"No thanks", I replied, trying to be polite. Then came another, and another. There are innumerable such red shirted, dhoti-clad porters, and they try to coerce you into allowing them to lift your luggage for the short distance from the station gate to the platform. The line that separates offering one's services from imposing one's services seems to be blurred by insanity. "No I don't need a porter", I said to another red shirted man. Carrying my luggage with one hand and guarding my wallet with the other, I managed to reach the platform. At all times, you will have to keep one eye on your luggage and the other on your wallet. You never know, the smiling eleven year-old kid standing nearby could be a graduate in the art of pick pocketing, and the teeming Chennai Central is the preferred center of operation of many such unscrupulous people.

After what seemed like a long walk, I reached the platform for the Navjeevan Express -- the train that would soon be transporting me to Gujarat. Indian trains are easily over a kilometer long, and each train comprises over 22 carriages. I started from one end of the train looking for compartment S-8. It was in the middle of the train, which meant that I had to walk over half a kilometer. Fatigued, I sank into my 'Sleeper Class' compartment, which was just a euphemism for second class. With no air conditioning, the only semblance of ventilation came from three black ceiling fans. Of course you could leave the window open, but at temperatures that would peak at 42 degrees Celsius in the afternoon, that didn't really seem a wise idea. 1837 kilometers to Ahmedabad, 36 hours, I thought. I knew it was just the beginning.

Robbery is very common on board Indian trains, and in journeys lasting over one and a half days, one has to take it into account. I took out the long steel chain that I'd bought the day before, placed my bag under the seat and buckled it up to a post with a lock.

It was 7.00 in the morning, the sun had just come up, and it was quite pleasant. The air had a tinge of freshness to it, but it was only a matter of time before I would be roasted like a fish in the pan, and I knew it. And then my neighbors for the next one and a half days arrived, an elderly Gujarati man decked up in a Kurta and his wife. They arrived in the nick of time, barely a minute later the engine emitted a loud and extremely shrill horn that still resonates in my skull. We were moving.

The Navjeevan Express painfully chugged its way through the dry and morbid plains of Andhra Pradesh. The heat wave this year was severe and had already taken a heavy toll. I was waiting for the train to reach Vijaywada so that I could find something edible to eat. The train did have a pantry but, like I said, I wanted something edible. With the same unpleasant horn the train ground to a halt at Vijaywada. I quickly slipped on my sneakers and stepped onto the platform. It was a center stage for hawkers, beggars, irate commuters; wherever I looked it was just a blur of human activity. I made my way to a shop selling Idli-Vada-Sambar, a south Indian dish; by shop I mean a man, his wooden table and cashbox. I fumbled my pocket for exact change to pay the man. The golden rule when buying things from a station is always to tender exact change, otherwise you stand a high chance of getting conned. The hawker will pretend as though he is fumbling for the change that he has to return to you. Suddenly you will realize that the train is moving, you leave the hawker and rush to board the train before it picks up speed. A very common trick on Indian stations.

Time, it seemed, was standstill and I was thinking what I could do to make the clock tick faster. If there ever was a time I wished God had placed a fast forward button on time, then this was it. I looked out of the window at the scenes of pastoral Andhra Pradesh flashing by. The heat had subsided slightly. Suddenly I heard loud claps, which I knew meant only one thing - the Attack of the Eunuchs! In no time they had reached my bay. These 'Hijras', as they are called in Hindi, are regarded as symbols of luck in India. If you make them happy it is said to bring you good luck. However, a Hijra's curse will bring years of misfortune. It is common to see Hijras begging for money on trains. And even if you are in no mood to donate, they beg, cajole, touch you and do a lot more unpleasant things. Anyway, I did not want to mess with tradition and risk getting unlucky and I also wanted these people to move to the next bay as quickly as possible, so I thrust a five rupee coin into the hijra's hand. She touched my head, an indication of blessings being showered, and moved to the next bay.

During more bearable temperatures, train travel is indeed a pleasure. Images of rural households, farmers tilling their lands and lush green fields lead to busy intersections, vehicles passing through crowded lanes. It is as if the whole country were passing by, right out of your window.

It was almost night so I converted my seat into a berth, and took out my sheets. It would get really cold. Very hot days and very cold nights is a characteristic feature of the middle and western parts of the country. I took out my India Today magazine and lay down. Barely had I read a few lines when the light went out. The old man with whom I was sharing apparently had a strict sleep regime to follow and had switched the lights off. What could I say, he had two seats and I had just one; on Indian trains, majority always wins.

Shouts of "Chai...Chai" (tea) resounded in the train at 6.30am. On board you have no need of an alarm clock to wake you up. Hawkers selling every breakfast item imaginable right inside the train serve that cause. Too bad they don't come with a snooze function! Knowing that it was virtually impossible to sleep in the midst of all this ruckus, I motioned a hawker to stop and bought a cup of coffee. It was not the creamiest coffee I had ever enjoyed, but then that was what was available.

Interaction with fellow passengers is extremely cautious on board. At least it has been so ever since last year when the 'Biscuit Gang' brought terror into the minds of passengers. The modus operandi of these criminals was to get friendly with the passengers in their bay. Then they would offer them biscuits that actually contain a sleep inducing drug. The passenger would accept it and would drop asleep as soon as he finished eating it. And since bays on a train are relatively isolated from each other, the gangster would have no problem relieving the person of money and valuables before getting off at the next station. Any single male traveling on a train would be regarded with suspicion. So, in this old Gujuarti man's eyes, me, a nice affable young chap, was a potential Biscuit Gang member! The only times we ever interacted was when he would ask me in Hindi when the train stopped, which station it was. His wife was permanently in 'berth mode', sleeping blissfully in the heat as well as the cold.

You will be amazed when you see how ingenious people become when it comes to earning money. A group of three young boys, barely teenagers, entered our carriage as it stopped at Surat, and began singing. It was a complete roadside band. There was a lead vocalist, a guy jingling a bell that someone must have given him second hand, and another rattling two broken tiles to the rhythm. And they sang with their 'instruments', a song from Lagaan (the Hindi film that made it to the Oscars), the voice was hypnotizing, and their performance set all of us in the bay in a state of trance. If this kid had enough money to go to a studio, people would be paying to hear him sing. After the act, the kids thrust their hands forward asking for money. I handed over a ten-rupee note with a word of appreciation; the old man looked at me disdainfully. He must have thought I was encouraging begging but oh no, I was just appreciating talent, real talent, not some Britney Spears kind of skin-deep talent. He grudgingly dropped a one-rupee coin in the kid's palm. The boy accepted it, did a quick salute and went off to the next bay. So much talent in our countryside goes wasted, if only we could tap it. Another kid in the vicinity, eyeing my generosity, offered to polish my shoes for a fee -- an offer I politely refused.

When I saw Anand through my window my joy knew no bounds. "Just another 45 minutes, Manoj", I said to myself. When you're riding 35 hours, 45 minutes should not be too long but without doubt that was the longest three-quarters of an hour of my life! I bought a bottle of Badaam Milk, (crushed almonds with milk) from Anand. India's largest milk and milk products factory, AMUL, is based here and the milk sold is perhaps the purest and freshest in the country.

The old man and his wife were freshening up; I didn't bother to even have a wash. There was no point, it was going to take surgery to get me back in good shape. Rugged, travel-weary and with a strong resolve to travel by air-conditioned coach the next time, I found myself standing on the Ahmedabad Junction platform.

After spending close to two hours in the shower and another hour in front of the mirror, I called my mother. When I told her about the grueling train journey and the blistering heat, she started getting philosophical. "You have to get used to a little bit of hardship. In life we may have to deal with such situations." "Yeah", I said, "I think I'm fully trained for that now!"

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"Would like to suggest to Manoj that he could shed extra money for privileges such as air conditioning. He thought the helpful porters were trying to rob him but he should know that every customer matters." Arun Ostwal