediately, without fail. Immediately!”
Gee, thanks, that’s what I’ve been trying to do for the last 5 minutes. I jumped off the bus, hopped into an auto rickshaw, sped to the Bhubaneswar station to find the entire station engulfed in the darkness of Indian electricity failures. It was now 7.41pm. The East Coast Express was nowhere in sight on Platform 4. It finally pulled in at 8.05pm, and left the station for the 24 hours’ journey to Hyderabad.
The time was 8.10pm.
I usually have very good meals in trains, but this time aboard the East Coast Express, some slight communication problems with pantry staff about the availability of ‘non-veg dinner with curry and 3 chapati’ resulted in me miserably eating rice, dal, two miserable eggs and chapati. “Eggs are non-veg?” I ask. All eyes are on me, no doubt they find it funny. “Eggs are veg?” Well — no — but the point is, there is no meat, so that makes it not good enough non-veg. I did not grow up in a veg/non-veg dichotomy and honestly the only way I make a distinction is if there is meat or not.
“Is there any chicken on this train?” (I have never been in a train without chicken.) “Nahi, nahi… that’ll be 37 rupees for your NON-VEG meal.” What do you mean that was a non-veg meal? It was just two pathetic eggs! I think I have anger management issues when it comes to food, and nothing gets to me more than having to eat vegetarian against my wishes (sorry, eggs are not good enough, it’s still vegetarian to me), and charging me for what I didn’t ask for. Vegetarianism — the word scares me to death. I have such strong opinions about vegetarianism — good for you if you choose it, but don’t make me do it; much like my take on heterosexuality, I guess — that I have never called back anyone I went on a date with if she professed to be vegetarian on the first date. It scares me that much. Indian vegetarianism, especially, reminds me of potato, cauliflower, and eggplant, all items I dislike (yes I’m one of the rare specimens who honestly does not like potato in any form). Why should I limit myself to a small fraction of all the good and tasty things in the world?
I boycotted all other meals on the train, still fuming about my food, got out at Secunderabad 24 hours later, met three non-vegetarian friends from school, and had a large steak for dinner.
possibly related
First Night in Taipei / Effort / India, From the Outside / In The City of Angels / Rath Yatra /