The Rajdhani Express to Goa

12 February, 2130
Indian trains are not built for comfort; but, at just over a pound for a three hour journey, who's complaining?

I arrive at Ernakulum station at 1930 local time, having completed the first leg of my 15-hour train trip to Goa. Next is the overnight Rajdhani Express, third class A/C. I have to confess to a tinge of disappointment not to be travelling first class (or even second), due to the fact that all the tickets have been sold. In fact, I only made third class by booking Tatkal - emergency ticketing - at second class prices. Hmmm.

Elaine, my new Welsh friend in Mavelikara, had filled my head with talk of pillows, hot water and crisp white cotton bedding: the glories of first class Indian rail travel. Apparently, the facilities decline and the numbers go up the further down the funicular food chain you go. Just hope I don't end up sharing a bed with a nutter/groper/Jehovah's Witness.

Ernakulum station is impressively large, with clear information and staff who speak English. Given that my Malayalam currently runs to 'see you later' and the names of colours and jungle animals (courtesy of colouring in time at Jyothis), this is a distinct advantage. I'm booked to travel middle berth 10, carriage B4 which, the helpful notice board informs me, is 13th after the engine. Bet I miss it and have to drag my enormous pink flowery suitcase the entire length of the train.

Arriving at Ernakulum, I decide to check said suitcase into the cloakroom and find somewhere to have supper. Check in (10 rupees for up to 24 hours - bargain!) is handled by Kerala's answer to French and Saunders. Having quizzed me on my name, address, marital status, father's inside leg measurement, the larger of the two (let's call her French) slaps an oversized bindi between my reluctant eyebrows and informs me that, at the grand old age of 39, she isn't married either. In a country where, if you're not hitched by 25 you're over the hill, I'm tempted to leap across the counter and embrace her into the sisterhood. But content myself with a firm handshake instead.

Saunders, meanwhile, has been subjecting my passport photo to intense scrutiny. "You look very different now", she accuses me. I know, I say: I'm nearly 10 years older. You tend to go downhill in the looks department after all that time. "No!" she says, firmly. "You are too black in this picture. Now you are white and much more beautiful." I look at the nice, tanned pic in the pink passport holder, mentally review my current pallid, hair scraped back, sore throated self, and wonder again at Indian concepts of beauty.

13 February, 0830
Very impressed with the Rajdhani Express. It arrived promptly at 2235, and carriage B4 was indeed 13th after the engine, with my little berth ready and waiting for me, and blessedly free of Jehovah's Witnesses and other pests. All I had to do was pull it out from the wall and make it up with the clean sheets provided in a neat brown paper bag. Pillow and towel followed, then a briskly efficient guard coming round to take breakfast orders.

Can't claim to have slept brilliantly, partly due to fears that I would fall out of my narrow bunk and land on the sleeping Indian below (this didn't happen); but a great experience. I lay under my clean sheet in the cool carriage, Jeeves and Wooster on the Walkman, feeling the rhythm of the train as it thundered its way through the south Indian countryside.

Breakfast next morning comprised mango juice (a pleasant surprise), two slices of brown bread and butter (ditto) and the ubiquitous deep fried brown stuff (somewhat less exciting). Then, before I know it, we're arriving in Margao station in Goa, and Tris and Mike are just a short taxi ride away.