A train to Shimla

The touts, the hassl, the scams; they all disappeared at once with my admission in that train from Kalka to Shimla. During five hours, the wobbling train rolled over bridges and through unlit tunnels at a frequency you wouldn’t believe because there were many but it also went all so peacefully slow... A description of the facts, written in wagon C3 P42 window seat on 11.12.12.

 Beautiful portrait of the wonderful and proud train conductor.

As the train makes its swirling way up aside the steep hillsides, my eyes scan the wagon filled up with two lost tourists and a few married couples – or at least most look so – they seem as excited as me about this train ride, and even more I guess, since their first passionate night is planned or even arranged to be tonight. I look outside and I like everything about the show coming through the windows as if they are extended TV screens displaying a great non stop voyage through panoramas of green Indian hills. Even dirty train tracks become suddenly interesting when disposed lunchboxes handed out in lost grey train stations are not to my surprise like statistically spread rotting samples of a Gaussian trash belt until there are none or just a few and even more.
The sound of tinkling joyful glittering jewellery is a melodious yet contrasting sound compared to the monotonous rhythm of the train wheels digesting the narrow tracks below us travelers and that all is muted evenly by the density of a dark diesel loudness.

The locomotive can’t make it to another upcoming top I truly believe sometimes – yet it does every time and it continues without complaining it seems or maybe it longs seeing the gentleman playing cricket in the late afternoon sun only some stone throws further up.

I am convinced women truly look great in this wagon with their colorful dresses and tikas on the forehead and hennaed hands holding smartphones which actually make yours looking like fossils yet those ringtones are too loud and disturbing the delicate harmony and arrrgh why does it take you hours to even answer it? But that was the last call coming in as reception is being left behind, below.
And then I think their beauty cannot be timeless because they’d eat as if it were fasting thereafter forever and chips and other oily food disappear in their mouths and then their chubby bellies and all what is left disappears thereafter through the open windows which are being functional now not only as a fake TV screen but also as a natural ventilation system replacing the spicy air with a thick humid and cooling breeze.

One of the girls looks like a princess and even a sultan would not be worth her stunning smile and beauty but the gentleman next to her clearly is. Their joy makes me both happy and jealous like a two coloured cocktail in my mind. Her hands are detailed with dark hennae art and her arms are almost fully covered with a slightly transparent red dress and shiny jewellery and her eyes and entire face are a living magnet for my eyes. Maybe I've been drugged with happiness into my lunch box - I hope I will never know.

As we elevate the setting sun is caught by us before it even can hide behind the hills surrounded by clouds below this tiny train driving up to maybe even nowhere. Orange shadows coming from a sun which now only looks like a distant faded spot light are thrown inside and you can feel the windows radiating the sky’s cold to the inside.
After all these deserts, beaches, volcanoes, islands and caves this journey brings me to one of the last pinpoints on the map – a green simple hill city in Northern India.

Then suddenly between my wandering thoughts the sun is totally gone to sleep and the train finally arrives and everybody is relieved about that. It is utterly cold now and as I walk my way towards a place to stay I exhale bright clouds into the darkness of the early night only revealed by some shy street lamps – and I do so not only because I like it but also because the way is steep and tiring and my luggage is heavy and it also makes me feel being a part of this endless fog around. A man speaks to me and I follow him with no further questions to a guesthouse like a million stairs up. Three blankets keep me warm as do the thoughts to the young woman in that the wagon from Kalka to Shimla.
I put away the paper, the pen now, and switch off my head torch and disappear into further thoughts and dreams that will bring me even further.

 

(left) Shimla in the early morning - first view outside!
(right, below) Shimla's cozy street life