Meals on Wheels

Seven months ago when I learned of Simran’s (Roopa’s daughter) engagement, my Mom capitalized on the wedding invite to make her first journey to India, a journey she had looked forward to for many years. After I returned from my travels in July 2006, her Virgoness commenced a research campaign that would put even the best travel analysts to shame.

“Shall we fly in to Delhi or Bombay? Go early before the wedding or stay later? Where should we stay? Want to book airline tickets?” were a few of the pressing questions on her mind. But just getting used to my own bed again and suitcase still sitting on my bedroom floor, I was not quite ready for “the Mom” full court press.

True to form though, my inaction would not dissuade her from moving forward with travel planning. Sometime in late August I got the call, “Palace on Wheels had a cancellation. Ordinarily they are booked a year or more in advance. We can go one week before the wedding. The timing will work out perfectly.”

If you believe in signs or things happen as they should, then this surely was a sign. Palace on Wheels (POW), afterall, was one of the 1,000 places to see before you die. While I didn’t plan on dying soon, I didn’t know when the planets would align again to make a trip through the colorful cities of the state of Rajasthan via train.

The POW is a luxury train that stops at the hot spots of Rajasthan. In a whirlwind tour of 7 days, the train travels thousands of kilometers, many of them at night while, theoretically at least, passengers snooze under comfy duvets in their cabin suites. By car, the POW route would surely be a test of nerve and back bone, not to mention it would take many more days.

Arriving at the train station to find our mobile home for the next week, most of the 104 passengers were seated, listening to a three man band play traditional Indian music on an elevated platform draped in orange cloth. Scanning the crowd, it was immediately apparent that the POW was not on the youth hostel circuit, one because some people brought enough luggage to cross the Atlantic on a schooner, and two because there were few actual “youths” in the waiting area.

An “Amazing Race” sentiment filled the air as the strangers on the train platform took in the faces of their new soon to be train comrades. Whose team would we be on? With whom would we share a train car? Were there alliances to be formed? Eye beams crossed like an infrared pattern at Fort Knox.

When the registration cart opened, the race was on. Members of the quietly seated crowd stood from their seats and moved in to claim their boarding cards. More than a kilometer long, including dining cars, lounge car, staff car and engine, the train was a cruise ship on wheels. And like boarding a cruise ship, the orchestration of luggage and locating cabins was equally chaotic.

Kishangarh was the name of our train carriage. My Mom and I were assigned Cabin No. 1 of four total in the car. Boarding Kishangarh, we were greeted by two moustached men dressed in colorful head dress and traditional Indian kurtas. Girdher, around 55 years old, was to be our chief cabin attendant for the duration. He was the senior staff member on the train in his 24th year of service and did double duty as head of one of the dining cars. Om Prakash, in his mid-thirties, was our assistant cabin attendant, serving on the POW for the past 11 years. Both men worked three or four weeks straight and then received one week off for nine months of the year. During the remaining months (monsoon season), they worked in five star hotels in various capacities.(Left to right: Om Prakash and Girdher)

Sliding the door to our cabin open, Girdher gave us the tour of the 10x12 shiny wood paneled room with ruby red carpet occupying the little floor space that was not covered by the beds. Red and gold drapes adorned two large windows next to my Mom’s bed. The adjoining bathroom was 2x4 and contained a shower with enough hot water for a 7 minute shower. Actually converted from an older steam train, the POW’s amenities exceed 99% of other trains in India, however, the train had seen grander days since its first year of service in 1982. These days the POW relies more on 24 hour service for its reputation than its plush accommodations.

Before leaving the New Delhi Cantonment station, the passengers in Kishangarh were asked to meet in the car’s lounge, a 4 x 6 area with three small couches and folding tables where breakfast was served each morning. Two couples from Wisconsin and one couple from Philadelphia were to be our breakfast crew each morning. Out of the eight people in the car, four were lawyers. If there was ever time to start getting rid of the lawyers, a convenient train derailment or food poisoning incident would take down four in one shot.

Despite the 24 hour kitchen on board, six of the seven nights, dinner was served in an early (7 p.m.) and a late (8:30 p.m.) seating. Still a bit jet lagged from our flights, my Mom and I elected the early seating for our first night. Having heard mixed reviews on the food and wanting to maintain our good health, we were particularly cautious when the pre-set menu began parading through the swinging kitchen doors. Continental, Chinese and Indian, seafood, chicken, lamb or veg, the POW kitchen made it all. And unfortunately for our waist lines, all of it was superb.

Our first night in the cabin post dinner, my stomach was stuffed with daal, basmati rice, assorted vegetables and tasty naan. In the tight quarters of the cabin, there was little to do, but lie on the bed as the train rocked back and forth. Getting ready for bed required my Mom and I to move around the cabin, astronaut style. One person moves down the aisle between the beds while the other docked to the bed or hovered in the bathroom. The advantage we had over the astronauts was that one of us could wait outside the cabin while the other prepped for sheep counting.

“It’s going to be great sleeping on the train, like a sailboat,” my Mom had repeated many times throughout the day. Having slept on two trains, once in India and once in Vietnam, I was not convinced. When the time for sleep arrived, I set up the pillows as close to my pillow configuration at home for maximum comfort. The train jolted back and forth, swinging from side to side, train horns whistled in my ear as other trains passed and the tracks below used wheel to track contact to mimic the sound of fingernails dragging down a chalkboard. For the light sleeper, this was the equivalent to sleeping in Penn Station during a 9.8 earthquake.

As I prepared to trick myself to sleep by reading, I glanced over at my Mom, iPod headphones in her ears, covers up to her chin and far far away in dreamland. This was a familiar position for me, always the last to fall asleep. And for some reason when someone else is getting the best sleep of their lives, it makes it harder for me to fall asleep. It’s like I already lost the race so why try. Plus it only gets more frustrating as I know that person will probably get up early and inevitably I will wake up just when I hit my early morning stride behind closed eyelids.
(Camelback in Jaisalmer)

Eventually with the help of Ambien, my new best friend for the week, I did fall asleep, but with a strict touring schedule for the upcoming week, there was little time for the late riser to get those much needed zzzzzzs. Our first morning on the train we were up at 6 a.m. for a 6:30 breakfast and a 7 a.m. bus boarding. This would be the general routine for the week. Eat most meals on the train, board a bus in the morning at our new destination and sleep while the train pulls or pushes us to the next destination overnight.

By day 2, the familiar schedule and tasty carb loaded cuisine was leaving many feeling like veal in preparation. Without a gym on the train and with the train, buses, elephants and camels doing all the leg work, none of us were getting much needed cardio. This was an anti-Atkins train.

(Right: Palace of the Winds built in 1799 by a Maharaj).

The seven day itinerary stopped at key tourist spots with a camel ride across the dunes of the desert city Jaisalmer, an elephant ride in the pink city of Jaipur, a tiger safari in Ranthambore National Park, walking up the steps of an unconquered 500 year old fort in the blue city of Jodhpur, boating around the Lake Palace in Udaipur and making a final stop in Agra, home to the Taj Mahal. There were hundreds of years of war torn history at most stations, involving a fort that was captured by Moghul armies or a palace where Maharajs (akin to governors of states in the area of Hindustan (pre-India)) once lived with several hundred, or in one case, more than a thousand wives.

Between the guide’s accents and sometimes monotone or lifeless delivery, most of the specifics of each Maharaj, conqueror, fort or palace escaped my memory banks. My mind was a cup that ran way over with new information. Instead, I soaked in India through my pores, somewhat voluntarily and somewhat not. Sights, sounds and smells constantly find their way to your senses in India, whether it be three dogs cleaning the carcass of a cow laying railside or the fresh curry smell wafting from a local restaurant or the sounds of the second national language in India, the horn.

Over the course of the week, the POW passengers moved from strangers to acquaintances and new friends. Eating, drinking and sightseeing together, names, addresses and e-mails were exchanged as the tour came to a close. At 7:30 a.m. we "de-trained" and the POW moved to tracks nearby for its weekly cleaning in preparation for picking up a new load seven hours later.
(Backside of the Taj at dusk).