The man who gradually slid his scrawny backside into my seat
offered me a paper packet of groundnuts boiled in brine. Considering that I’d allowed
him to squeeze into my seat, it was a kind token of gratitude, but I was
unsure. I’d heard nightmarish stories train travellers being drugged to sleep
and the miscreants then making off with their belongings. Hence I politely
declined and returned to my novel. He chuckled and popped a few groundnuts into
his mouth. He showed me how he chewed and ingested them, then smiled and
offered the groundnuts once again, satisfied that he had proved to me that they
weren’t laced. His affability made me ease my guard and I took some groundnuts from
his packet.
‘We’ve got the whole day to spend, sahib,’ he said, still
grinning and masticating at the same time. ‘You will get bored reading that
book all day long. Why not eat and drink and chat a little? Good ways to pass
time.’
I concurred and put my novel into my backpack. Fishing out a
packet of Parle G biscuits, I offered him just like he had done his groundnuts.
For some reason, he was amused but he took two biscuits. A chai vendor
appeared, just in time, and I bought two chais for both of us.
‘Is it true that as the train goes north, people with
ordinary, unreserved seat tickets get into these reserved compartments as well?’
The man stopped dipping his biscuit in his tea.
‘Why sahib, are you uncomfortable right now? Should I get
up?’ he asked me and looked about. I let out a sheepish chuckle and quickly
told him that I didn’t mean to ask him to leave. That was another horror story
I’d heard about northbound trains. As the train reached the northern states,
which people impolitely labelled "the cowbelt", anybody who fancied a trip on the
train got into any compartment regardless of whether they were for travelers who
had confirmed, reserved seats. Some of them don’t even buy regular or ordinary
tickets! If a passenger protested, the chaps would call his accomplices and
they’d not hesitate to rough up the protesting passenger.
‘No no sahib,’ the man shook his head vigorously and said. ‘By
the way, how far are you going?’
‘Jabalpur.’
‘Ah, then you have nothing to worry! Jabalpur will come early
morning tomorrow. All that madness happens only after the train reaches UP. You
relax, sahib. Enjoy the tea!’
He then went on to tell me about how the train schedule and
everything else goes haywire once the train reaches Allahabad. After that,
nobody knows when it will crawl out and reach Gorakhpur.
‘Are you from Madhya Pradesh (MP)?’ he asked. I told him
that I wasn’t and that I was travelling to a national park.
‘Why? Are you a forest officer?’
I’ve often wished that I was one but I told him that I wasn’t.
‘Jabalpur is not your native place?’
I shook my head and the man frowned and shrugged his
shoulders, even scratched his head a little. He could not understand why
someone would travel to a jungle in Central India all alone when he does not
even belong to that part of the country. Perhaps Khajuraho or even the Marble
Rocks or Bhedaghat in Jabalpur would have made sense because they are popular tourist
destinations. I asked him where he was
going. To his hometown near Azamgarh, he said. It was harvest time. He worked
in Mumbai as a security personnel and had taken leave for almost a month to go
home.
 |
| Sunrise at Kanha national park. Photo courtesy: Ankur Nagar |
‘I’m not sure my job will still be there when I return,’ he
said and shrugged once again. Another north Indian chap who had got into the
train at Kalyan and until then was struggling to put a folded pram somewhere finally
found some space under the seat where he could tuck the pram away. He heaved
and plopped into his seat. The man sitting next to me patted his shoulders and
offered him my biscuits. Two other men sitting across us joined in and soon,
they got talking among themselves and I was left alone. I’m sure they had a lot
in common to talk about and mull over. I was the alien in that section of the
Sleeper Class compartment, the odd city-bred with airs of conceitedness and
preconceived notions. Even at the time of boarding the train at Kurla Terminus,
I was apprehensive about the trip, about travelling to unfamiliar lands with complete
strangers. My worries were exacerbated by the sight of policemen whacking with
their cane sticks and herding poor travellers into the General Class bogies.
Where was I going, I could not stop wondering. But three hours into the
journey, I realised that these were simple folk, friendly and accommodating,
quite unlike the prejudiced advisories I got in the city.
Even their conversations were strange. They inquired about
the harvest and the last season’s rain, about tractors and tractor rentals, motors
and pumps, panchayat matters, dealings with extended family members, and
other such bizarre things that we city folk know nothing about. Every now and
then, they turned to me and roped me into their conversation. The pram, for
instance, was for his newborn, the man with mustard-oil laden, neatly combed
hair said. It was a son, his second-born, and he was going to see him for the
first time. The man sitting next to me was trying to explain to the rest of his
audience why renting a tractor made more sense than owning one.
‘Am I right or not, sahib?’ he asked me. I returned his
smile and shrug.
From Jabalpur to Kanha by bus
The journey was peaceful and promptly at 4 am, the train
reached Jabalpur. I knew I had threee hours to kill and so I went into the waiting
room, put my rucksack and backpack down, and sat in a vacant chair between two
sleeping men, wrapped in blankets. The sun hadn’t risen and it was quite
chilly, but in the waiting room, it was relatively warmer. I had a nice jacket,
a brown one that my father used for a very long time, and a sweater inside, but
I made a mental note to buy myself gloves and a skull cap if possible.
There
were two basic “Indian style” loos and a Western Commode one, and a long
kitchen-sink-like wash basin attached to the waiting room. Inside the loo, high
up near the ceiling, there was an ancient, iron cistern from which water
constantly dripped into a Dalda tin, which also served as a bathroom mug. A
piece of advice here for budget travellers, especially women: In most of India,
you can forget hygiene. Toilets are filthy and nonexistent in some places. That’s
why you won’t find many women backpacking travelers in India, except in places
like Goa or Rajasthan. But then again, they aren’t “economy” travellers.
As dawn broke forth, I had chai at the railway stall and stepped
out of the Jabalpur station into the frigid outdoors. The jacket and sweater
were adequate but my hands and earlobes froze, and my nose was runny. For a man
who was born and raised by the coast who had not seen anything less than 13
degrees C in his life, this cold was intimidating. I dreaded to think what the
nights were like in these parts, that too inside the jungle!
A cycle-rickshaw man asked for Rs. 40 to ferry me to the bus
station. Just when I was about to refuse the offer – he was a wiry old man; the
thought of him having to lug me in his rickshaw made me take pity on him – he brought
the price down to Rs. 25. He said that the bus stop was a good two-kilometre walk, not a good prospect for someone like me who was unused to the cold. I got
in and in ten minutes he ferried me to the bus stop.
I got a window seat for Rs. 85 in a tin-pot of a
government-run bus to Kanha. The bus left promptly at 7 am as the orange
glow of the rising sun got stronger. Jabalpur is a pretty, quaint little
cantonment town with Raj-era buildings, schools and colleges, garrison
buildings, and military establishments. It is rumoured that Jabalpur sits on
top of a vast, underground ammunition warehouse, but it might just be folklore.
What is true, however, is that Jabalpur is home to the Shaktiman Truck Factory,
which supplies trucks and other vehicles to the Indian Army. Even before it exited the town, our bus was
packed with a diverse mix of passengers. At various points on the 165-kms
journey to Kanha, I had different varieties of people sitting next to me: a
woman with a basket full of chickens, a hermit with matt-locked hair and a long
beard and moustache, and finally a thin road-works contractor from Narsingpur,
he said. He had to travel to someplace called Nainpur and had earlier planned
to take the 5 AM narrow gauge train from Jabalpur, but had missed his train.
After Barela and Dhanwahi, the bus stopped for a tea and pee
break at a village called Narayangaon or Narayanpur (I can’t remember now). There,
I learned another thing about Madhya Pradesh: The people here loved fried
foods. They began their day with an assortment of fries – samosa, bhajjiya, farsan – but I settled for a traditional
MP jalebi-poha, and I didn’t regret the choice! For only Rs. 10, I got a plate
full of delicious yellow jalebis with tiny strands of sugarcane still embedded
in them. Those were the juiciest jalebis I’ve ever had with poha. After the
stop, the bus hurtled through pristine forested hills to Mandla and halted over
there for about half an hour.
Most of the passengers got off here, leaving only the
contractor and a few others behind. The conductor told me that I could go eat
something if I wanted, because the bus would halt here for a while. So I got
off and stretched my limbs, and then telephoned home to tell my parents that I
was doing all right. A man got into the bus and asked me whether I had found
accommodation already in Kanha National Park. I told him that I’d booked a bed
for myself in the state-run MP Tourism dormitory for Rs. 350, which included
vegetarian meals.
‘But sahib, that’s inside the jungle!’ he said, looking
worried.
That was the point, I told him.
‘But you don’t get anything inside the jungle, sahib. You’ll
get bored!’ He gave me a visiting card which read “Motel Chandan-Khatia Gate.”
‘This is budget hotel sahib. Very nice, very clean,
top-class room. Also, you’ll find lots of eateries around the motel because it
is just outside Khatia gate. That’s the first entrance to the national park.’
I assured him that I’ll keep Motel Chandan in mind for my
next trip and even tell my friends about it. Eventually, the driver and
conductor returned and we drove off from Mandla.
The contractor sat next to me
now, and with folded hands, offered prayers as we crossed a river, I think a tributary of the Narmada.
‘That is Mandla fort, sir,’ he said, pointing to a black-rock
structure atop a hillock. ‘It was a fort of the Gonds.’
From Mandla, most of the landscape was flat and full of
farmlands, dotted with haystacks. There were no woods for as far as my eyes could see. After a village
called Bamhani, a fork appeared in the road. The left one went to Kanha
National Park, indicated by large signboards all over, and the right one went
to someplace called Chiraidongri. The bus took the right fork.
I panicked and sprang out of my seat when the conductor
turned around and chuckled.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘This bus will go to Chiraidongri and then
turn towards Kanha.’
‘Remember I told you I missed my train?’ the contractor
said. ‘Well, I’ll get off at Chiraidongri railway station and find another bus
from there to Nainpur. My train must’ve gone already.’
The tiny Chiraidongri railway station appeared
out of nowhere. The contractor bid goodbye and got off, and the bus turned left
towards Kanha. There was still no sight of forests and I began to worry. Vast
farmlands and tribal hamlets with their colourful mud huts kept coming, but no
jungle in sight. Finally, the bus rattled across the Baihar river, no wider
than a jungle stream, and the first grove of sal trees appeared on the other
bank. The bus passed through another village called Mocha, which I’d seen in a
map in Moulton and Hulsey’s book on Kanha. I also saw the signboards pointing
to Kipling Camp and Tuli resorts. Finally, as the excitement built up, Khatia
Gate appeared in front of the bus.
 |
In Kisli, the road leading from the dormitory or Tourist Hostel (see signboard)
to Khatia Gate, 3.5 kilometres outside the core forest. |
‘You have a confirmed booking inside, don’t you?’ the
conductor asked. I showed him the confirmation slip.
‘Okay. Sir, this is buffer zone of Kanha national park. The
dormitory and Baghira log huts, both run by government, is 3.5 kilometres
inside the core zone of the park. Be careful sir, especially at night. Don’t
loiter about in the forest.’
I smiled and glanced out the window at the forest of sal trees. A herd of chital or spotted deer was foraging nearby. Langurs or monkeys scampered about. What the well-meaning conductor didn't know was that I, or the Mowgli inside me, was, for the first time in his life, coming home.
***
