Imagining India Part 4: At a Police Station in Agra

Setting the Scene

RIP, Red Bag.

Before discussing this peculiar experience, it may be appropriate to provide some background to it. My bag, which contained valued and valuable personal possessions like my four-year-old iPod, my beloved fountain pen, my netbook (my faithful travel companion) and my camera, was stolen from our train carriage during our overnight train ride from Varanasi to Agra. Losing the latter two was especially painful. My photographs taken in India over nine days were all lost and the drafts of my blog posts (I was almost ready to publish them, having made good progress during the train ride prior to going to sleep) had also disappeared. The policemen on the train, armed with dated rifles and authoritative demeanours, could do nothing about the theft except to reprimand our carriage's steward who was caught sleeping in what looked like a massive storage cupboard. They could only advise me to report the incident to the police station at Agra Fort when we arrived at the station. A torrid few hours were to pass before we reached Agra Fort. Still pretty shell-shocked, I managed to return to sleep, only to dream that my bag was returned to me.

At the Station


The station reminded me of the familiar sheriff’s office one finds in most Western films. There was actually a cell in it, with two inmates peering out at us through the bars. As Kenneth and I took a seat at the desk, a door behind the desk opened to a room and from there, the station inspector began to address us. His muffled speech and red eyes, coupled with the fact that he was still comfortably tucked into his sleeping bag, betrayed the fact that he had only just woken up. He had clearly been on the night shift. His speech initially carried with it a thick, weary accent and his words proved extremely difficult for me to pick up, adding to the frustration of having lost my bag. It didn’t help that he remained relatively far away from us, in another room altogether, and I was astounded at the fact that an officer could conduct his duties in such a casual manner. His sternness, however, ensured that I kept my annoyance in check. I could ill afford to mess around with him when I desperately needed documentation for my loss. I was thankful that Kenneth was able to understand him better than I did and for a while, he took on the role of a translator. The station inspector asked the expected questions about how and when the bag was stolen and enquired about the bag’s contents. When he finally squirmed out of his sleeping bag, he took a seat behind the desk and, from the desk drawer, pulled out a piece of plain paper and placed it on the desk, in front of me. He instructed me to write, using block letters, about the circumstances under which my bag was stolen. From the very first line, however, he began correcting my English! Perfectly grammatical (I don’t mean to sound conceited here) sentences were changed at his insistence. For instance, he insisted that I wrote ‘in Marudhar Express’ rather than ‘on the Marudhar Express’. We attributed this to the fact that he clearly fancied himself to be a relatively proficient second language speaker of English while we were dismissed as ones who spoke it as a foreign language. In a way, we were proven right when, later on, he was to ask if Singapore was governed by China. He arbitrarily made me cancel certain parts of the write-up and these changes ensured that the entire story was altered and that the document, when read as a whole, did not make sense at certain segments. The funny thing was that he didn’t seem to be aware of this at all! If our Ministry of Education had seen me write like that, it would certainly have revoked my scholarship. He read through my written draft – I had merely been a scribe as he, more or less, dictated the entire narrative – and proceeded to personally pen another draft, making further revisions which caused Kenneth and I to exchange bemused glances at each other. When he concluded with ‘So please do the need full action’, I felt something inside of me die.

The Draft

A well-groomed man in plain clothes of about sixty entered the scene and sat down next to the station inspector. He took the latest draft and began scrutinising it. I thought to myself, ‘He must be the inspector heading the station.' With an approving nod, he handed the draft over to another younger police officer who was the station’s scribe. Expecting the report to be type-written, I was surprised to see this younger officer write the entire report out by hand, utilising multiple carbon copy sheets, penning letter by letter at a tortoise-like pace which seemed to make the entire world slow down. I had never felt more appreciative of Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press. Impatient as I already was, I was horrified to see a cup of hot chai (tea) served to him. Dropping his pen, he proceeded to cautiously savour the steaming milk tea, taking the tiniest sips while conversing with the man in plain clothes. As Xue Wei trenchantly observed, ‘in India, the whole world stops for a cup of chai’. I then understood why Kenneth’s friend had taken a whopping six hours to file a report for a stolen laptop when she was in India. As we awaited the end of this interminable process, our precious time in Agra placed at the mercy of the younger officer’s meticulousness, the police station came to life.

Leo, Anna and Xue Wei, who had been seated near the entrance, were forced to move closer to us when a small cabinet behind them began to shake mysteriously, as if there was something inside wanting to get out. The older man, whom we thought was the head of the station, began conversing with Anna. He spoke fluent English and asked about our travels. He began reading the ladies’ palms and quite accurately guessed the number of guys with whom they had gone out with. Apparently, he had studied astrology. He was particularly fond of Anna, saying that she reminded him of his own daughter and exchanged jokes with her, some of which evoked awkward laughter from the few of us. We were to find out that he wasn’t actually the chief of the station. In fact, he wasn’t even a police officer, but served as an interpreter for that station (how on earth did he approve the draft?).

The interpreter with Anna

The station inspector, who reappeared at the desk looking fresher and more ebullient, also began conversing with us in an informal capacity. We had to patiently explain Singapore’s status as a sovereign state and that we were nowhere near to China. An expression of incredulity was conspicuously etched on the station inspector’s face when we indicated to him that our language of administration was English. His earlier solemnity all but disappeared when he began speaking with us in light-hearted tones. He was fascinated by our electronic gadgets and fidgeted with Kenneth’s DSLR camera. ‘This. How much?’ he queried, as we proceeded to do the tedious math. He moved on to my mobile phone, handling it with a mixture of amusement and amazement. ‘This,’ he asked again, ‘how much?’ To Kenneth’s delight, the station inspector also complimented his bag, opining that it was ‘elegant’. He began to interact with us on a more personal level, asking about our professions and he even appeared to snigger when Kenneth told him his age. He even accused poor Leo, who was recovering from a flu, of suffering from 'slowness'.

When the hand-written report was finally complete (it felt as if one could finish watching Gone with the Wind while waiting), embellished with neatly-written Hindi on the sides and a stamp from the police station, we warmly thanked the officers and proceeded to depart the station. However, we were stopped from taking our leave. They had ordered chai for us! A teenaged boy walked into the station with small, plastic cups of hot chai and we were invited to enjoy the tea with our ‘hosts’ before leaving. At that point, a strong sense of bewilderment overwhelmed me. How on earth did the solemn and usually mundane practice of making a police report turn out to be like a scene in a Bollywood film? Reminded that in India, ‘everything is possible’, I gave up thinking in such terms and embraced the experience for what it was. At the end of it, Anna remarked, ‘At least you are laughing again.’ A seemingly routine task (we should have realised from experience that, in India, nothing's allowed to be routine) turned out to be one of the most indelible episodes in my travel history. It is only in India where visiting a little police station at Agra Fort Train Station can leave as deep an impression on you as watching the sunrise at the magnificent Taj Mahal does. It was such a queer experience that Kenneth suggested that we take a photograph with the policemen to commemorate the moment. After initial reluctance on the station inspector's part (he felt that he needed a shave), he and the interpreter acceded to our request.

With the Station Inspector and the Interpreter

After the time we spent at the police station, the interpreter walked us out of the train station to get a taxi to take us to our accommodation. On the way out, I noticed a sign hanging prominently near the train station's entrance. On it were the words 'Incredible India', the name of an international marketing campaign by India's government to promote tourism in the country to the global audience. After our experiences in the country (and most recently, at the police station), I couldn't help but think that no other adjective could more honestly and accurately describe India. The place was truly incredible, beyond anything one could imagine. Perhaps, it was quite appropriate that the book I brought along for the trip, Nandan Nilekani's Imagining India, was stolen together with the other items in my bag. The theft seemed to symbolically teach me that it was simply pointless trying to imagine India. If the country could be likened to a lady, it would be the one described in Billy Joel's 'She's Always a Woman':

She's frequently kind and she's suddenly cruel
She can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool
And she can't be convicted, she's earned her degree
And the most she will do is throw shadows at you,
But she's always a woman to me.

India is who she is. One could do worse than to, upon taking the first step out of the airplane, jettison all preconceptions and expectations and to, simply, embrace her as the unsolvable mystery that she is.

Imagining India Part 3: Strangers on a Train

To get to Varanasi from Darjeeling, we had to take a jeep ride back to Siliguri to catch a train to the holy city. Anticipating a strike, we had to leave our guesthouse at four in the morning. The ride to Siliguri was going to take a mere two hours or so and we were going to arrive several hours before our 10.25am train. To our astonishment (after a relatively smooth-sailing time in Darjeeling, we'd forgotten that anything and everything is possible in India), we were told that our train to Varanasi was delayed by a horrific twenty hours!  Thankfully, the train which was supposed to leave previous day was also delayed by twenty hours and fortunately, we had arrived early enough to catch it, purchasing unreserved tickets and praying hard for seating availability in our preferred section. Again, an aspect of our train travel proved to be beyond our control.

Waiting patiently at the platform for the delayed delayed train (yes, the already twenty-hour late fella was delayed by a further half an hour), I was presented with the opportunity to observe the myriad purposes of the railway track extending beyond the mere facilitation of train travel. I shall list three of them here. Firstly, the tracks were used as a sink. Early morning teeth-brushing and gargling were done at the edge of the platform. Toothpaste and water used for rinsing were spat into the tracks. The railway tracks also served as a public toilet (we realised that Leo didn't actually have to leave our platform to search for one). We noticed a teenage boy nonchalantly taking a leak directly into the track area from the edge of the platform, probably comfortable with the knowledge that there wasn't another platform facing ours. The track area was also a scavenging ground. A boy jumped into the tracks and combed the area for items which he picked and placed into a bag slung loosely across his shoulders. We also noticed a black goat snacking from the tracks, munching on a variety of 'foodstuffs' ranging from banana peel to white, gooey objects which may have been former fruits. Recalling the first two aforementioned purposes of the tracks made the scavenging activities slightly disturbing sights.

As our train arrived, we ran alongside it, prayerfully looking out for the train conductor. Interestingly, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Mahatma Gandhi, only fully-clothed and with more hair. We were relieved to hear that there was availability on the 3AC (Third Class, Air-Conditioning) carriage although we were not seated together. I've always found train rides to be soothing but mundane. You get on a train, put your stuff down and proceed to either gaze out of the window or to quickly fall asleep. You could also take a book or computer out, but essentially, the task of keeping yourself occupied throughout the journey is usually in your hands. On a train in India, one is provided with a slightly different experience. In India, the sights and sounds within the train itself are sufficient to keep you occupied, regardless of whether you desire it, a little like buskers on a Paris Metro train. In the first place, our cabin section's window was so dusty, India looked like it was having a sandstorm when you looked through it. Another window was egregiously shattered but was somehow kept together and water had clearly seeped into the cracks, creating a structure which looked like a piece of abstract art. Looking at the exterior through this window gave one the illusion of being on the Trans-Siberian and travelling through the vast tundra.

Before we could even settle down, we realised that we had other companions with us on our berths. Little cockroaches, about the length of a fingertip, emerged from holes in the berths, running around before disappearing into another hole. They usually appeared one at a time but one sometimes spotted three or four in close proximity. We spent a considerable amount of dinnertime fending them off. This would probably be my dear mother's idea of what Hell looks like. There was also the occasional small rat scurrying across the floor. These looked innocuous enough; Anna and I agreed that they could be quite cute with their little tails.

Another factor which contributed greatly to the dynamic character of the Indian train ride resided in the constant presence of vendors, both official and unofficial ones. They would frequently, at least in the daytime, walk along the carriage corridor hawking a variety of products from chai and mineral water (probably the most commonly peddled items) to sliced pineapples and clothes. Their booming voices were complemented by their sheer persistence. One vendor even walked up to Kenneth, who was sleeping on his berth, in an attempt to sell his wares. He must have stood there for about ten seconds, cajoling a man in peaceful slumber. It was difficult for a light sleeper like me to have a decent afternoon nap with shouts of 'chai' and 'pani (water)' ringing out so often. There was also the occasional beggar walking into your section to plead for loose change. Just when we thought we had seen it all, we were to find on our train ride from Agra to Delhi that even transvestites (a man who shared our section called them 'sissy boys') enter the trains during certain stops. They would call out to certain men, most certainly asking for money (although it was unclear what they would do in return) and one of them even briefly ran his fingers through my hair before quickly moving off.

Just as we were thanking our lucky stars for the berths we managed to obtain for our eighteen-hour ride to Varanasi, we realised that the air-conditioning system in our carriage had broken down. Passengers from our carriage began to emigrate to the next one. A stout Nepali man who had been on the train for a long time before our embarkment invited himself to our section and began conversing with us. In addition to the air-conditioning situation, he complained about how slow the train was moving, grumbling that we were on such a 'lazy' train. He was going to miss his connecting train to Punjab at Delhi. A family of four soon joined us in our section. The younger son shot frequent glances in my direction and the mother placed her body on the lowest berth, then functioning as a seat, in a position which allowed her to stare at Xue Wei. I wanted to complete a blog entry before talking to the boy, who spoke some English, but it was so stuffy that the family soon joined the exodus into the next carriage. Kenneth and I took a short walk down to the other carriages and ironically, we found the Sleeper Class (the cheapest one with berths) to be most comfortable one as it was cool and had good air circulation.

The afternoon heat and the stillness of air made the journey a less than ideal one but on the bright side, the breakdown of the air-conditioning system allowed us to be seated together for most of the trip. Deciding to stay safe while expecting a delay in arrival, we set our alarms to an hour before the estimated arrival time. We had learned to deal with the unpredictability of Indian train travel! At least, we thought we did. Two hours before our estimated arrival time, Kenneth, with some difficulty, woke me up from a relatively comfortable sleep. We were about to arrive! Fortunately for us, Kenneth had woken up at random and had decided to monitor our progress. Otherwise, we probably would have ended up hundreds of miles west of Varanasi, only to find out we had overshot in the wee hours of the morning. Just when you think that you've learned to put a leash on India with all her idiosyncrasies, she, like the raging Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, violently breaks free of your charms and shoots you into a swimming pool.

Imagining India Part 2: Oh My Dar(jee)ling

The Rocky Road to Darjeeling

On the berth

To get to Darjeeling from Kolkata, we needed to take a twelve- to fourteen-hour (or so we were told) bus ride to Siliguri, where we would hire a jeep to take us to the hill-station. Our ride was going to be overnight one and we elected to purchase places on the bus's berths so we could sleep comfortably through the night (or so we thought). Imagine our disillusionment when we entered the bus to find that the berths, each of which were supposed to be for two people, were quite narrow! They were no bigger than single beds and in addition to two living and breathing human beings (and Kenneth and I are not the smallest), they also had to hold our personal belongings, minus our huge backpacks. Lying down, we were packed like sardines and Kenneth remarked that, lying face up with so little room for manoeuvre, we were experiencing what it was like to be in a coffin. It did not help to realise that, as the bus began to move, we were in for such a bumpy ride. Driving along the city's roads were fine but once we entered the periphery, the intensity of the rocking increased at least threefold. At one point, a particular bump was so heavy that we were actually tossed from our berth like onion parathas (I'd have used 'kipper' but I'd be accused of being colonial). Getting to sleep was also made more difficult as the man seated below us played loud, Bollywood dance music into the night, providing an accompanying tune for the bus's jiving along the road.
Just when we thought that,solace in Darjeeling was imminent after an arduous overnight journey which saw us in a semi-conscious state for most of the time, our bus came to a sudden, long halt. Alighting from the vehicle, I noticed, to my sheer horror, the interminable line of buses and trucks which preceded and succeeded ours. We were in the middle of nowhere. The afternoon heat made being in the bus quite unbearable. The engine had been switched off and the interior, without windows which could be opened, became increasingly warm and stuffy, reminiscent of the 'box' in Cool Hand Luke. A few passengers began to protest to the driver, demanding for the air-conditioning to be switched on. Imagine the sheer relief when the engine finally came on again. We found ourselves feeling grateful for any sort of movement and bumps, once so despised, were now greeted with broad smiles as these signalled that our bus was actually moving at a decent speed. After a memorable experience on our Volvo bus, we arrived in Siliguri after a whopping twenty-three hours (remember that the ride was supposed to have taken less than fourteen hours). One should be able to understand why chills were sent down our spine when barely a few minutes after arriving, vendors approached us to ask if we wanted transportation to Kolkata.

Oh My Dar(jee)Ling

Darjeeling was a sanatorium for British soldiers and officials during the colonial period, a kind of home away from home for those who needed a break from the administration of the city. For us, it proved to serve a similar purpose after the hustle and bustle of busy Kolkata. After about a two-and-a-half hour jeep ride from Siliguri, we alighted at Darjeeling's train station which served the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway (more affectionately known as the 'toy train'). The station's signs were familiar ones, inspired by the very design used for the London Underground, a physical indication of Britain's influence on the area in the past. It was somewhat surprising not to see tourists scattered around the area as Darjeeling is known to be quite popular with foreign visitors. Moreover, the December period is usually high season for visitors. We found out that the hill station area had seen an extensive strike lasting more than forty days only a few months before our arrival. The ubiquitous 'Gorkhaland' signs in Darjeeling emphatically reflected the political aspirations of an area whose people desired the formation of a state separate from that of West Bengal. This strike, carried out as a political statement, may have helped to explain the unusual paucity of tourists in the area.


A short walk uphill along Gandhi Road brought us to our accommodation venue. Named after the album Revolver, it was a Beatles-themed guesthouse and boasted a grand total of five rooms, named after each Beatle and their manager, Brian Epstein. John and Paul, not unexpectedly the more popular choices, were taken but we guys were fortunate to get George - yes, 'My Sweet Lord' - as the girls had to settle for Ringo. Entering the reception area, we saw that the walls were adorned with Beatles posters and on the lounge's coffee tables lay a variety of Beatles books, from biographies to anthologies. In our rooms, we could access, through our televisions' internal memory, all of the famous four's music albums and a few of their videos including A Hard Day's Night. We could even play Rock Band: Beatles Edition in the lounge and we duly pounced on the opportunity on our second evening. Revolver's owner and manager, Vikash, who wore a pair of Buddy Holly-esque glasses and sported a thin but long, prominent beard, was formerly a radio presenter and told us that, due to the strong British influence, Darjeeling had a relatively huge rock scene in the past. This was when The Beatles were way less famous than Jesus in India.

St. Andrew's Church

During our stay in Darjeeling, We were afforded a good amount of sunshine which complemented the cool temperature of the hill-station area. The town was also relatively clean and the locals whom we'd encountered, be it passers-by or staff at our meal venues, were generally warm and helpful. Although Nepali is the most spoken language in the area, the use of English was quite widespread, which made it easier for us to communicate with the locals. It didn't take too long before we felt at home. A walk around Darjeeling was, therefore, quite an enjoyable experience as one took in the sights and sounds of the place. The aforementioned colonial influences took unmistakable, physical forms in the area's numerous churches and mission schools. Students, walking together along narrow footpaths, were dressed similarly to those who attend public schools in Britain. The largest bookstore we came across, named Oxford Books and Stationery, was located along Chowrasa and had a very good (and a very reasonably priced) selection of English books. The architecture of the post office in Darjeeling, one of the oldest standing buildings of its kind in India, also harked back to colonial times. This was where we purchased stamps and sent our postcards. I have to admit at this point that when it comes to posting letters or postcards, I'm a chronic stamp-licker. Having bought the necessary stamps, I proceeded to do what I normally do. It was only after I had pasted stamps on all of my postcards when Kenneth told me that, because the stamps were of questionable hygiene standards, I risked getting diarrhoea from licking the backs of my stamps. I was initially fearful of the possible health consequences that might follow, but looking at the stamps I had used, I confidently told him that Mother Teresa, whose image was on the 15rps-stamps used, could not possibly allow me to fall sick.

Chowk Bazaar

The Chowk Bazaar area along the lengthy Hill Cart Road was the busiest area which we came across. A huge variety of items were on sale here, from clothing to foodstuffs. Again, tastes from the colonial era were manifested in the many pastry shops along Hill Cart Road, selling the familiar butter biscuits, chocolate doughnuts and cornets filled with rich vanilla cream. The only thing we had to get used to while walking around Darjeeling was the constant honking from the vehicles on the road. Honking in this part of the world (this did not seem to differ in the other parts of India that we visited) differs from honking back on Singapore's roads in terms of the attitude and intentions conveyed by the action. Back home, honking is often a means of expressing frustration and impatience at other drivers or at pedestrians living dangerously. Over here, the act of honking has the chief purpose of alerting others, be it other vehicles or people walking on the road, of the vehicle's presence. It was especially necessary considering how the very narrow walkways caused people to inevitably spill onto the side of the road. Honking seemed to convey a message along the lines of 'do be careful, I'm just behind!'. However, even while recognising this, the high pitched sound emanating from the horn, and the frequency at which it was heard, can cause great annoyance after a while. One could liken it to a mother's nagging, almost always well-meaning but hardly ever received with open arms.

Talking about the British influence, this also seemed to take a more contemporary form in the apparent popularity of the English Premier League in Darjeeling. Walking along the streets, I noticed many locals, both male and female, wearing scarves and donning jackets containing club logos (Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal seemed to be the best supported clubs there). I also spotted these on car decals as our jeep passed other vehicles. Sadly, I seemed to have been the only one wearing something expressing an allegiance to Newcastle United. It was a pity that we left the place a day before my beloved Mags beat the Red Devils at Old Trafford for the first time in more than forty years. I would have been tempted to, with my black and white scarf tied proudly around my neck, direct cheeky winks at the other United's fans.

Happy Valley Tea Estate

Darjeeling is also renowned throughout the world for its tea and we visited Happy Valley Tea Estate, one of Darjeeling's best known plantations. It was about a half-hour's walk from Chowk Bazaar and most of the walk took place along a relatively quiet stretch of road, making for a pleasant escape from the boisterous bazaar area. On our way down a slope surrounded by countless tea bushes, we bumped into a South African couple. Upon hearing that we were from Singapore, they began praising our country, telling us that it's one of their favourite places (they may have been being polite here). They also, to our astonishment, added that they fell in love with durians while they were in the Lion City. They said that they went to the same durian stall so regularly, the owner couldn't help but express his sense of bewilderment, stating that it was the first that he had seen 'white people' enjoy durians to such an extent. We proceeded to the estate's main building itself where we were given a short tour about tea-processing (I admit that my brain didn't process a fair share of the information though I remember that black tea is not consumed for medicinal benefits).

Mmmmm...

Leaving the building, we found ourselves settling down for a drink in a café just outside it. The owner of the cafe, Kusum, was a retired tea-picker of Anglo-Nepalese origin. She warmly welcomed us to a cosy lounge attached to the main shop and began teaching us a tea-smelling technique (with disastrously comic results). Although she called her place a 'café', Kusum admitted that she had never tried coffee in her life and that her outlet was solely dedicated to the sale of tea. She also showed us how tea leaves were brewed and predictably, attempted to sell her tea leaves. We had used Mandarin Chinese throughout the trip as a secret language and we spoke it among each other when discussing the price of Kusum's tea. When we eventually reverted to English, Kusum asked us to continue speaking in Chinese (leaving me stuck in my discomfort zone), stating that she loved the sound of the language even though she claimed to not understand it. We hoped that she was being truthful here or it would have been utterly embarrassing. Having placed our order, she proceeded to package the leaves with startling meticulousness, even going outside to pick flowers (all of these would have turned brown or worse by the time you read this) to decorate the individual packs.

Kusum packing the tea leaves

On our second day in Darjeeling, we decided to take a day-trip to Kalimpong, a nearby town on a hill overlooking the River Teesta. Our guesthouse, a 'very hands-on operation' according to Vikash, provided us with a jeep and Daniel, our assigned driver, took us there. Driving along the bends at the higher points of the hill, we were treated to views of the lovely, verdant landscape below. Mt. Khangchendzonga also made regular appearances which made me more eager to visit Tiger Hill to catch a better view of the world's third highest point. On the way, we stopped by Lamahatta (according to Daniel, this meant 'monk area'), a small park, with a strong Tibetan influence in it a colours, built on a slope. Vikash told us that the place was quite incapable of receiving long stretches of sunlight and he wondered how the people living across the road dried their clothes. Other stops included Lovers Meeting Point, affording an unobstructed view of the Teesta's confluence point, and Pineview Nursery, where a variety of cacti was cultivated. It was at our final stop at Deolo Park, which afforded one an excellent vantage point of the river and surrounding landscape below, where the highlight of my day occurred. *Please skip the rest of this paragraph if you are about to have your meal* Before having lunch, Leo and I decided to head to the toilet located outside the park. While walking there, I told him that I was hoping for the toilet to be an unstructured one where we could make a direct contribution to nature with our small business. To my disappointment, it was a structured toilet with proper urinals. However, the floor had been so wet and muddy, Leo wondered aloud if the providee structure was actually used. Mental debates over what we were stepping on came to a conclusion when the moment I began making use of the urinal, I realised that it was leaking badly! The rest is history.

At the Zang Dhok Palri Phodang monastery atop Durpin Hill

Of course, no stay in Darjeeling would be complete without a visit to Tiger Hill to watch the sunrise. Shivering from our rooms to the jeep, marshaled by the very capable Daniel, we set off for the hill at four in the morning. The 'excitement' of the day did not begin with the sunrise but rather, even before we reached the top of Tiger Hill. Kenneth and I alighted briefly to purchase tickets to enter the hill's lounge. While queuing to get our tickets at the booth, Kenneth's line was cut by several people. They manoeuvred their way into the ticket office itself and a few simply stretched their arms in front of us in attempts to pay for tickets. The urgency with which they struggled at the queue made it look like they were attempting to obtain limited tickets to watch the Second Coming, available on a first-come-first-serve basis. 

Crowds gathering at Tiger Hill for the sunrise

Arriving at our lounge early enough, we went through another minor struggle before we managed, with a stroke of fortune, to get front row seats, next to open windows, to watch the sunrise. Curiously, the lounge was built in a way where instead of facing the sun or the magnificent Mt. Khangchendzonga, we had to settle for a direct view of a hardly visible Kalimpong. Seated down, we began a process of turning into ice blocks as the chilly winter winds blew directly at us, bringing back memories of watching football games at St. James' in the cold. As the sun began its rise in the distant horizon, Khangchendzonga grew in prominence, looming over the landscape like a white eminence, weightless but domineering. The response to the sunrise was something I'd never quite experienced. People began cheering enthusiastically at the first sight of the sun, emerging as a glowing, red dot. The hearty cheers were followed by numerous cameras uniformly turning in the sun's direction, the greatest natural source of light enjoying a rightful celebrity status. The reddish character of the sunrise gave Khangchendzonga an increasingly regal appearance and after shivering for an hour or so, we were pleased that our patience had been duly rewarded. It was truly a sight to behold.

Admiring Mt. Khangchendzonga from afar

If you've come this far, thanks for taking the time to read this somewhat lengthy post. Writing this wasn't easy. I had actually completed this post on Darjeeling when my bag containing my trusted netbook and my memory stick, along with other valued and quite valuable belongings of mine, was stolen during a train ride quite late into the trip. Having lost all my writing and all the photos I had taken till that point, I had to rewrite this post from scratch (my notebook was, thankfully, spared) with the scarring experience on the back of my mind. I am tremendously grateful to my dear travel companions, Kenneth, Leo, Xue Wei, and Anna, not just for allowing me to use their photographs for my blog entries, but for standing by me during a difficult two days or so as I struggled to forgive myself for a quite uncharacteristic, momentary lack of vigilance. I was very moved when, in an effort to cheer me up and provide me with a means of penning my thoughts, they surprised me with a fountain pen (I had lost mine with the bag) and a notebook. This blog post, for all that it is worth, is wholly dedicated to them.

Red Pandas at the Darjeeling Zoo

(Photos courtesy of Anna, Xue Wei and Kenneth)

Imagining India Part I: Kolkata

Imagining India

Our planning for the trip's transportation had gone so badly (mainly due to flagrant flaws in the train booking system), we left Singapore not knowing what our exact itinerary will be. Our inability to sufficiently prepare for the more practical aspects of our trip to India was compensated by a good degree of mental preparation. Deciding to accept the view of India as a land where 'everything is possible', we elected to (I quote Xue Wei here) 'let the three million gods take us wherever we are supposed to go'. Xue Wei's advice was for us to let go of our disposition towards planning and control. Only then, she counselled, will we be able to truly enjoy India. She added that 'when you are at your lowest, India will present you with the best option ever'. However, if our travails with train bookings were in anyway a foreboding of our trip, we could be sure that we would be in for a 'helluva' time.

My travel companions: (From Left) Anna, Kenneth, Leo, and Xue Wei

As our plane descended upon Kolkata, I gazed out of the window and was enthralled by the city lights below. The closer we got to the ground, however, I noticed that the city seemed to be enveloped in a thick fog (we were to find out that this was actually smog). I immediately attributed this to the fact that it was winter in India. The nebulous scene below was an accurate reflection of our anticipated trip, symbolising the considerable amount of excitement that it generated beneath the vast degree of uncertainty.

Going past customs, we proceeded to source for a taxi to take us to our guesthouse. Imagine the severe blow that was dealt to our adopted philosophy when we were told that seating five passengers in the cab was 'no possible'. Walking out of the airport, we spotted the line of what are known in Kolkata as 'ambassador cabs', reminiscent of the yellow New York cabs in 'Taxi Driver'. The drive along the streets of Kolkata at night afforded us an introduction to the city's anarchic state: people crossing busy roads at every point (reminiscent of my experiences on the roads in Vietnam), vehicles constantly screaming at one another in high-pitched honks, men taking a leak by the roadside, cows tied to poles on road dividers, clothes hung out to dry in the middle of a road heavy with traffic. We even came across a horse aimlessly wandering on the street!

We arrived at our accommodation at Rossa Guesthouse later than expected as our driver was unable to find the place and the directions passers-by gave him did not seem to bring us closer to our destination. The three of us guys were ushered into our room and to our surprise, realised that only a double bed had been provided although it was clearly stated on our booking form that we had requested for an additional bed. The porter walked past the bed and, to our horror, pointed to the empty floor area between the bed and the wall and uttered four quite frightening words, 'This is your bed.' Befuddled, Kenneth even walked over and, using his feet, tested if that section of the floor was soft enough for a comfortable slumber. To our relief, we realised that his four words really meant 'this area will be for your bed' as he proceeded to get a mattress.

Chai (tea)

 Our first stop after breakfast the next morning was Sudder Street, the main backpackers' area in Kolkata. It was there where we booked several of our train rides and where Leo and I were introduced to our first public toilet: an open cubicle (yes, pretty public) with no flushing system. Waiting for Kenneth to settle our transportation with the manager, I purchased a packet of sour cream and onion-flavoured crisps. While munching on it, a teenaged, barefoot boy stopped beside me. He mumbled a few unintelligible words and quite forcefully grabbed the packet from my hands and quickly began munching on the rest of the crisps while calmly walking away. I was momentarily rooted to the spot, astounded without words before I gathered my thoughts and remembered that, in India, ‘everything is possible’. After purchasing our tickets, we proceeded to buy SIM cards from a nearby store. Anna, Leo and I were invited into the narrow booth while Kenneth and Xue Wei followed a staff member to obtain the cards from elsewhere. The store owner, a local man of about sixty, began conversing with us as we served as objects on display for curious passers-by. He spoke in the most gentle manner, telling us that he was a former civil servant, which may have helped to explain his marvellous command of English, and as a secretary, was a master at shorthand. He recommended a good place for Bengali food and asked us about our travel plans and our professions.

At the phone shop

 At Rita's

Rita, our gracious host

It was nice meeting Rita, Anna's Literature classmate at the National Institute of Education (NIE), for dinner back in Singapore and she was of tremendous help, giving us some useful advice on transportation in India and even attempting to help us obtain those elusive train tickets from Agra back to Kolkata. She had also graciously invited us over to her place for lunch and after settling practical matters at the Sudder Street area, we boarded a taxi to Behala Chowrasta to meet her. 

At Kolkata's Longest Red Light

On the way to Behala, our taxi, encountering a red light at a particular crossing, duly came to a halt. To our amazement, our driver turned the engine off and nonchalantly got out of the vehicle and walked about ten metres to a nearby cab and began casually conversing with its driver. We realised that our driver, with the knowledge that he had stopped at the crossing regulated by what was probably Kolkata's longest red light (by far the longest I've encountered in my lifetime), was simply unwilling to waste precious time when he could work on building better relationships with others. We arrived at Behala Chowrasta after a forty-five-minute ride. Rita and her sister, Somrita, were there to greet us at the auto-rickshaw (also known in certain areas as a 'tuk tuk') stop. Squeezing ourselves and our backpacks into the auto-rickshaws, we took a six-minute ride to Rita's house.

Squished in the auto-rickshaw

 Rita's family prepared a wonderful Bengali meal for the five of us. Steamed long-grain rice was accompanied by customary dhal, as well as dishes like potatoes cooked with turmeric and poppy seeds (a dish Rita sorely missed when she was in Singapore where such seeds are banned), fresh fish fillet cooked in banana leaf, and as Rita promised, palak paneer (cottage cheese in spinach gravy). Her parents were most hospitable, her Dad introducing the dishes to us while her Mum served them on our plates. 

After a sumptuous meal, we proceeded to Rita's room, which she shared with Somrita, for post-lunch conversation. We were treated to lovely glasses of lassi while we conversed. Rita shared with us her experiences of teaching in India and while Somrita, being quite a technophile, lamented about not possessing Whatsapp when most of her friends were using the function. In discussing classroom management, Rita remarked that it was important to be firm at the very beginning or students would 'dance on your heads (like skilled performers) ', a more elegant expression than the one we are used to back home where students would 'climb all over you (like monkeys)'. It's always a joy to be able to meet friends from abroad in their own countries as this always adds a personal touch to one's travels and we were grateful for Rita and her family's warmth in inviting us to and entertaining us in their cosy abode. We promised to return the favour by introducing her to durians when she's back in Singapore. There aren't many more effective ways of providing someone with an indelible introduction to Singapore than through our king of fruits!

Fresh, sweet lassi

The Price of Procrastination

My grand-uncle used to play tennis with me on a regular basis when I was in secondary school. Equipped with his retro racquet, Chek Kong (the term I used to address him as he was my grandfather’s younger brother), even at 76 years of age, was quick in his movement around the court and packed a powerful forehand. During a time which saw the proliferation of mobile phones, Chek Kong was only contactable through his pager. He was always patient with the cantankerous player that I was and I appreciated his tolerance and the fact that he was always willing to travel a considerable distance just to play with me. We would then enjoy bus rides back home which gave us opportunities to converse. Although most of our exchanges now escape my memory, his warm and simple demeanour made him a joy to be with. Just a couple of weeks back, I spoke to Mum about visiting him as I hadn’t seen him in a long time, the last time being when Dad passed away four years ago. In the hectic period of time since I returned to Singapore, I didn’t quite get the opportunity to pay Chek Kong a visit. In all honesty, my efforts to settle down and to cope with new commitments made me procrastinate. This morning, as I was about to step out of my hall room to attend my first class of the day, I received a text message from my sister informing me that Chek Kong had passed away. He was 87. Not for the first time, I was taught that sometimes, when we put off doing some things, we must recognise the possibility of never being able to do them again. 

Local Heroes: The Woodman Inn

In the time that has elapsed since my departure from Durham, my three years in the Northeast increasingly feels like a dream. As I readjust to life back in Singapore and condition myself to call it ‘home’ again, I find my thoughts, from time to time (especially in the tranquility of my hall room), inadvertently drifting to a place some 10,000 kilometres away. While I still have the luxury of relatively free evenings, I’ve decided to pen a few words on a major aspect of my Durham experience: the local friends whom I’ve had the honour of being acquainted with at the Woodman Inn. This post is dedicated to them.

Two nights ago, I dreamed that I was back at my local pub in Durham (I may actually miss Durham more than I think I do!), The Woodman Inn, enjoying the usual banter with a few of the regulars whom I’ve had the wonderful privilege of befriending. A paragraph from a previous blog post, written after my second academic year, recalls how we first met:

'On the 31^st of October last year (2011), I decided to catch a Monday night football game: Newcastle vs. Stoke City. The Woodman Inn is a century-old, local pub situated some five minutes away from my house in Durham and having passed it quite a few times on the way to lectures, I decided to catch the game there. Of course, I had to first verify if it was a safe place for Newcastle fans to be in. The owner, Gary, told me that it was a Newcastle pub (I was to realise that the Woodman was frequented by BOTH Newcastle and Sunderland fans) and that I will be safe there. I popped in an hour later, some ten minutes before the game, quite eager to interact with anyone who would care for a chat. I took a seat at the bar counter and quickly began conversing with those seated around me. They were mostly Durham locals and I warmed up to them with relative comfort. A few were naturally curious about how I’d come to support the Magpies and I genuinely enjoyed listening to their opinions on certain players – those they rated and those they hated. The team defeated Stoke City that evening and it was great fun celebrating with the others. A few weeks later, when the satellite reception was temporarily lost while we were watching another game, Michael, one of the guys I met the other night, offered to take me along with a few others to another pub. He gave us a ride to Belmont, a few miles from the Woodman, where we continued to watch the game. They even bought me drinks! I have since become quite a regular at the Woodman and though I’m usually the only Asian there (Michael refers to me as the ‘Asian Contingent’), I always enjoy the company and the atmosphere there. I even had the opportunity to make friends with Hughie, a die-hard Sunderland fan who constantly offers to take me to the Stadium of Light and divert me to the ‘straight and narrow path.' That aside, with reference to the game of football (and this may apply equally to many other sports), I find it wonderful that people from such vastly different backgrounds can come to share something common that is so close to their hearts, to revel in the joyous moments and to commiserate with one another when things aren’t as rosy. Football can really draw people together and can even form the basis on which friendships can be built across racial and cultural lines.'

I’m glad to say that my final year afforded me ample opportunity to build on these acquaintances and visiting the pub regularly to catch football games in my final year enabled me to get to know the regulars better. There were times when I'd look forward to meeting them as much as I'd anticipated the match. Watching games together at the Woodman is something I really enjoyed doing and I'll miss the celebrations we had after goals were scored and the insightful conversations we had, be it about football, politics (this was quite a tricky one though), or life in general. The generosity of my friends ensured that there were quite a few occasions where I was treated to pints. There were even times when they offered to buy the friends I brought into the pub drinks! I was never really allowed to return the favours. To show my appreciation, I decided to invite them over a Singaporean meal. I prepared chicken rice, complemented with omelettes and stir-fried vegetables, which was, to my relief, rather well-received. Unfortunately, the chicken soup I prepared for them that day remains a divisive subject. I was deeply moved when prior to eating, I was presented with a few gifts: a Newcastle United tie and retro shirt from Dave, a framed picture of St. James’ Park from Don, and a framed photograph of Durham from my favourite Sunderland fans in the world, Charlie, Hughie and Fast. I was actually presented with the Durham photograph after I opened Don’s gift, and knowing that the three of them were Sunderland fans, I uttered, ‘I hope it’s not one with the Stadium of Light.’ I had planned the occasion to repay my dear friends for the kindness they’ve shown to me for more than a year, but ended up being showered yet again with expressions of generosity. I knew then that I’d really miss them. 

From L-R: Dave, Mickey, Don, Charlie, Fast and Hughie

I had the honour of having my last meal in Durham with what I shall remember as ‘The Woodman United’ at Rajpooth’s. We enjoyed an evening out a few nights after I returned from Spain and I was pleased to have been able to arrange a final meal before I departed from Durham. I was moved by the fact that they agreed to sacrifice their precious Sunday evening and although I tried to make it a treat as a way of saying ‘farewell’ and ‘thank you’, my attempt was (once again) foiled and I wasn’t even allowed to pay for my share. I guess I’ll have to wait till they visit Singapore when I can finally do the pint-purchasing (considering the price of alcohol here, I’ll have to start saving now). We adjourned to the Big Jug next door for a little while before having to bid each other a quite emotional final farewell. In all honesty, being the emotional person I am, I shed a few tears that night after receiving a long and sincere text message from Hughie, as I was filled with nothing but gratitude for the generosity and kindness that had been showered upon me and for the marvellous hospitality shown to me which helped to make Durham a second home to me.

No prizes for guessing correctly which team Hughie and Fast support

A few words on Nigel, the bossman of the Woodman...

When I passed the pub shortly after returning for my final year, I noticed a banner with the words ‘Under New Management’ hanging outside the Woodman. The previous owners, Gary and Paula, were lovely people and Gary was the one who first assured me that the Woodman was black and white. A hard-core Magpie himself, he had zero tolerance for the team in red and white. One issue I had with the pub then was the jarring presence of a framed Sunderland shirt which hung on the wall at the section behind (if it had been hung at the front when I first entered the pub, I would have quickly bolted and life would have been so different). Gary explained that Paula was a Sunderland fan. I’m sure his dog was too after it bit me when I screamed after Newcastle scored against Chelsea one fine evening. After settling down, I decided to visit the new-look Woodman with my housemate, Raghav. I was introduced to Nigel and couldn’t help but immediately ask if the pub was still a Newcastle pub. To my relief, his reply was positive. What pleased me most during the visit was when I discovered that the Sunderland shirt was gone! That’s what I’d tell people was the best thing about the change in ownership. Another good thing about the change was that the pub now served burgers and toasties and I found myself no longer confined to dry-roasted peanuts.

With Nigel

During the course of the year, I was certainly not the best of customers (I’m an alcoholic featherweight), but Nigel was always hospitable and I’d always felt at home in the new-look Woodman Inn. He was kind enough to let us hold our farewell party at the pub without charging us for the venue or the barbecue itself. On my last night in Durham, I paid the pub a final visit to bid farewell to Nigel. I was lost for words when, as a farewell gift, he presented me with a framed, autographed picture of my football hero, Alan Shearer, whom he works with occasionally. A few months back, upon finding out that Nigel knew Newcastle’s record goal-scorer, I asked if it was possible for me to get Shearer to autograph something for me. I was deeply moved that Nigel had remembered. I know that I’ll think of the Woodman whenever I enter a pub in Singapore and I’ll miss it for reasons beyond its relatively cheaper pints (I was shocked to see a bottle of Bulmers priced at S$13 at one of the cheaper pubs in Singapore – I used to get them at the Woodman at two for S$10). It may just be my first stop when I revisit Durham. 

With Dave and Lynn @ our Farewell Party

Even though almost all of my friends from university have also left Durham, even if I cease to be a Newcastle United fan and even if the Cathedral somehow gets demolished (I heard that it has, for the longest time, prevented The Half Moon Pub's terrace from receiving proper sunshine), I’m glad to say that I’ve a terrific reason to revisit the lovely university town that's Durham. 

Other notable points...

One must never take my anti-Sunderland quips seriously. Although my time in Durham helped me to better appreciate the Tyne-Wear rivalry and what it means to both sets of fans, to understand what ‘bragging rights’ truly means in that part of the world, I’ve met too many lovely Mackems (Sunderland fans) to feel any real animosity toward the club. In fact, I’m now a ‘proud’ owner of a 2012/13 Sunderland shirt, courtesy of Jeff, our dear Hatfield porter, who presented it to me as a farewell gift. Fate insisted that I kept the shirt. Guy Fawkes’ was not until November (no legitimate reason to start a bonfire) and Oxfam was shut when I attempted to donate the shirt. Ok, I kid here. I was very moved by Jeff’s gesture (being a season-ticket holder, it was a shirt he’d worn to the games all season) although I couldn’t help but suspect that he had wished to divest himself of everything that reminded him of a season when Sunderland finished below us.

With Jeff

Finally, as much as this post is centred upon my experience at the Woodman Inn, I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve become quite an alcoholic. I always drank in moderation during my three years in the U.K. (in fact, I didn’t swallow a drop of alcohol for the longest time as I'd thought I'd become allergic to the substance).