In Gorakpur I bought a ticket on a train for Lucknow, and another ticket for a sleeper from Lucknow through to Agra. That was the plan, but it didn't quite happen exactly like that. I had no seat number for the Lucknow bound train so I stumbled around a few carriages before finding some space to put my bags and myself and settled in with my newspaper. The man next to me was extremely friendly, asking a few questions and telling me a little of himself. Today was his four-year wedding anniversary so he was heading home to see his wife after working out of town for a few weeks. As we talked he bought me chai and masala flavoured potato chips and I noticed that many other people were listening to our conversations and smiling a lot when I looked over at them. Although I really wanted to either read the newspaper or lie down and take a rest the hospitality shown to me was heard to refuse so I sat and passed the time before the man got off about 3 hours outside of Gorakpur. No sooner had he vacated the seat next to me than it was filled again with one of the smiling faces from the carriage. Ravi was some kind of government worker with a slew of friends in tow, each crowding around to hear what I had to say. Ravi was very curious fellow but his questions didn't follow much of a pattern. "What is your country? Who is your favourite Indian actor? Should Ganguly be dropped from the Indian cricket team? What is your e-mail address? What was your mothers name before she married your father?"
For the next three hours Ravi bombarded me with question after question. I had no peace with him around except for the brief periods when he would go to the bathroom or do something elsewhere in the carriage. He got off a little before Lucknow but again was quickly replaced with one of his friends.
"You are very handsome and very strong. Where will you take dinner tonight?" the new man said sliding his hand on to my leg and inching closer.
"I don't know where I will take dinner tonight." I said nervously.
"You will take dinner with me. Take your bags, we will get off at the next station."
"Oh, I'm not very hungry, thanks though."
I had a tough time getting rid of this one. I didn't catch his name and didn't really care too much. By this time I had been travelling for 24 hours with no sleep and I didn't feel like chatting about nothing again. All I really wanted to do was sit on my own and relax in peace. Finally I got off at Lucknow and fumbled around the station looking for my next train. Of all people to ask I approached the chai seller from the train and asked him where to catch the train to Agra. He said that the train I was already on goes through Agra so just stay put and he will bring me more tea. So I did. I stayed on the train knowing full well that the ticket in my hand was for the Marudhar Express leaving at 11.55pm - it was only 9pm now. Luckily the train had emptied so I found a free upper berth sleeper and chained by bags to the railing and drifted off to sleep. At about 3am the ticket officer came through to check the tickets and he didn't seem to care that I was on the wrong train. I must of looked pretty pathetic sleeping on my bag with my alarm clock set to wake me at 5am in time for the arrival into Agra Fort station. I was prepared to bribe him should he make a fuss but it never came to that. I was confused as to why the ticket attendant in Gorakpur didn't sell me a ticket on the direct train - there was plenty of room, by Indian standards. But then again, this is India and often things are not meant to make sense.
At Agra Fort Station I bought a newspaper that I pretended to read in order to distract the attention of the relentless wave of rickshaw wallahs before finally catching a ride to one of the recommended guesthouses between the Taj Mahal and the Fort. I planned to walk but I relented because I was so tired. The first thing I did when I got inside my room was close the door, lean on the back of it and look around wide-eyed. Alone again. It was 6.20am. It took me 36 hours to get here from Kathmandu and I needed to sleep.
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