The Train that Leads to Nowhere

It has been about two months since I first arrived in Chennai. Every day feels like an accomplishment; every day feels like an adventure. The little things which I have taken for granted for years suddenly feel like monumental undertakings. I’m no longer able to confidently say that I can pay my own bills, brush my teeth in the morning, order takeout, or travel places confidently on my own.  It has become an everyday adaptation in which I learn to trust and rely on others for the simplest of tasks. Yesterday, this was tested to the extreme on my mistaken boarding of a train to nowhere.

It was 6:30 a.m. yesterday morning when my alarm blaringly shouted for me to get up. The night had been unusually muggy for this season and so I slept fitfully.  The mosquitoes took advantage of every opportunity to feast before I retired, so the itching angry welts didn’t help me in my slumber attempts. I tossed and turned most all night only to be awoken by the shouts, singing, and banging doors of the college girls in the hostel. Apparently 5 am is the new hour to sing Christmas carols; I guess I missed that memo. Let me just say that a pillow over your head can only help so much.

Lacking sleep and good humor, my morning increased my discomfort when I discovered that the water, once again, had run out. This has been happening more frequently as of late, but fortunately I have the buckets of brownish water standing by to suffice me until the tinted liquid flows through the pipes again. I managed my morning ritual quickly with the stand-by buckets, grabbed my things, and headed out the door by 7:15 am.

I flagged down a rickshaw and, naturally, two or three stopped to claim my fare. They bartered amongst themselves leaving me to settle on the driver with the best price. Once aboard, I noticed that I had miscalculated the time it would take for me to reach the train station. It was 7:35 at this point and my train left at 7:45. This was my second time on the rail way and my first time alone so I was worried about being on time. I wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of getting on the wrong train at that point.

I hurried along the pathway to the stations, ducked into a queue, and asked the man behind the scratched foggy glass for a round trip ticket in first class to Chengalpet. During my time here, I have learned that service providers will generally give what they think I’m asking for instead of clarifying with me.  So, he gave me a one-way ticket on general boarding and told me the train would leave in two minutes from the left side of the platform. I didn’t have the time or wherewithal to argue so I hurried to find my arriving train.

I reached the crowded platform just as the train was pulling in and hopped onto the ladies’ only cart. I found a seat that wasn’t doused from the recent rains and placed myself by a window. The cart was moderately unoccupied, so I pulled out a book to pass the time until I would meet my coworker, Shega, a few stops later. We were conducting field visits for the day with rural clients to assess their housing situation and design individualized housing construction plans. I was really excited about seeing more of the rural life, taking pictures for the reports and meeting new people.

Breaking my reverie, my phone buzzed loudly in my lap.Shega wanted to confirm that I was on the right train and asked me the most recent stop I had seen. I wasn’t sure because of my daydreaming so she asked if the train was stopping while we were talking. It was, so we both assumed it was the right train. I noticed later that we passed a station that was along the route, so I settled into my seat and continued reading.

My thoughts were jarred with each stop as the cart became more and more packed with women of every sort. There were sellers, students, and professionals in colorful saris and duppattas all cramming further and further into every available space. One woman was practically sitting on my lap while another snoozed beside me. The lady two seats down was complaining loudly to others and pointing towards me because my purse had fallen in her lap earlier. I simply stared out the window, hoping to get off soon. An hour and a half had passed since I first boarded, and I was feeling claustrophobic.

The phone buzzed again, and it was Shega letting me know to de-board the train in two stops. I pushed my way to the door, gripping the handles, while ladies selling cheap goods pushed their way around me. I was at least a head taller than most of the people on the cart: a glaring white woman with oversized sunglasses and messy hair amidst a crowd of gleaming braids, gold jewelry, and bindis. Right before I de-boarded, my phone buzzed again.

“Where are you?” Shega asked.

I stepped onto the platform and looked around at a vaguely familiar site.

“I just stepped off. Where are you?”

“I’m standing on the platform and I don’t see you.”

I looked to my left and noticed a sign that said: Chetpet. I was extremely confused at this point because I live on the border of Chetpet and Nungambakkam at a hostel in WCC. After spending an hour and a half on the train there was no way I should have gotten off at almost the same place I boarded.

Miserably, I replied: “Oh no, Shega. I’m in Chetpet.”

“Chetpet? Spell it.”

“C-H-E-T-P-E-T.”

Matter-of-factly, Shega said: “Heather, you got on the wrong train.”.

Normally, moments like these are laughable. But I just wasn’t feeling capable of humor right then. With a sigh, I hopped off the platform, crossed the rows of rail tracks with the other passengers, and climbed the dilapidated stairs on a bridge to the main road where I hailed a taxi back to WCC. I was extremely frustrated to the point of curses and tears, which I resorted to for a moment once back in my room before I then collapsed on the bed in exhaustion.

Later on, I found out that I could have been largely fined for making a round trip journey, but I thought that was laughable since I never actually de-boarded.  Another person shared that I should always ask at least ten people for direction before following the most reoccurring advice given. It seems outrageous to me, but that’s the way of life here. And so, every day I am learning that my self-sufficiency is counterproductive and will often lead me to board the wrong train. This notion can so easily be taken for a life lesson if I were feeling up to philosophizing about trains that lead nowhere.  Maybe someday I’ll feel creative enough for that. For the moment, I’ll just default to a new phrase I’ve adopted and used with a frequent sigh for situations such as these: 

“That’s India!”