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Light poured in through the glass roof of London’s King’s Cross Train Station as I headed towards a status monitor. Porters weren’t trying to run me over, I didn’t have to step gingerly between passengers sleeping on the floor, there was no scent of human waste wafting in the air from the tracks. And yet the station evoked a strong sense of the Indian Railways.
It was when I looked up at the giant screen near the front of the station that I understood why: it was the roof. The glass panels echoed Chennai’s Central Station, a building that dated back to the height of the Raj. I smiled at the similarity, and looked at the status monitor:
Departure Time: 12.30pm
Destination: Edinburgh
Status: CANCELLED
No, that couldn’t be right. I walked to the other end of King’s Cross in search of a second opinion, past an excited throng awaiting their turn for a picture with a trolley smashed against a brick wall under a Platform 9 ¾ sign. I found another monitor just past this group:
Departure Time: 12.30pm
Destination: Edinburgh
Status: CANCELLED
I stared at the ticket in my hands — a ticket spewed out by an automated machine barely five minutes earlier, a ticket that promised a comfy reserved seat aboard Coach 22 of the 12.30 express to Edinburgh. How did I get a ticket to a train that was to be immediately cancelled?
I spent half-an-hour in line at the ticket counter to get my answer, amidst a group far more sombre than the one I’d left on Platform 9 ¾. “Take the 1 p.m. train,” said the man behind the desk. “Next.”
“Can I get a reserved seat?”
“No. Look around for a seat without a card on it.”
I walked back to the giant screen at the front entrance, my thoughts preoccupied with how ordinary King’s Cross looked compared to the image conjured by J.K. Rowling’s prose. On my way, I spotted another similarity with India: the logo of the London Underground is a close cousin of the railway station signs from India.
If you are a Mumbaikar looking at the London Underground sign, you may experience a phantom sensation of claustrophobia. | Wikimedia Commons
Huddled below the giant screen was a restless crowd. The 1 o’clock express hadn’t been assigned a platform yet. I passed the time by counting people not attired in black, white, or grey — the unofficial national uniform of the English. When I got to five, I knew considerable time must have passed and turned back to the screen.
Current Time: 12.56pm
Departure Time: 1.00pm
Status: On Time
Platform: -
Still no platform! There was no way this train would be on time. My rucksack tugged relentlessly at my shoulders. Mirroring my frustration, a woman behind me got into a row with her friend; they went on and on about how much money they may or may not have owed each other. I moved closer, admiring the way the Brits use their language to cutting effect when their tempers flare.
A sigh went around the group clustered around the screen. I looked back up at the board.
Current Time: 12.59pm
Departure Time: 1.00pm
Status: On Time
Platform: 0
When I looked back down, I wasn’t surrounded by a crowd anymore. I hurried behind Fighting Woman, pushing and shoving my way towards the turnstiles. I could not make much headway, being pushed and shoved in return by those around me, the characteristic dignity of Londoners extinguished by an bestial desire to board a train.
And there it was, a resemblance that surpassed all I had seen before, transcending mere physical replicas to recreate a spirit that I would have guessed past London’s ability: the sights and sounds were unmistakably reminiscent of the mad scramble for the Unreserved Compartment back home. It turns out the chaos on the Indian Railways is yet another lasting vestige of the Raj.
But this was no time for deep thoughts. Rushing aboard the last compartment, I moved quickly up the aisle until I was met by a wall of humanity heading in the opposite direction. Left with no standing room, some of us took whatever empty seats we could find, hoping their owners wouldn’t show up to boot us out. A camaraderie of sorts built up among us squatters; we clucked sympathetically and gave each other wry smiles as we lost our seats one by one. I caught the eye of another recently evicted traveller, and asked her how often this happened on British trains.
“All the time,” she smiled.
And so, I was on my feet for the next hour-and-a-half on what I’m sure was a picturesque journey through the English countryside. The Indian Railways has left me stranded many times before, but I do have to say it’s never made me stand. I got well-acquainted with the elbow of the American ahead of me, for it had a tendency to jerk unexpectedly right into my stomach. My rucksack stayed loyally glued to my back and, I swear, gained a few kilos over time.
Finally, at Peterborough, a large contingent of shoppers disembarked and left behind a few empty seats for the rest of us. One of the passengers who departed was a portly gentleman who sat next to where I stood. He’d been one of the lucky few on that journey, finding himself a seat whose real occupant never materialised. His punishment was to be whacked on the side of the head a few times by my over-sized backpack as the train (and I) took a few unexpected turns. He was a polite man and insisted on offering his seat to those around him.
When I declined his offer, he made what he thought was a clinching argument: “But you haven’t travelled on a British train before, have you?” Everyone around us laughed; it had been his most brazen attempt yet at cooking up an excuse to give his seat away.
“In a way,” I smiled, “I have. Many times.”
