Day 2 & 3: Delhi, Amritsar and the Art of Silly Walks

Bollocks

6.10am

Goddamn. Bastard. Phone. Alarm. Cheap Pile of-

It’s the morning of Day 3. I’ve got half an hour. 30 minutes to cross Parhaganj to catch the 6.40am train to Amritsar. Its going to be close.

Very close…

Day 2 started conveniently enough. After a much needed sleep, it was onto some basic housekeeping. Indian Sim Card – check. Indian Internet Dongle – check.

Thought long and hard about it and decided that before Agra and the Taj Mahal I would go up north to see the Golden Temple of Amritsar (Sikhism’s Mecca and the resting place of its Holy Book), and the border ceremony at Wagah.

So… ticket to Amritsar – check. This travelling lark’s a doddle.

This would mean a return to Delhi on the weekend, and the Rugby Sevens on Monday – for which I left the purchase of my ticket in the hands of reliable, sauntering Dash.

So efficient was I that I veritably breezed over to the national stadium (albeit with a lot of pushing and shoving on the Metro) to catch fellow brummie Mark Lewis Francis claim silver in the Athletics – well done my boy. Met a guy called Chris, who regaled me with stories about being in South Africa for the World Cup, Portugal for Euro 2004,  Australia for the whitewash Ashes…

…so I told him about the time when me Tom and Si got beaten up by Blues fans before a game against Ipswich. May have been best to keep my mouth shut.

So, a bite to eat methought, where I risked meat for the first time. Take note: what we regard as a ‘cutlet’ is not what India regards it as, unless pummelling meat into a patty, deep frying it till cardboard would melt in the mouth quicker is your idea of a cutlet. Think I dodged a bullet there.

And so to beddy bumbles, and the promise of another day….

Day 3

Bollocks

6.10

Goddamn. Basta- well lets skip to the end.

I made it. Just. After legging it with my 20 kilo rucksack for 15minutes. And onto my first Indian train journey.

It was an experience that seemed to epitomize what India’s like in my short time getting to know her.

After crossing 14 heaving platforms to get to mine, I was faced with a train as long as the M6.

Slight exaggeration. The M54 then.

Looking at my ticket it read ‘Coach D3’. I looked on the coaches for some direction.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I got on and decided to just plonk myself wherever. After all, that’s what everyone else was going to do. Right?

I barged my way from packed coach to packed coach, squeezing my huge rucksack through unmoving crowds of ambivalent watchers, dripping with sweat and mouth parched (pharoah’s sock an all that), and found the first spare seat I could find.

It was only then the true consequences of my late wake up call dawned on me. I was about to embark on an 8 hour journey through the Punjabi heat with no water, no food, and the same clothes I wore the day before (needless to say I hadn’t even showered).

That’s when my berth partner (that’s berth with an E), came to my rescue. Davindra and his family were travelling north to Patiala, and starting chatting to me, where I felt it necessary to explain away my frayed appearance. Taking pity on me, he bought Chai tea from the vendors (I wasn’t being tight but having only 500 rupee notes to pay is like calling the vendors mother a lady of the night), and fed me noodles from his families packed lunch.

It was an incredibly generous and heartwarming gesture. He even dealt with the arsey Conductor (apparently you don’t just plonk yourself anywhere – at least not from Delhi).

Amid the chaos that is the Indian transport system, I was made to suddenly feel and home, comfortable and safe. As I said a little like India – crazy, disorganized… warm and unashamedly friendly

The train chugged its way north, a characterless, barren landscape offering no respite, with platforms of local towns emerging from rivers of litter and sewage. We were visited by blind singers, limbless children, dancing girls and clapping eunuchs with aim to separate us from our rattling rupees. All it needed was Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan and we'd have had TV gold.

At half 2, we rocked up to Amritsar. I had said goodbye to Davindra and family – and a couple of other friends I’d made (I have a list of Bollywood films I need to watch, and homes to stay in on my travels – not a bad return) and ventured into the cauldron that is Amrtisar.

It was carnage – it made Delhi look like Dibley. I convinced a rickshaw driver to take me to the Lucky Hotel for 30 rupees. Thing is his rickshaw wasn’t motorized. It was pedal power.

And pedaling my fat ass, my 20 kilo rucksack and guitar up a hill quickly became a problem. So I did what any demanding customer would do in that situation… I got out and pushed. That was money well spent.

Arrived at Hotel and went straight out to buy the water reserves of the Punjab to calm my dry throat, where I bumped straight into a guy offering a shared taxi service to the border ceremony at Wagah. Perfect timing.

‘How long have I got?’ (needed shower and food remember)

‘Half an hour.’

What is about today and bloody half an hour!!!!!

Soon enough me – and 8 others – were crammed into a taxi (don’t ask) and headed to Wagah – the border between India and Pakistan, 30km away from Amritsar.

Wagah is only official border between the 2 countries, and seemingly the only place where relations are actually cordial. In fact, they’re rather celebratory. At sunrise, with the raising of the flags, and at sunset when they come down, both sides of the border perform an elaborate, silly but incredibly charming ceremony. Goosestepping towards each other a la John Cleese Silly Walk (how they don’t regularly suffer pulled muscles is anyone’s guess) they face off against each other before opening the gates and shaking hands.

This is all done to the backdrop of thousands of Indians and Pakistani’s on their respective sides – many who have travelled hundreds of miles – shouting, singing and dancing, trying to out-celebrate their opposing country.

Imagine the dance off in Grease.

It was remarkable – and one of the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen, and all set against a cloudless sunset.

Smiling to myself after what I’d witnessed, we all headed back amidst the throng of traffic. It reminded me of Glastonbury – people still celebrating in their cars, music blaring out…

…actually scrap that. These people didn’t look beaten and weren’t crying for their mummies – nothing like closing time at Glastonbury then.

Getting back to Amritsar, I ended the evening walking round the stunning Golden Temple, wearing my little turban (its in the rules). A gold plated temple, lit up at night and floating on water – it’s as good as it sounds.

And after another Veg Thali (me and meat need to have words), bed.

Thing is, I’ve sussed out the formula to this country I think. Oh, and there is one.

Basically India takes you to the end of your tether with its shambolic infrastructure, tolerance of absolute, unhinged chaos… only to take your breath away in a second.

Patience really is a virtue.

Now it’s about putting this formula to the test.

Game on.