A planned trip to Kolkata with unplanned mistakes

After a long and tiring day, I was all set to head to Kolkata the next day to visit my cousin. And that's when I committed my first blunder: setting my alarm for 7:15 AM to catch an 8:15 AM train. Rookie mistake! To compensate for my sleep-deprived brain's miscalculation, I had to skip breakfast and perform a speedrun of a shower, emerging damp and disheveled.

I left the hostel at 7:50 AM, my heart pounding like a drum solo, and reached the IIT main gate at 7:55 AM. After parking my trusty cycle, I anxiously scanned the taxi/auto/rickshaw stand for a shared auto, the student's preferred mode of affordable and speedy transportation. But alas, after 10 agonizing minutes, I realized I was cutting it close. Time to swallow my pride and hail a rickshaw.

Now, rickshaw drivers are a breed apart. Their egos are as delicate as spun sugar, and I had inadvertently bruised every single one of them by daring to wait for an auto while they stood there, hopeful gazes fixed on me. This was mistake number two.

Just when I was about to resign myself to sprinting to the station (while lugging my backpack, no less), a rickshaw driver emerged from the IIT gates like a savior in a three-wheeled chariot. I blurted out my destination, "Railway Station?" He replied with a curt "Forty," and I hopped in, relief washing over me like a monsoon rain.

The ride was smooth, thankfully, and he dropped me off at the station at 8:15 AM on the dot. Miraculously, my train was running five minutes late. I dashed to the ticket window, breathlessly requesting an express ticket to Howrah. Next to me, a younger student was also headed to Howrah. Our eyes met, a silent camaraderie forming between two souls about to embark on a journey filled with questionable snacks and questionable hygiene.

Fueled by adrenaline and a shared sense of impending doom, we raced towards the Steel Express, which was scheduled to depart at 8:20 AM. It was already 8:19 AM, according to the ever-reliable railway clock. We chose the most direct route to platform 6: the infamous footbridge. Mistake number three.

The bridge was packed tighter than a can of sardines, filled with people who seemed to possess an uncanny ability to move at a glacial pace, especially when someone was in a hurry. As the clock struck 8:20 AM and the train's whistle pierced the air, we were still battling our way through the crowd, muttering apologies and curses under our breath. By the time we reached the platform, the train was a distant speck on the horizon.

Dejected but not defeated, we discovered another train to Howrah waiting on the adjacent platform. Armed with our express tickets, we boarded the general compartment, which resembled a human sardine can on a hot summer day. My new acquaintance, Heinslee (who, despite his name, bore no resemblance to Bruce Lee), managed to secure half a seat and generously offered me the other half. Bless his soul.

The journey itself was surprisingly pleasant, thanks to Heinslee's company and my trusty iPod. We chatted, shared snacks (thankfully, no one offered me any muri-alu chop), and laughed at the absurdity of our situation.

Upon arrival, Heinslee even guided me to the bus stand and gave me directions to my cousin's place in Pudupukur. After a series of misadventures involving questionable bus schedules and locals with a penchant for betel nut, I finally arrived at my destination, famished and ready for a nap.

My cousin welcomed me with open arms and a delicious home-cooked meal. Breakfast at noon? Don't mind if I do!

After a relaxing day, it was time to head back to my campus in Kharagpur. At 9:30 PM, we headed to the nearby bus stop to catch a bus to Howrah station. My train, the Puri Express, was scheduled to depart at 10:35 PM. Mistake number four.

Why was this a mistake, you ask? Well, I was in Kolkata, with only one hour to reach the station, which was 10 km away. And I was still waiting for a bus. At 9:50 PM, I finally gave up on the elusive bus and hailed a taxi, bidding a hasty farewell to my cousin and her husband.

I reached the station at 10:25 PM, my heart racing. I had a mere 10 minutes to locate my platform, buy a ticket, and sprint to the train, which was leaving from platform 22 (and I was currently at platform 1). To make matters worse, the train was notoriously punctual, a rare occurrence in West Bengal (or as the government insists on calling it, "PaschimBanga").

In a panic, I spotted an open ticket window near platform 1 and inquired about the express train. The clerk informed me there was no express train at that time. Turns out, I was standing in the old Howrah station, while my train was departing from the new one. Cue facepalm moment. I wasted another precious minute rushing to the new Howrah station, which housed platforms 17 to 23. Mistake number five.

With only four minutes left, I finally reached the ticket counter. To my relief, there were only two people ahead of me. I grabbed my ticket and started walking towards the platform. Mistake number six: walking, not running.

By the time I reached platform 17, it was 10:35 PM. And to my utter disbelief, the train was already moving. I thought I had missed it again. Defeated, I trudged towards platform 21, contemplating my options.

Suddenly, a surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins. "Not again!" I thought. "I'm not missing this train!" With a newfound burst of energy, I sprinted towards the departing train, my shopping bag flapping in the wind.

People waiting for the next train started cheering me on, their amused faces blurring as I ran faster than I ever had before. As I closed in on the train, my lungs burning and legs screaming for mercy, I spotted the last compartment, reserved for disabled people. "Well," I thought, "if there was ever a time to claim a disability, it's now."

With a final push, I lunged for the train and miraculously managed to grab hold of the railing. I hauled myself inside, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. The compartment was packed, leaving me with barely enough room to stand on one aching foot. But I was on the train, and that's all that mattered.

Two hours later, the train arrived in Kharagpur, 15 minutes ahead of schedule. I was dumbfounded. An early train in West Bengal? Wonders never cease.

I stumbled off the train, 10 rupees poorer (thanks to some shrewd bargaining with the rickshaw driver) and headed back to my hostel, exhausted but triumphant.

From this chaotic adventure, I learned a few valuable lessons:

1. Trains, like opportunities, come and go. Miss one, and another will eventually arrive. But you might have to wait a while (or sprint like a madman).

2. Even when it seems impossible, don't give up. A little bit of extra effort (and a healthy dose of desperation) can go a long way.

3. Always allow extra time when catching a train. And maybe pack some snacks, just in case you end up sharing a compartment with someone who thinks muri-alu chop is a delicacy. 

An Impulsive, Hilariously Chaotic Journey to Punjab: The Extended Cut

February 16th, 2010: Fresh from my GATE exam in Jaipur (and the ensuing celebratory haze that involved more lassi than any one person should consume), I returned to Dehradun with an itch for adventure. Or perhaps it was just a severe case of post-exam delirium. Either way, I craved a journey to an unexplored place, a path less traveled (or at least, less traveled by someone whose sense of direction could rival a confused pigeon's).

That afternoon, an email from a friend invited me to Punjab. Perfect! A spontaneous trip to a place I knew nothing about? Sign me up! Without hesitation, I grabbed my still-packed bag (who needs to unpack, anyway? It's just extra laundry waiting to happen) and prepared for another adventure. My roommates were conveniently out of town, which meant I could avoid the usual morning bathroom brawl and make a swift, ninja-like exit.

February 17th: I woke up early, fueled by equal parts excitement and leftover lassi-induced giddiness. Destination? Punjab. Or somewhere in that general vicinity. Details? Pfft, who needs 'em? After some helpful (and slightly concerned) conversations with my landlord and neighbors, who clearly thought I'd lost my marbles, I finally consulted the all-knowing Google Maps. I charted a course that even a seasoned explorer would find daunting:

• Selaqui to Herbertpur to Paonta Sahib to Ambala to Ludhiana (with a few surprise detours thrown in for good measure, because why not?)

With my post-exam funds dwindling faster than my common sense, I embraced the challenge of a budget-friendly, multi-bus journey. "Adventure is calling!" I declared dramatically, ignoring the faint whimpering sounds coming from my wallet.

The first leg, from Selaqui to Herbertpur, was a breeze. It was all downhill from there, literally and figuratively. The rest of the trip unfolded like a slapstick comedy routine, complete with mishaps, misadventures, and a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor.

From Herbertpur, I boarded a bus to Paonta Sahib. It was less a bus, more a mobile sauna on wheels, complete with questionable shock absorbers and a soundtrack of rattling windows that threatened to shatter my eardrums. But hey, at least the scenery was stunning! The dam, the canal... nature's beauty provided a welcome distraction from the bus's... unique ambiance.

Reaching Kulhal, the border of Uttarakhand, I embarked on a scenic stroll across the bridge into Himachal Pradesh. The Yamuna River, the Gurudwara... all postcard-worthy, if I hadn't been too busy trying not to trip over my own two feet and plunge into the river.

A phone call from a senior in Khanna added another stop to my already chaotic itinerary. With my phone now in roaming (hello, exorbitant charges! Goodbye, remaining funds!), I continued my journey, a one-man comedy show on wheels, entertaining myself with my own mishaps and questionable decisions.

In Paonta Sahib, a friendly local guided me through a labyrinth of back alleys to the bus stand. I'm pretty sure we passed the same chai stall three times, each time with the chai wallah giving me a more bewildered look. Finally, we reached the "back door" of the bus stand – a hole in a wall that looked like it was made by a particularly determined goat. I half-expected to see a "Beware of Goat" sign.

Learning there was no direct bus to Ambala, I adjusted my plans yet again. Flexibility is key, they say. Or maybe it's just a fancy way of saying "I have no idea what I'm doing." I boarded a bus to Jagadhari, my optimism (and caffeine levels) slowly dwindling.

Opting for adventure (or maybe just a good story to tell at parties), I perched myself on the roof carrier of the bus to Jagadhari. The wind in my hair, the questionable safety... it was all part of the experience. The journey through the hilly forest and then the vast farmlands was a sensory overload. The chilly, foggy air, the bumpy ride that threatened to send me flying... it was all hilariously memorable.

Then, 15 km before Jagadhari, the bus tire decided to take a break. Enter my knight in shining... tractor? A kind Haryanvi farmer offered me a lift, complete with fresh sugarcane and homemade jaggery that smelled suspiciously like something had died. But hey, when in Haryana... I politely accepted, trying not to gag on the pungent aroma.

Finally, I reached Ambala, slightly disheveled, definitely sleep-deprived, but with a backpack full of stories and a newfound appreciation for the absurdity of solo travel. On to the next adventure, where hopefully, the buses have functioning tires and the jaggery doesn't smell like a crime scene!