Upper class travel

There is a popular story in India about Sudha Murthy, the wife of the software billionaire Narayan Murthy and mother in law of ex British prime minister Rishi Sunak.

The Murthys have retained their humility despite their immense wealth, endearing them to the Indian public. Once, Sudha was standing in line at the business class check-in for some international flight out of an Indian airport. As always, she was dressed in a plain, unassuming cotton saree. The person behind her is said to have told her,

“Ma’m, the economy line is over there.”!

So much for making assumptions and the symptoms of unconscious bias. But these things happen to everyone. It happened to me as well. My only excuse is that I was still a young lad of 19 at the time.

I had gone to spend my Dusserah holidays with my sister in Kasaragod. Just like the students of today, the students of the 70s were also skint. We travelled third class and didn’t make a reservation just to save a few rupees. The journey lasting two nights and 3 days from Calcutta to Kasaragod in an unreserved third class compartment on an Indian train of the 70s was something else. If you were lucky, you could occupy the luggage rack and get some sleep. If not you perched with half a bum at the edge of a seat originally designed for three but usually occupied by six, sorry six and a half. If you got up you lost your seat. If you left your patch of luggage berth to use the toilet, someone else occupied it. The Railways went to great lengths to ensure the facilities were functional and devoid of any vestige of comfort. The seats were hard wood with no upholstery.

So, imagine my delight when my brother in law surprised me by gifting me a first class ticket for the return journey to Calcutta. As I was boarding the empty compartment which proudly displayed my name among a printed list of privileged first class passengers, he advised me,

“Don’t let all and sundry get into the first class.”

First class and third class were like heaven and hell. As the inferior classes filled up, some people try to barge into the first class. My brother in law probably had this in mind when he advised me. But discretion is not an attribute associated with 19 year olds. I took his counsel to heart and decided to implement it without fear or favour.

I was the only occupant in a coach that comprised some five or six spacious cabins with their own individual doors and plush cushioned interiors. Most cabins had four berths while some were coupés with two berths preferred by honeymooners and other amorous couples.

The train arrived at Payyannur, approximately an hour later. I was walking the corridor determined to deny entry to anyone who tried. I noticed someone trying to open the rear door and promptly locked it from the inside using the heavy steel latches provided. A young gentleman with a very severe moustache looked quite puzzled and upset when he saw what I had done. He was accompanied by a whole bunch of soldiers in military green uniform and boots and all. Then he said with some urgency in his voice,

“Please open the door.”

The train was scheduled to stop there only for a short time. I simply shook my head. The conversation was monosyllabic.

“No!”
“No?” The soldiers joined their leader in a chorus of incredulity.
“No.” I was firm.

There was no time to argue. The gentleman and his platoon ran to the other end of the coach. They ran fast and in step. The sound of their boots on the concrete platform, loud and rhythmic, evoked visions of galloping wild stallions. I outran them but from the inside and locked the front door as well.

“Open the bloody door,” the distressed passenger was red with all the running and uncontrolled fury. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t go to his own second or third class compartment. Nevertheless, I owed him an explanation, I thought. So I said,

“Ayyoo, this is first class!”

He replied,

“Do you think only you can travel by first class? Open the door NOW!”

The train was hooting, ready to depart. I let him in. He was a serving Captain travelling on a warrant issued by the Indian Army. He had more rights to first class travel than I did. He was traveling to Calcutta as well. We exchanged addresses before we parted.

Only last week, my sister was traveling from London to Bangalore via Frankfurt. Her flight was late getting into Frankfurt and she was worried she was going to miss the connecting flight. She arrived at the departure gate and pushed through a large throng of people waiting at the counter.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” she said as she inched her way frantically to the front of the crowd. Then someone in a wrinkled old kurta told her,

“We’re all waiting for the same flight.”

“But I am in business class,” my sister insisted.

“We’re all business class,” said the kurta man! It transpired he was traveling with his wife, a famous Bollywood singer.

So, the moral of the story is – I don’t know what it is, but I just love telling these funny stories! 😊