Mas Jaipur Express

It was 18:37 and me and David had just arrived in Chennai’s central station. It took a good 10 minutes for us to reach our carriage, lugging our heavy backpacks along the serpent-like body of a cross country train. We had a 37 hour ride ahead of us, leaving from Chennai and slicing through the country up to Rajasthan. 

As we reached our carriage we readied ourselves to dump our backpacks, only to find that our bunks were taken by a family of four, with handbags and coats already hung and suitcases neatly tucked under the bunks. Me and David looked at each with worried stares and awkwardly told the family that they had taken our seats.  The father, who was of a lanky tallness, with deep eyes that are simultaneously sad, stern and gentle, proposes an offer to exchange our bunks for the adjacent ones. We politely but firmly decline, which in turn turns his sweet smile to a sour line. The two kids stare from a height, eagerly sensing the tension.

Prior to boarding our train, David had asked me if we should buy some food. We were yet to find out about the innumerous chai, coffee and dabba men who would walk up and down at all hours of the day and night offering their goods. Losing his patience with my undecidedness, David decides to prepare for the journey with two veg biryanis, rice, chutney, chapatti’s and yogurt, which came packed in individual silver plastic bags. Hunger struck me as soon as we sat on the sticky leather benches in our carriage. I proceeded to unpack, unwrapping limp chapatti’s, spooning a dry biryani onto a paper plate and pouring some plain yogurt over the top. Krishna, the wife looks down at me from the top bunk. She is looking at my food with sadness and slight disgust. She shakes her head, climbs down dexterously from the top bunk, her bracelets, anklets, rings and necklaces rattling with every move. She drags a large, full to the brim tote bag from under the bunk and sits next to me unpacking the Mary Poppins-like bag. She retrieves a set of stainless steel stacked tiffin tins, plates and pots. She opens the first container and reveals a neat stack of rustic golden chapatis brushed with ghee, which she grabs between pinched fingers and lays on the plate. Next, she unscrews a tall pot and with a wooden spoon scoops out a thick red paste with mustard seeds (what I believe to be Lahsun Ki chutney), and dollaps it on the side of the chapatis. Lastly, from an old margarine pot, she removes the neon orange lid and offers me a container full of stuffed green peppers which are tied with a fine red thread (besan bharwan mirchi). With a confirming sideways head bobble, she encouragingly thrusts the container towards me and watches as I plucked one of the peppers from the stem. 

I felt touched, but also guilty for having such an unsavoury spread to offer in return. Gingerly, I offer her our pale and burnt chapatis, which were folded in four and stuffed into a circular plastic pot. She waved her hands as if to say no, looking at the chapatis sideways with a look of aversion. She pointed at the burnt splodges on the papery flatbread and said "no good". We laughed. The whole family watched as me and David bit into the green chillies, and scooped up the red paste with the golden chapati, closing our eyes in pleasure at the flavours that played in the mouth. When one of the given foods ran out, she would proceed to refill our plates, making sure to place the condiment in the exact spot as before. 

There and then, a bond was made. It wasn’t long before the kids were jumping in our bunks, translating stories for their parents and playing games with us. 16 hours into the journey my hands are on Krishna’s lap as she paints thick patterns of flowers and paisley onto my hands. As the henna grows darker and darker, she tells me that my husband must love me very much, as dark henna is considered a sign of such a thing. 

The following day the train makes another of its multiple stops, this time in central Maharashtra. The landscape is barren and dry and the suffocating heat invades the carriage with the opening of the doors. A middle aged woman comes in dressed in a pale grey kurta and sneakers, two round circles hennaed in the back of her hands, lugging two big bags. She’s out of breath and slightly distressed, and asks us if this is in fact the train heading to Jaipur. We confirm, and she sighs in relief, tucking her bags under the bunk and unclipping her long hair and allowing it to fall. She explains to us that this is not her carriage, but that she was in such a rush that she had to jump in otherwise she would have missed the train. We exchange names and she tells us that her name is Pallavi. 

Twenty minutes from meeting each other, she offers us food, explaining that she’s packed enough for an army. We don’t even have time to consider, the large cumbersome bag was already lifted onto the seat and unpacked. She peels apart a nest of white paper plates and lays them on the blue leather bunk. She unscrews her first tiffin tin and presents us with freshly made fried spirals with sesame seeds, called chakli. As she begins piling our plates with food and we begin to eat, Krishna side-eyes the woman from the top bunk. Krishna once again climbs down and bent from the waist, drags her bag of provisions and begins offering us food again. A tension builds between the two women, who alternate dolloping curries, chutneys and chapatis into our plates, subtly smirking as me or David compliment each spoonful. 

Eventually Pallavi heads to her carriage, which we later go to visit and have chai in. Krishna watches her go with relief and slight triumph in her eyes.