Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

I showed him an itinerary that would take me through old India, new India, poor India, India of the miracles, India of the maharajahs, India of The Great Railway Bazaar: Delhi-Jodhpur-Jaipur-Bombay-Bangalore-Madras-Rameswaram, from north to south.

"Please meet Mrs. Matta, my boss."

Mrs. Matta was a middle-aged woman in a blue sari. She sat at a desk in a back office that was furnished in the Indian manner: a full Pending tray, a cup of tea, photographs of smiling children and a framed one of the prime minister, a wall map of India showing all railway lines, and a shrine to the elephant-headed god, Ganesh, with a flickering vigil light in a yellow dish.

"Famous writer," Mr. Sharma said. "Back again."

Mrs. Matta offered me a cup of tea and the visitors' book, saying, "Please add your name. Write comments. Mention your satisfaction, if you please."

I wrote, India works because the railway works.

I had believed that on my first visit; I still believed it. Because of the vast network of Indian Railways, I could go anywhere in the country. I could sleep on the train in comfort; I could eat on it, read a book, write my notes; I could talk with anyone. There are buses in India, there are taxis and limos. But as Kuldeep had told me on the train, The pity of India is the bad roads ... It can take hours for a simple journey.

There were many new airlines, but delays were a certainty, security checks were awful, and the airports were like garrisons, full of soldiers and impatient passengers, overcrowded and understaffed. Because they were an institution, Indian railway stations were well organized and efficient. And in India the train was the only way of being sure of leaving on time and arriving safely. The trains are slow, some people say, but in India being in a hurry is foolish and deluded—and often bad manners.

With a handshake from Mr. Sharma and an approving head-wobble from Mrs. Matta, I left the booking hall with all my tickets, chits, vouchers, and supplementary fare receipts. The clutter and dusty pillars and uncomfortable chairs in an Indian office are no indication of its effectiveness. Out of the chaos of receipt books, carbon paper, flickering computers, and fat files tied with faded ribbon arises decisiveness and clear results, even if you can't read the writing and your fingers are smudged with ink from handling them.

I marveled at what I was able to accomplish in a morning in Delhi: the train tickets I needed, the very notebook I was looking for, some medicine for my gout (no prescription required in India for indomethacin), and the hottest ticket to be had, a seat at the England-India test match.

***

I HAD MANAGED SEVENTEEN years of exile in England because I had not been an Anglophile—Anglophiles don't last long in England, and my detachment had kept me from being a cricket fan. I do not know the rules of the game, much less the subtleties, yet bowling, batting, and fielding are easy-to-appreciate skills, pleasurable to watch. Most of all I wanted to go to this cricket match because it was the event of the week and because I wanted to see fifty thousand Indians in one place.

I was glad I went. Cricket matches in England are famously sedate, characterized by limp hand-clapping, a yelp or two, the crack of the bat, the thump of the ball on the pitch, and now and then the bone-breaking sound of the collapsing wicket. But that was a world away from the pandemonium at Ferozeshah Kotla cricket ground in north Delhi—howling spectators, Indian flags, loud whistles, horns, flutes, trumpets, chanting. The Indian cricket crowd (so I learned) is noted for its barracking—hooting at errors, screaming at questionable calls, and the occasional display of racial insensitivity, shouting "Monkey! Monkey!" (Bandar! Bandar!) at black players on the British or West Indian teams.

The man in front of me had made a large Indian flag into a poncho and was wearing it. The man next to him was blowing a bugle. Everyone was howling. I had arrived after lunch. India had batted 209 and the sides had changed. It was England's turn to bat, and they had to better that score. They scored 124, with two of their best batters.

The fan next to me, Vikram—"Call me Vicky"—told me this. He was nineteen and had called in sick at work like everyone else—Delhi businesses were quiet and understaffed as a result of this match. I remarked on the size of the cricket ground.

"It is capacious," Vicky said. Another of the pleasures of India is hearing such words in casual conversation. "That is Pietersen. He was hero of the Ashes series last summer."

"Is he any good?" I asked.

"Power in hands is there. Timing is there." Vicky was looking at the other end of the pitch. "That is Flintoff. He is great batsman."

"So England has a chance."

"I think not. We have resourceful bowlers. See Bhaji Singh. He is magnificent."