Around India in 80 Trains by Monisha Rajesh Read Free Book Online Page A

community where they survive in bulk as India’s third gender. But like a fraction of the country’s downtrodden, they have learnt to manipulate their situation to their advantage and impose themselves wherever they go, often on the railways.
    Our new friends had parked close enough to make their presence felt, but remained at a safe enough distance that we could watch them combing each other’s hair and reapplying kohl, without being asked to pay for the show. Or so I thought. As I dragged my bag out of the Knee Scratcher’s reach, she clapped her hands together—rubbing one across the other as she did so—and flipped a curse at me, muttering and pulling out a tiffin carrier from her sack. It was not the most auspicious way to begin a journey.
    At that moment a royal blue engine with gilded borders glided along the platform. Train number seven, the Indian Maharaja-Deccan Odyssey had finally arrived. He paused in silence before heaving a sigh and coming to a halt. Not a soul emerged, but a door opened and a red carpet rolled out like a tongue cooling off on the platform. The hijras’ over-plucked eyebrows arched with curiosity. Whispers passed between the group and their earrings swung as they craned their necks to steal a glimpse through the blacked-out windows. Worried that the train might creep away with the stealth of its arrival, we gathered our things, much to the hijras’ distress, and picked our way through their outstretched arms, accompanied by their yells. Another door swung open and a head appeared, fitted with a boat-shaped hat, stolen from a medieval queen. Benoy, it turned out, was our personal butler for the next seven days.
    Air conditioning tightened my skin inside the carriage as the door slammed shut on Mumbai’s stickiness and noise. Beaming and bowing, Benoy led us past a gallery of hand-painted miniatures, to cabin B in Salon Verul—otherwise known as the presidential suite. He tried to wrestle the unimpressive bags from our backs, but looked secretly pleased by our lack of matching Gucci luggage that his colleague was struggling with on the platform.
    The Indian Maharaja-Deccan Odyssey was a relatively new member to the royal family of trains. His predecessor, the Palace on Wheels, still rolled his old bones up and down Rajasthan’s tracks, but had succumbed to age. Reports suggested that his skin was peeling, his insides were damaged and the sparkle in his eye had dulled. Inside the suite, it was clear that the younger model was a picture of health. Fluffy carpet sprouted from the floor and a white duvet hugged the double bed that filled the room. At the head, four pillows puffed out their chests, their corners tweaked into place and a snip of hibiscus lay in the centre of the bed with a note, saying: Welcome aboard a journey to the depths of your soul …
    After playing with both flat-screen televisions, skin-flaying showers and a forage for appropriate clothes, we each grabbed a handful of grapes from the living room and made our way to the bar area, passing a gym and a massage room playing Chinese restaurant music. The sound of a Yorkshire terrier being trampled met us at the carriage entrance and a waiter stepped out from behind the bar to hold open the door. A noisy trio sat on a sofa: both men wore beige trousers and deck shoes and slopped their beer with each bark of laughter. The lady wore a linen shirt that revealed a fleshy pink triangle at the neck, adorned with ugly beads that hung like freshly speared testicles. She threw back her head and the canine yelping began again. I checked my ear for blood.
    ‘Oh Roger, you’re terrible!’ she giggled.
    ‘Well, if I want chicken tikka masala, I shall jolly well ask for it. Although we’ll have to get them the recipe from England first!’
    Roger laughed at his own joke, spilling more puddles of Kingfisher, which were quickly mopped up by a waiter with a magician’s supply of napkins up his sleeves. The trio had just arrived from a