Before departure, I thought half of this trip to India would be spent on trains. But upon arriving, I found buses to be the most convenient, punctual, and comfortable mode of transport. It wasn’t until the end of the journey that I realized I hadn’t yet taken an Indian train.
Not having taken a train felt like not truly experiencing India. So, I booked a train ticket to Varanasi and returned to New Delhi—it was my last long-haul journey.
Different classes of carriages reflect different walks of life. Train tickets in India are hard to come by. Often, you end up with a Wait List ticket, only boarding if someone cancels. Thanks to my host’s help, I managed to get a confirmed ticket—quite a rarity.
A bit surprising and a bit disappointing—the train station was just so ordinary (Varanasi, India)
It’s almost laughable that it took me two months of traveling in India to take a train for the first time. I arrived at the station nearly an hour early, expecting chaos and a mix of all kinds of people. But the station was surprisingly orderly. Maybe after spending time in India, even the messiness doesn’t seem so remarkable anymore.
At 7 PM, I still hadn’t had dinner. On the platform, I found a small shop selling fried eggs, bought one, a bag of chips, and a bottle of juice. Everyone says not to eat street food in India, but I didn’t care anymore. This would be my sustenance for the next twelve hours.
Luck was on my side during this trip. The train, which is usually late, arrived early. I found my assigned carriage based on the ticket details. The carriage was pitch dark, perhaps to save electricity—or maybe that’s just India. One side had three-tiered berths, the other two-tiered, separated by a narrow aisle. Aside from the darkness, the spacing and cleanliness were similar to the sleeper trains I’d taken in China, even a bit more comfortable.
Passengers gradually boarded the carriage. This was the budget class, mostly filled with people from lower socioeconomic backgrounds. Some were practically in rags, carrying large bundles, the most astonishing being a huge bundle of blankets. I managed to find a young man who might speak some English and approached him to confirm I was in the right spot. His English wasn’t as fluent as I’d hoped, but he studied my ticket carefully and nodded reassuringly.
There was a power socket near the lower berth. No one was sitting there yet, so I charged my phone and ate the simple fried egg for dinner. The owner of the berth entered the carriage, and I started to get up. He clearly couldn’t express himself well in English, but with a simple gesture, he indicated I could stay and share the space.
In a country where language barriers exist, inconvenience isn’t the biggest issue—the bigger loss is the “missed opportunities” for deeper connection. I kept imagining that if I had someone to talk to during this ten-plus-hour train ride, I might have gained a much deeper understanding of India.
The train departed on time. Someone, seemingly unable to bear the darkness, walked to the toilet area, opened a small cabinet, pressed a button, and suddenly the lights came on. I had been half-expecting to spend the night in total darkness.
After being used by hundreds of people, the train toilets are far from pleasant. My berth happened to be near the first toilet, and occasionally a gust of wind would bring the faint smell. Taking advantage of the fact that the train had just started, I held my breath, braced myself, and quickly used the toilet. The hygiene wasn’t terrible—perhaps because I’d seen worse—but the smell was unpleasant. For the rest of the journey, I’d have to control how much water I drank.
Around 9:30 PM, sleepiness started to hit hard. I climbed up to my upper berth. The passengers on the opposite three-tiered bunks also returned to their spots. The middle berth, which had been folded down as a backrest for the lower berth, was unfolded by its occupants, hooked onto the ceiling fixtures, and transformed into a sleeping space.
The structure extending from the ceiling is what secures the middle bunks.
I used my small backpack as a pillow, which also conveniently held my most valuable items. My larger backpack served as a footrest at the end of the bed. My down jacket became another pillow, and my scarf turned into a blanket. Before I could adjust everything to the perfect position, I gradually drifted off to sleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night to a wave of cold air—this was already a chilly night. The chill came from near the train wall. Though the window was shut tight, cold air seeped relentlessly through the gaps. I turned my back to the wall, but even with layers of clothing, my back was still cold. Then I turned to face the wall, and the cold air hit my face even harder. I checked my phone—it was just past 3 AM. How was I going to endure the next few hours?
Other passengers were wrapped warmly in their blankets, lost in sweet dreams. That big bundle of blankets suddenly seemed so essential. At this moment, I could only watch enviously. The ticket allocated one berth per person, yet somehow the floor of the aisle was also full of people sleeping. The slightly damp ground, dirtied by those coming out of the toilets, had become their beds—and they slept soundly.
Finally, around 5 AM, a man carrying a silver stainless-steel bucket walked by. I immediately called out to stop him: “Chai!Chai!” (meaning Indian tea). He stopped, skillfully pulled out a small paper cup from his pocket, and poured the tea accurately into it. With one hand, he handed me the steaming cup of tea; with the other, he took my 10 rupees. That cup of tea was the savior of the night, finally bringing a bit of warmth to my hands. I also took out the chips I’d bought earlier—my breakfast, sorted.
A bit of morning light began seeping through the window. People slowly woke up, packed up the blankets spread on the floor, and those on the middle bunks had no choice but to fold them up to make room for the lower berth passengers. Some went to the taps between carriages with their toothbrushes—turns out Indians’ hygiene habits aren’t that bad after all. As for me, I was still clinging to that not-so-warm scarf, hoping the morning warmth would help make up for a night of poor sleep. But as people woke up, the carriage grew noisy.
The night felt especially long, but with daylight, time seemed to speed up. Watching everyone around me put on their shoes and pull luggage from under the bunks made the carriage even more crowded. I was slow to realize—checking Google Maps—that we were already entering the New Delhi area.
The train pulled into New Delhi Station. Looking out the window at the platform, New Delhi looked just as it had two months ago—gray and bustling, the people as hurried as ever.
The train came to a stop. Everyone rushed to grab their bags and get off, but I stayed leisurely in my seat. I don’t know if it was sleep deprivation making me sluggish or if it was because this was my last train ride in India—I felt a pang of reluctance, unwilling to leave.
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