Day Eighteen: Amritsar’s Disaster (I)

Day Eighteen:  January 5, 2012

Our previous unsuccessful attempt to get train tickets to Amritsar which led to a number of traumatized bus rides, I was determined to get AC sleeper train tickets for our next destination: Agra. I vowed to myself: no more buses and no more freezing trains. I pulled my body out of bed at 8am to go to the nearby train station to fulfill my mission.

Mission (im)possible. As Indians always say, “Everything is possible”, so long as you have a will strong enough to move mountains.

J had a few clients to work online with in the morning, so the big mission fell on my shoulders.

After a 10-hour-long sleep, my body felt somewhat intact. But it did not take too long to tumble it again.

I got back from the train station to the hotel at 9:30am, after an hour and half ordeal of reserving tickets. J immediately asked, “How did it go? Do you get tickets?”

I looked at him and marginally managed to utter, “Give me some time to recover first. I have been gone for an hour or so, but I felt like I had been away for a day.”

J gave me a hug. “I can understand that.”

For two hours while he was working, but I seriously had to stay mute to just let my body recover from the trauma in the train station earlier in the day.

After he finished his work, I was somewhat able to detail him what had happened.

“I arrived at the train station of Amritsar at 8am, the time when the reservation office opened. Long lines were forming behind all different ticket booths. I went to the one reserved for ladies and senior citizens. To reserve tickets, I had to fill in a form first, detailing what train, what date, what time as well as the passenger’s permanent address (God knows why they need it), or else the ticket officer won’t even talk to me about reserving a ticket.”

I spoke as if shooting bullets.

“Having had previous experience, I have taken a stack of forms. If one train is full and I want to inquire about the availability of another train, I have to fill in another form with new information (No wonder there are litters everywhere in India). So I have filled a couple of forms with different possible combinations of trains – lining up with other Indians,” I continued.

Lining up in India requires inches thick skin. You have to understand being pushed, shoved, and having people jumping queues in front of you are just normality.

“When I got all forms ready, I dutifully I lined up until it was my turn. I handed the officer the first form, a night train from Amritsar to Agra. The officer clicked a few buttons on his keyboard and said, “Full. Full.” I uttered “Shit” within, and learned that it’s on waiting list. Then I handed in the second form, an express train from Amritsar to Delhi, thinking from Delhi we could get another train to Agra. “Full. Full,” he hollered again.”

Both trains showed a long waiting list. Shit. Shit. Shit.

J was patient enough to endure my moaning and groaning.

Then I remembered there’s a ticket called Takal, or emergency ticket, available 24 hours and less before the train departs. With extra rupees, you could ask for Takal quotas. Our priority train, Amritsar to Agra, is not leaving more than 24 hours, so I thought Takal wouldn’t be applicable. So I asked for Takal ticket for the express train to Delhi. “Full. Full.” My heart dropped half a meter.

Seeing no possibility and with people pressing me towards the counter forcefully, I asked, “Takal for Amritsar to Agra.”

The officer bobbed his head, slowly danced his fingers on the keyboard, and said, “Takal?”

“Yes.”

On the screen, showed, it’s AVAILABLE. 11 seats left – AVAILABLE! I was overjoyed and said yes. “Book. Book. Takal.”

“Passport please.”

“Passport?”

“Yes.”

Normally booking tickets requires no passport. But perhaps Takal is different. Luckily I had my passport with me so I handed him my passport. He flipped here and there and then said, “Photo-copy.”

“Photocopy?”

“Yes. Photocopy. Passport photocopy.”

“Where can I get a photocopy?” I was agitated. You really have no ideas what rules are playing in India. We tried to book tickets before, and never had we been asked to show photocopy of passport.

“Where can I have a photocopy?”

The officer shrugged his shoulders, waved his hands, asking me to leave the line.

I was desperate. There’s a chance to get emergency ticket, but they were asking for the ridiculous xerox copy of my passport. To make sure I could reserve that precious seats (man, I could not handle shitty bus rides anymore and it’s my mission to get train tickets), I ran like a MAD WOMAN out of the reservation office, crossed the f—king long bridge, with my passport in hand, asking any sensible-looking Indians, “Where. Photocopy. Where????????”

People started to point, indicating me to get out of the train station. I followed the direction, worrying that I might not get the copy early enough and the Takal tickets would slip away.

“Photocopy?????” I asked a man at a fruit store. He waved me to the end of the row of stores. I had no idea where the shop was, but tried to run as fast as I could. The nice fruit store owner sent his child running after me, trying to lead me to the photocopy shop.

Finally I got to the photocopy shop. Quickly got my copy. In no time, I darted back to the train station, ran over the foot bridge to the reservation office. The lines were forever long, of course. I was panicking. So I tried the Indian approach – pushing, shoving and jumping queues. Luckily, the people saw the despair in my foreign face – letting me to go to the counter first.

I pushed my photocopy and reservation form to the officer, the same guy I talked to couple minutes ago, and said, “Amritsar to Agra. Takal. Takal.”

The officer nonchalantly keyed in the information.

On the screen, it came the words: waiting list.

My heart dropped a million miles. All the Takal tickets have been taken and now we were back to waiting list. Square One. Ground Zero. I wanted to cry.

With few alternatives left and  a deep horror in buses of India, I had to make a quick decision. “Waiting list. Okay. Book takal tickets.”

The officer printed the tickets and asked for two thousand five hundred rupees. That’s a lot but I had no energy and sanity to ask the break down and details of the fare. I shoved my rupees across the counter. Got the tickets.

“What’s my number on the waiting list?” I asked. The smaller the number, the more likely the tickets will be confirmed.

The officer, once sold me the tickets, decided he didn’t want to have anything to deal with me. He just gave me the tickets and pointed to his left: which meant “Go to ask someone else.”

Hopelessly, I went to the inquiry booth. An Indian woman sat there. I presented her the Takal ticket I just bought and asked, “How likely would this tickets be confirmed? When should I come tomorrow to find out if it’d be confirmed?”

She looked slightly uncomfortable. Looked at my tickets. Looked at her screen. Didn’t know what to do. She went around asking others. Apparently she didn’t really understand me that well.

At long last, she answered, “Waiting list 2 and 3.”

She did not really answer my questions. I tried to ask again, “How likely would this tickets be confirmed? When should I come tomorrow to find out if it’d be confirmed?”

She was mortified. Instead of dealing with me, she said, “Go to booking office.”

My head was about to explode. The booking office is on the other side of the train station. For my exhausted body, it was like miles away. I had no choice but to go.

When I got to the booking office, I held my ticket and repeated my previous questions.

The woman at the inquiry booth of the booking office took a glance at my tickets and said, “Go to reservation office.”

I wanted to scream but I didn’t. I tried to stay calm, “But I just came from the reservation office and they asked me to ask in the booking office.”

“No no. No no. Go to reservation.”

I was exploding. Nobody would tell me how to confirm the tickets and more I would like to know what happened if the tickets didn’t get confirmed and if it’s possible to get a refund. 2500 rupees is quite a bit of money. I dragged my body back to the bridge, walk to the reservation office again.

You are right. Of course, you are right. THEY SENT ME TO THE BOOKING OFFICE.

I could no long deal with these people. I went to the booking office–hopelessly. The day before, we went to a private office and there was a helpful Indian man would was happy to answer questions.

So finally, I decided to go to a private office and hopefully the person was there.

The person was not there, but seeing my despair, an Indian officer was willing to listen to me.

“Good chance. Good chance,” he said.

“If not confirmed. I can refund?”

“Yes. Yes.”

From that point, I felt a little sense of relief.

But God knew if the tickets would be confirmed. God knew if we would indeed get a train ride.

After I detailed the whole drama, J gave me a hug. “You need rest.”

Sure enough. We stayed in the hotel the whole freaking day.

“It’s great to stay inside, to feel I don’t have to deal with the madness outside for a day.”

Finally at 8-ish, we got out and dined at a place called Crystal. When we got back to the hotel, we started to dream about Thailand. Originally we planned to spend 4 days in Phuket at the end of our trip. But the more we had battled in the hustles, the colder we felt in India, the more stress we had accumulated, the more Indian curry we had eaten, the thought of sunbathing, beach, pad thai and resort of Thailand seemed so much more desirable.

We looked at each other, and saw the same gleam in the eyes and read each other’s mind. “Let’s cut Kolkatta and go to Thailand for a week instead.”

Once we started to plan on that, we felt so much better. The thought of a longer Thailand vacation made the whole remaining Indian trip so much easier to handle.

Mind you, we are both rather frugal. We often stick to our plan and won’t want to waste any tickets. So it’s highly unlikely that we would forgo our flight tickets and book new ones. But we both decided, “F—k it, let’s do it. We deserve it.”

You know, once Thailand started to drift in, we were like cherubs flipping our wings. India suddenly dropped a ton or two of weight from our battled and tattered souls.

After the battle at the train station, I came back to the hotel, refused to leave for the whole day and all I managed to do was to eat one cup noodles. I needed it to get away from India, for a bit at least. I needed it to heal.