7 April
I could easily linger on in rural India – it feels like time stands still in such places anyway – but I feel adventurous and head to Kolkata, the capital of West Bengal.
Because I feel adventurous, I decide to take a local train (Rs20/-) as opposed to the more comfortable express-train with reserved seating (Rs67/-). The train pulls into the station, I get ready and fight my way into the ladies compartment. Luckily I win space for one buttock on the edge of a wooden bench. This is hopeful. In such cases I feel lucky to be a woman in India – the general compartments were brimming with people hanging out the sides of the train!
Due to the relative space available, various vendors and buskers appear throughout the journey, alighting at the following station. I am amused when a man suspends his glittery, mobile, cheap jewellery display from the ceiling. Another man brings a piece of furniture on board – I take it there is no restriction on the size of bundles transportable on passenger trains. Still it is a relatively comfortable journey, once both my buttocks got a seat.
We finally reach Howrah Station. Howrah is actually an entirely different district but often counted as part of Kolkata. There is so much activity going on. Thousands of people are flowing in all directions, while several are sitting around or sleeping, either because they are waiting or because they simply live there.
I purchase something that looks too much like Maltese pastizzi, but filled with spicy vegetables (or mutton), at one of the numerous kiosks selling hot snacks, biscuits and chai. As I sip the hot tea from the tiny clay cup I observe specially hired porters carrying up to four suitcases on their heads, or bundles so large that they sink right over their eyes. A man pushes a fragile old lady in a trolley through the crowd. On the tracks, a train slowly pulls into the station to collect passengers, with station staff enjoying a ride on the front.
Two young girls carrying younger kids mark me as their prey. Begging is their profession – you can tell by the absent chanting, “Milk for baby!” as though it were a mantra. I face a moral dilemma, since it is not to be encouraged, but give them a packet of Parle-G biscuits worth Rs3/-, granting them the benefit of doubt.
I like the train experience – in India you catch a train and never a moment of boredom will haunt you. Longer journeys by reservation in a second-class sleeper-compartment can be fun, although the top bunk is recommended. Sealed AC (air-conditioned) compartments are more private but also much more expensive and less interesting.
Night buses are often available for long distances, but in my experience the lie-down compartments separated by velvet curtains only provide an illusion of arriving at destination well rested the next morning. I am starting to believe that the only way to obtain a driving licence in India is by proving that you are fearless of taking curves at 80 km an hour, especially if driving a bus. And there seems to be an unwritten rule against building straight roads – too boring.
Meanwhile, the booming low-cost airlines have won over much of the market these days. It is a matter of time vs money...it depends on which you can afford.
Anyhow, at the exit of Howrah Station, plenty of Ambassador taxis and buses to anywhere are available, but generally require crossing the traffic-congested Howrah Bridge, which is the main connection between the East and West banks of the river. The famous cantilevered bridge, also known as Rabindra Setu, crosses the river in a single 450-metre span – an engineering marvel. In recent years Vidyasagar Setu, a Golden Gate bridge look-alike, was built just two kilometres downriver in an attempt to ease the heavy load of traffic on the busiest bridge in the world.
Without doubt, the most pleasant way to cross the river is by ferry, depending on where you want to go. A few rupees get me a ticket for the ferry to Bhagbazaar, due north, one of several landing ghats along the river. I am amused by the live entertainment provided by a busker with a harmonium who sings Bengali songs in a style reminiscent of European folk music. I am even more captivated by the antics of some young boys who, while swimming in the river, grab the ferry's tyre fenders, climb onto the deck among the passengers and dive back in, over and over again.
I have barely entered this city and I feel completely captured by its intensity already.
8 April
In rural India most people use bicycles or animal powered carts to get around, but in the city it is most practical to walk short distances, probably because it is simpler than using the congested roads. A manpowered rickshaw is still an option in some areas, and I face another moral dilemma on whether to use this service, considering that these are the poorest working people of Kolkata.
For slightly longer distances, cycle rickshaws are a commonly used facility, while three-wheeler motor rickshaws are often shared to make for cheap and quick ferrying along commonly used routes. Let it be known that guts of steel are required for the three-wheeler rickshaw experience. I am unaware of this detail when I first step into the back of the little vehicle with two other people, while two more sit on either side of the driver who controls it in a similar way to a motorbike.
I am quick to understand why this is such a quick and convenient method of getting around. The small vehicle steers in an agile manner thanks to the specially-skilled rickshaw-wallah who is audacious and precise. He squeezes through any nook and cranny in the traffic that can take the width of the machine, often overtaking on the inside or driving on the wrong side of the road. In India one is meant to drive on the left side, like in Malta, but this guy takes off into the oncoming traffic, dodging the vehicles expertly, then files up into the fourth lane spilling into the right side of the road, forcing the oncoming traffic into a single file. Very efficient indeed.
10 April
As I start to venture further distances I discover the joys of the Kolkata's metro system, the first in India. With its high velocity and costing just Rs8/- to travel from one end of the line to the other, this is definitely my favourite method of getting through the city.
With roads accounting for only four per cent of the surface area in Kolkata compared to 25 per cent in Delhi, the much needed metro started its services in October 1984, extending to its current route by September 1995. It runs through 17 stations from north to south along the main areas of the city. It helped to ease much of Kolkata's transportation problem, although it is hard to believe that it could be worse than the present situation.
The metro is modern, clean and efficient and much more civilised than most other transport options, except at certain times of day when you literally have to squeeze into the carriages and smell everybody's armpits. The ladies compartment available in every carriage again keeps me quite happy.
12 April
I am quick to realise that the metro is rather limited for reaching the Eastern and Western parts of the city, so buses remain the only option. There are many different private bus companies while the state buses are as good as non-existent since they never stop to pick you up. The light green-grey buses must be the oldest as they are the most dilapidated, resembling squashed and rusty sardine cans on wheels. The small red buses and large light blue buses both run frequently, while red double-decker London buses are also a common sight in some areas.
The main problem is, alas, that there are no bus stops. You just kind of hang around a street corner and hail a bus the way you would hail a cab. I quickly figure that the reason why there are no bus stops is because the bus does not stop, not unless there is a traffic jam.
Hopping on and off a moving bus requires some skill. Thankfully the bus does seem to slow down a little more for female passengers. Men must simply run alongside the bus, grab a hold of the side bar and tug themselves onto the steps, often travelling several kilometres hanging in such a manner due to lack of space within the bus. To alight they jump off and run a few steps to deal with the momentum. I am impressed.
I manage to get onto a bus shared with some other 80 people. I promise it is not an exaggeration. Buses are organised in such a way as to allow more space for standing, while most seating is reserved for women. I begin to feel privileged. The conductor forces me inside and to the front of the bus and I stand legs apart for balance in this slightly more spacious female section, while the speeding vehicle rocks from side to side, swerving around cycle rickshaws and trusting pedestrians. I am bemused by the wrinkled expressions on some passengers' faces as they struggle to reach the exit, while I note that this really must be the best surf practice anybody could get.
However the best sportsman of all is definitely the conductor, identifiable by the wad of notes folded lengthwise held in one hand. Hanging outside the bus in windsurfer fashion, he simultaneously bangs the side of the bus using some mysterious code to direct the driver away from the other moving objects while overtaking. I wonder when bus-surfing will be acknowledged as an Olympic sport. I have no doubt who will be getting the gold medals.
13 April
Another delight on the road, among the ones mentioned that ensure never a dull moment, is that rickshaws, buses and trucks are a canvas for all sorts of weird and wonderful paintings and designs. 'Blow Horn' is often painted in large letters on the rear of the larger vehicles, which makes me wonder: “Do they really need to be told?” One thing is sure, they were not joking when in my guidebook I read, “You can drive with no brakes in India, but not without a horn!”
Rickshaws, buses, trains and trams have one more thing in common: they do not have glass windows to protect you from the weather or the traffic fumes. In fact, you are not ever protected from anything! I am surprised never to have seen a sign stating 'At Your Own Risk'. I guess it is simply understood!
The first six episodes of Melanie Drury’s diary of her visit to India were published on 22 January, 5 and 19 February, 5 and 26 March and 9 April
Domestic Low-cost Airlines
http://www.spicejet.com
http://www.flyairdeccan.net
http://book.goindigo.in
http://www.goair.in
Indian Railwayhttp://www.indianrail.gov.in
Kolkata Metrohttp://www.kolmetro.com