The Munsters

1991 ... I knew as soon as I saw them that trouble was brewing.

It wasn’t that there were thirteen of them. Despite me being superstitious and not very keen on this unlucky number. It wasn’t the way they were all shoving and pushing to get through the narrow door into the train carriage. How else would you board an Indian train? It wasn’t that they had an inordinate amount of luggage. That was quite normal. It was their sheer physical size that was daunting. They were all enormous. Even the little kids. And the size of each piece of baggage that accompanied them matched their physical form. The biggest suitcases I had ever seen and the largest bedrolls on the planet - think 3 foot wide lumpy calico-covered mattresses rolled up like Swiss rolls and you will just about have the right image. Throw into this mix a noise volume that defied counting in decibels and you can imagine why, for once, the angel in my heart and the demon in my head were in agreement. This had all the potential to be the journey from hell.

I was on a train heading out of Old Delhi station. Bound for Calcutta. One and a half days away. A journey I had done many times. Always without incident. Well, apart from the usual incidents like people trying to nick your seat when you went to the loo. Or your walking boots when you went to sleep. Whilst they were still firmly affixed to your feet. Or the conductor throwing away your ticket, then telling you didn’t have one and demanding money to allow you to stay on the train. Or having to teach English for the entire journey. Or displaying the contents of your rucksack for all and sundry to inspect. Including underwear. Or demonstrating your Swiss Army penknife. You know, the usual kind of stuff that happens when you are a blonde-haired, blue-eyed object of curiosity amongst a sea of nut-brown faces and raven-black hair. All captive on a train for endless hours with not very much to do.

Back to The Munsters. As I christened them almost immediately. I was hoping and praying that they were not bound for my empty section of the carriage. I knew that I would not be by myself for the trip. Of course not. This was India, after all. But please. Not them. Please.

Tough luck.

I watched in horror as they started to pile their never-ending mountain of luggage onto the floor between the two bench seats. On one of which I was sitting. Appropriate here, I think, to give a brief insight into the geography of a ‘second-class fan’ compartment of a broad gauge Indian train. Two bench seats opposite each other. Corridor to one side. Window to the other. These are meant to seat three people each during daylight hours. Above your heads, on either side, are two more benches. The middle one is pulled up during the day. Lowered only at night otherwise it bangs the heads of those sitting beneath it. Above this is another bench, permanently lowered, with a clearance between the carriage roof and your nose of about two centimetres when you lie on it. At night these benches become your ‘bed.’ So, as you can see, each compartment is designed for six.

In your dreams. Your wildest ones at that.

Not in countless journeys on such trains have I ever sat with just five others. Always at least seven. More usually eight or nine. Makes for interesting sleeping arrangements let me tell you. But never had I had to contend with thirteen others. All of such magnificent girth. This was a nightmare that did not even bear thinking about.

But then again. It was not a nightmare. It was reality. So think about it I must. Believe me. There was no option. As good as I am at meditating, at losing myself in the inner recesses of my soul, not even I could divorce myself from the mayhem that was being wrecked around me. They were there. To stay. For the next one and a half days.

God help me. Or Brahma, or Shiva, or Vishnu or anyone else who happened to be listening.

But no one was.

I was stuck with them. ‘Stuck’ being an apt choice of word. I was squashed between Mama, ample rolls of fat exquisitely draped in a shocking pink Benares silk sari shot through with gold, and the window. On the other side of her was another woman of equal breadth but swathed in rich purple. And beyond her, two very fat children. Boys. Obnoxious. Already spitting at their brother across from them. Delightful.

Opposite me was a man. Father I assumed. Big. Of course. Arrogant countenance. Pock-marked with acne scars. Thick hair slicked back with something very shiny and stiff. Cream silk kurtha pyjama suit. Very flash for a long train journey. Several heavy gold rings. Chewing betel. Squirting blood red juice from the side of his mouth. Aiming for the open window. Missing two times out of three. I was already beginning to feel sick and the train hadn’t even left the station.

Next to him was an elderly man. Prodigious in waistline. Dribbling. Marginally better than spitting, I supposed. Beside him an even older woman. Colourful rainbow sari. More fat than a blubber whale. No teeth. Not so much dribbling as water-falling, if you get my meaning. My demon could not help but speculate how they all managed to get so huge.

That accounted for eight of them. The rest were on the middle benches. Lowered, thus preventing those of us sitting below from straightening our spines. Adding insult to what was be inevitably going to be injury they were dangling their filthy, cracked, fungus-toe-nailed feet in front of our faces. Truly, truly awful and made worse by the ever-present possibility that the benches might collapse under the weight of them all.

What ever had I done in a past life to warrant this? A question that the demon kept throwing around my awareness. And in that moment, one that the angel had no reply to. But she was working on it.

There was nowhere to put my feet. All the floor space was taken up by the Munsters’ luggage. I wrapped my legs around my head and settled in for the long haul. OK. I didn’t exactly wrap them around my head because I am too lazy in my yoga classes to be able to do that. But I did have to contort myself into a position that was terribly uncomfortable. One that was only marginally less than completely unbearable.

I decided that I had better not drink anything. For the entire journey. Going to the loo would be a feat requiring manoeuvres of military-style precision. Plus, I would most certainly not have anywhere to sit when I got back. And as for sleep. Forget it.

So that was that. I could not change compartment as the train was full to overflowing. As always. I was condemned to my prison. The Munsters’ and their luggage as my jailors. All the way from Delhi to Calcutta. This was almost a fate worse than death. But, the angel whispered in my ear as we were slowly pulling out of the station, it was surely as bad as it could get. So, look to the future with hope. Things could not get any worse.

Wrong.

They could. And they did.

We had been going for no more than half an hour when the Munsters began to eat. All of them at once. Monkey nuts. For the uninitiated, peanuts with the shells on. Imagine the scene if you will. Shouting. Eating. Spitting. Dribbling. Squirting betel juice. And throwing peanut shells here, there and everywhere. Me? Well, either by misfortune (said the angel) or judgement (said the demon) I was the target for most of the shells. Revolting. Believe me. Worse still, they seemed to have kilos and kilos of the things.

And so the die was cast for the remainder of the journey. I will not recount the rest of this nightmare. I would quite simply prefer not to go there. But suffice to say that we arrived in Calcutta not a moment too soon. Just in the nick of time, in fact. I don’t think I have ever come so close to committing murder as I did on that train journey. And I am not ashamed to admit it. I never thought I had such phenomenal restraint within me.

It took The Munsters an age to remove their luggage and themselves from the carriage. I sat. Mute. In my corner. Waiting for silence to descend. Waiting so I that could stand and stretch my now very numb, very sore limbs. Waiting to push my way through several inches of peanut shells and all manner of other detritus to get out of the carriage into the fresh air. Well, as fresh as it gets in Calcutta. Almost an hour it took them to disembark. Pushing and shoving once more. Though goodness knows why.

I have never in my life been so glad for an adventure to end.

But like all adventures, good or bad, there is always a positive outcome. As a result of this ‘Journey From Hell’ starring The Munsters, I have never again moaned about an economy airline seat not having enough clearance nor reclining far enough. To me they are the height of luxury.

Secondly, but much more importantly, this episode with the Munsters taught me the value of tenacity and patience. It taught me that with them we are able endure and emerge from circumstances that are both challenging and beyond our capability to change. This really is a priceless gift. And one that I have used several times since, when I have been fighting to stay in this life dance.

For all that they were, how I wish I could thank them.

Well. I guess it’s never too late.

To The Munsters. All of you. Wherever you are.

“I thank you.” Big time.

And I think you know what I mean by ‘big.’

© Jacqueline Le Sueur 2006