It was cleaner than Agra, no rubbish piled in the streets and the drains ran in neat, but still smelly, gutters along the edge. 

The station was busy but not crowed, kids played on the platform and street vendors mysteriously arrived with each train, leaping onto the tracks, filling the platforms and pressing their drinks, snacks and nic-nacs on patient (and not so patient) passengers.

My train arrived. It was absolutely packed. A young university student (or lecturer) who spoke excellent  English had expressed surprise that I was waiting for THIS train. I didn't understand why - he tried to explain but by now we were too busy trying to board. He grabbed my rucksack and told me to climb on and push my way through the crowd to halfway down the carriage. It all happened very quickly. I did as he said. Amazingly he had acquired two seats. I sat down. He explained that this was the very slow train to Delhi, the Jannata train I think he said. It would stop everywhere and take more than five hours. He said I should have waited for the express which would overtake this train and arrive much earlier.

The train crawled along. It stopped frequently, often apparently nowhere. Each time passengers leaped in and out through the windows and traders worked the length of the train selling fruit, samosas, chappatis, biscuits and char (tea) in little earthenware cups that looked like small plant pots. When the train moved off the traders ran alongside, making that last deal. I tried the char but it was too sweet, boiled up with the milk and sugar already added. I tried the fruit. I was thirsty - a cucumber seller came over. "Yes please". Quick as a flash he quartered the fruit length ways and smothered it in salt. I looked horrified he looked puzzled. "No salt thank you". Big grin, another cucumber. Again quickly quartered and this time, just as speedily as before, he smothered it in sugar. Grinning even more, he presented it. I paid up. No chance of  plain cucumber. It was the only train I took in over three weeks that didn't have bars on the windows.

The wooden seat grew harder with the passing hours. My companion told me about the type of people who lived in the little huts, some little more than mud and straw, I saw from time to time along our route. He said they worked hard but earned only about Rs 200/- per month. No wonder the rickshaw men had been keen. It was dark when I arrived in Delhi, thankfully I took a rickshaw to Golf Links and a cooked mean. Jane looked ill, covered in insect bites.