July 1: We have Karnal knowledge while on a train
The train also passed through a town called Badli, which I think is now in the running (as in, A town called Badli) as our sitcom title.
There's a one-hour flight between Delhi and Amritsar, but we opted for the six-hour train. Ostensibly, this was because by the time you add in check-in, delays, and travel to and from the airport, it works out about the same. K and I both pretended it wasn't because I have a horror of being on a prop plane if there's a nonzero chance of a thunderstorm (I had a very traumatic flight between Chiang Rai and Chiang Mai once).
Delhi has some of the most aggressive touts I have ever seen, except for possibly Tangiers. Even in relatively non-tout-y Indian towns, train stations tend to be bad. Ergo, I knew getting on our train in Delhi wouldn't be simple. Even though we were staying across the street from the station, we allowed about forty minutes to get on our train, and we made it with three to spare. The station is huge, with tracks arranged like airline concourses, and was absolutely crammed full of people going the opposite direction from us. It was like a video game. Touts appeared out of nowhere, in our faces, feinting left, dodging right, practically body-blocking us. They make no attempt to actually be nice, polite, or engage their target; I think their strategy is to be as annoying as possible, in the hope that you'll throw some money at them to go away. I have to watch K to make sure he doesn't do exactly that. Not only will I emphatically not reward such behavior, I regard doing so as craven capitulation. People talk about the international brotherhood of travelers. Even putting aside the objectionably gendered noun, it's not – it's a giant Prisoner's Dilemma game, and paying off touts is rushing squarely and ignobly for the lose/lose cell.
The other thing I remember being striking, despite the early hour and our desperation to catch our train, was the station security. At the main entrance, there was a single, imposing wooden structure. I thought at first it was a gallows. It was, in fact, a metal detector, circa 1970 – or whenever they first came on the market – and the sort of gadget that inevitably inspires the thought "Soviet-made" before you even recognize what the object is. And it was mostly just in the way of the crowds of people pushing past it on either side.
The Shatabdi train itself was a big surprise – it was nice. Plush, clean, widely-spaced reclining seats; dapper, English-speaking attendants…seriously, I've been on Amtraks that didn't have some of those amenities. The only thing not to measure up was the seat-side electrical outlet, which, when I plugged in my phone, revealed itself to be purely decorative.
"Why am I not shocked?" I asked K.
"Er…because there's no current?" He helpfully suggested.
We were constantly fed on the journey. It was pretty good, but, amusingly, it was all Western. (Not just ours, but everyone's.) Perhaps it's only Western tourists and NRIs who waste money on first class? Oh, and, of course, there was a sadistic little moment to start things off, when cornflakes were put in front of our starving faces as the train was leaving the station, and a moment later a well-groomed attendant came through with a little vacuum flask and filled the bowls – with steaming hot milk.
There's a one-hour flight between Delhi and Amritsar, but we opted for the six-hour train. Ostensibly, this was because by the time you add in check-in, delays, and travel to and from the airport, it works out about the same. K and I both pretended it wasn't because I have a horror of being on a prop plane if there's a nonzero chance of a thunderstorm (I had a very traumatic flight between Chiang Rai and Chiang Mai once).
Delhi has some of the most aggressive touts I have ever seen, except for possibly Tangiers. Even in relatively non-tout-y Indian towns, train stations tend to be bad. Ergo, I knew getting on our train in Delhi wouldn't be simple. Even though we were staying across the street from the station, we allowed about forty minutes to get on our train, and we made it with three to spare. The station is huge, with tracks arranged like airline concourses, and was absolutely crammed full of people going the opposite direction from us. It was like a video game. Touts appeared out of nowhere, in our faces, feinting left, dodging right, practically body-blocking us. They make no attempt to actually be nice, polite, or engage their target; I think their strategy is to be as annoying as possible, in the hope that you'll throw some money at them to go away. I have to watch K to make sure he doesn't do exactly that. Not only will I emphatically not reward such behavior, I regard doing so as craven capitulation. People talk about the international brotherhood of travelers. Even putting aside the objectionably gendered noun, it's not – it's a giant Prisoner's Dilemma game, and paying off touts is rushing squarely and ignobly for the lose/lose cell.
The other thing I remember being striking, despite the early hour and our desperation to catch our train, was the station security. At the main entrance, there was a single, imposing wooden structure. I thought at first it was a gallows. It was, in fact, a metal detector, circa 1970 – or whenever they first came on the market – and the sort of gadget that inevitably inspires the thought "Soviet-made" before you even recognize what the object is. And it was mostly just in the way of the crowds of people pushing past it on either side.
The Shatabdi train itself was a big surprise – it was nice. Plush, clean, widely-spaced reclining seats; dapper, English-speaking attendants…seriously, I've been on Amtraks that didn't have some of those amenities. The only thing not to measure up was the seat-side electrical outlet, which, when I plugged in my phone, revealed itself to be purely decorative.
"Why am I not shocked?" I asked K.
"Er…because there's no current?" He helpfully suggested.
We were constantly fed on the journey. It was pretty good, but, amusingly, it was all Western. (Not just ours, but everyone's.) Perhaps it's only Western tourists and NRIs who waste money on first class? Oh, and, of course, there was a sadistic little moment to start things off, when cornflakes were put in front of our starving faces as the train was leaving the station, and a moment later a well-groomed attendant came through with a little vacuum flask and filled the bowls – with steaming hot milk.
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