A letter from the Editor on The Muzaffarpur to Porbander Express.
“This is not a good train”
The polite but concerned man tells our photographer, apart from he’s not our photographer anymore as the shoot is over and that delicate line of “we’re not just friends, we just work together” has been crossed with a few other lines as at the time of writing there’s quite a substantial war going on in the Middle East, shit’s gone real sideways and as a happy result, we’re stuck in India for a week. So, my ex photographer (now ‘friend’) and I have decided to go backpacking around Rajasthan.
Crisis in the Middle East – Premature Crisis of the Middle Life.
I’m sat on the floor of Delhi Old Station. I’m not usually a sitting on the floor kind of guy, I’ve been described as a princess, as a diva, when it comes to travel and I’m fine with that. People say I can’t remember the last time I flew economy over 4 hours and if you have a problem with that, then get better at working out points. But after 8 hours of sitting on the floor of Delhi Airport last night, I’m ok with the floor of Delhi station.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
I’ll level with you, I consider myself fairly well travelled, but I’ve never been to India. And I’m not sure much can prepare you for it. Sure, I watched Slumdog Millionaire at Uni (who didn’t) but the takeaway message was one of hope and empowerment and the Slum Part I sort of brushed over. I should have paid more attention – Everything is loud. Everything is Hot. Everything is Spicy. Everything is different. It’s Chaos on every street Pavement, road, rickshaw, people collide into one shitshow and I absolutely love it.
The 19270 Muzaffarpur to Porbander Express is 3 hours late. 3 hours delay in Europe or the rest of the world would be quite substantial. However the Muzaffarpur to Porbander Express is a bi-weekly service and (wait for it) it takes 3 days. A 3 day long train, marketed as Express. So actually, a 3 hour delay if you are spending 3 days on a train to have lunch with your friends in Porbandar from your hometown of Muzaffarpur is actually quite chilled.
But we’re sadly not visiting friends in Porbrander. We’re only spending a pathetic 9 hours on the train to get to the heart of Rajasthan. But first a word on Indian trains, or more specifically the 19270. Firstly, if you do manage to catch it, as Old Delhi station is the largest station in India, platforms change at will, it’s loud, there ropes everywhere to stop you from falling underneath a train and your train may or may not appear on the departure board. The 19170 is split into 3 classes, first that we can’t find, second where we sit on our own padded mattresses 4 to a 5m2 partitioned off by curtains, and 3rd class which is impossible to describe. We’re advised not to eat any of the food, nor drink any of the water, nor use the bathrooms. Of course we haven’t eaten, don’t have water and already need the bathroom. Our compartment is shared by a young Muslim women who sleeps the entire 9 hours we share with her and an elder Hindu women on the bottom bunks who sits upright, head to toe in bright red traditional dress watching reels on her phone whilst Perly and I share the top two bunks, sharing crisps – the last of our food from Delhi.
The Train bounces its way south. It’s March and it’s really hot. We sleep. We buy Chai from the Chaiwalla. We drink the Chai and smoke cigarettes by the open doors, watching the red embers fly along the tracks like fireflies. We answer the inevitable. “What country are you from?” – “England” – “Ah Cricket – good country”
And the evening draws on.
Eventually we arrive in Ajmer Junction, a 1.30 am dystopian taxi ride takes us to Pushkar, where we diligently fill out Orwellian themed “Registration card for Forongors” at Hotel Kanhaiahaveli.
A simmering red, yellow and orange dawn comes and Pushkar reveals itself.
Legend has it, in Hindu mythology that the creator god Brahma was said to have dropped a lotus flower from the sky, and where its petals touched the earth, water sprang forth and Pushkar lake came to be. Pushkar sits on the edge of the Thar Desert, wrapped around a quiet, sacred lake whose still surface has attracted mystics, merchants, and wanderers for centuries. The town itself is near impossible to put into words. It’s quite unlike anywhere I’ve ever seen. The lake ringed by fifty-two stone bathing ghats (read sets of stone stairs) where pilgrims descend white steps into the water in quiet, deliberate motions, a ritual of bathing and raising hands to the sun.
Narrow lanes thread between ancient temples, white, pink, blue and peach coloured houses all faded to subtle hues by the relentless Rajasthani sun. Wandering cows, revered in Hindu religion mix with monkeys on the streets. Pilgrims circle the lake, pausing at each ghat to offer prayers, flowers, or a handful of water lifted to the searing sun. The atmosphere is serene, devotional, the soundtrack is chanting, bells toll softly. We are enchanted.
But once a year, the desert erupts in a riot of colour. Our last day in Puskhar is marked by Holi Fest. The pre-eminent celebration in the Hindu festival and we are quite literally “there for it”. There’s long and winding and beautiful folklore as to the origins of Holi fest but the headline act, the exec summary is that for over millennium Hindus have celebrated spring for a smorgasbord of reasons and taken to the streets to throw paint over each other in every colour under the sun; but in 2026 to the soundtrack of deep Indian EDM. Everyone is covered in Paint, everyone is smearing paint on each other and my shoes are ruined in seconds. Neon pinks, radioactive blues, violent yellows. Powered pigment flies everywhere, sold in every colour under the sun in bags of 20 Rupiah donkey drawn carts by street sellers . We buy “Bhang”, narcotic enfused Lassi (yoghurt) , we decide they don’t work. We drink three of them anyway.
We leave. Trains are booked to Jaipur. Colours are cleaned from clothes. Three days later, finishing this article on a flight to Vancouver (look at us fucking go) I still have paint in my ears and hair.
We’re onto our 5th beer in the Polo bar in Jaipur. We’re here to meet Kaku, the Jeweller of Jaipur (a story for another time) but he’s running 2 hours late. India are beating England at the T20 Cricket on the screen in the world cup in Mumbai. I couldn’t care less. England never win anyway. A text from my Travel Agent comes through, “There’s one seat to Vancouver tomorrow”. I wearily text back, duty calls. We check the IRCTC website for booking trains, it’s the digital equivalent of the crystal maze and not for the faint hearted. There’s a train the next morning to Delhi. We board.
Delhi beckons. Flights onwards to Seoul and Vancouver. But the 19270 and Rajasthan stay with us.
