EXCLUSIVE: THE INDIAN VOYAGE OF MICHAEL FIELD <<2>>

Out of Rajahmundry, Andra Pradesh, aboard the Coromandal Express bound for Chennai
Indians are easily among the friendliest people on the planet. Quickly the engage strangers, such as myself, in conversation. They are curious about where I come from and when told, inevitably all they know of it is that it plays cricket. They have too a sense of national pride but are conscious of the image the world has of them.
“Many touristic people,” one man told me on the Rajahmundry platform, “are only seeing the poverty. They do not see the other side.”
He spoke with the infectious accent of South India. I can see I will acquire it quickly.
Another man wanted to know why I was on the train: “You are the only foreigner on the whole train.”
It had not occurred to me, but I think he is right. Although I think he means white person; India is the kind of place where every glance, every sample of people, will contain citizens from around Asia and the Middle East.
The train trip through the night was comfortable. It is like a village here Men snored, the hundreds of bangles on women’s wrists gently sang through the night; babies cried and the coffee and chai sellers moved through, quietly touting their wears.
The guard has just been. Loved the computer.
“Oh, Pentium. Latest model?”
My new best friend, a 10-year-old boy from Orissa, loves my Ipod, phone and computer. Startlingly he zips through them all and its obvious he knews everything to know about them all. His father manufactures incense and the family is going south for a holiday. The boy roams over the train and opens doors. Passing through endless paddies we can see the farmers and their families working.
“Village people use slang words,” the boy observes. “They sound funny.”
“Are you from a village?”
“No,” he replies looking at me as if I was stupid, “I am from the city.”
Off in the distance a line of women, all in colourful saris, carry jars to the water pump. It looked wildly beautiful.
Vijayawada Junction is famous for being that, a junction and a couple of big intercity trains were there, including one heading up to Delhi. It was very clean and brutally hot. Roaming the platform a uniformed man came to me and said he was doing a survey on train toilets. Sigh, no escape these days. It seemed to be a kind of push-polling and his career depended on getting a good result. Any suggestion from me that on a scale from one to five with five being good that the toilets were not a five was going to be resisted.
As it happened, on the Coromandal Express the toilets were and remained clean throughout. Which is, no doubt, a great relief to the army of Indians who have told me about how bad train toilets are. I imagine in places they are; but this time I had no complaint.
Two policeman wandered by escorting a prisoner. It looked all very casual.
At Viyayawada we get a new carriage mate who is told by the guard has to ride in the bunk above me. I had no objection to him sharing my low level bunk now that it was daytime, but the guard was insistent. The passenger was dark and moody and constantly worked his cellphone. Never attempted to chat to any of us. A stranger!
As we neared Chennai every village was winding down for the day and groups were gathering around … the stumps. From the crowded streets of Mumbai to the remotes village on the Tamil Naidu plains, Indians play cricket with such passion. You seldom see any other game being played.
It was with a tinge of sadness that the journey ended; I could kill for a shower, but the place had become homelike and the people pleasant. The Orissa boy raced up too me and quickly gave me two boxes of incense. I was very touched.