Delhi Dust, Train Chaos & Finding First Class
New Delhi, India
We left our emergency hotel, strictly bed and no breakast, slightly disoriented, under-caffeinated, and already behind a schedule that didn't really exist. First stop was McDonald’s near Kashmere Gate Metro Station—the one inside the bus terminal complex. It was early, not yet 9 a.m., and already the place buzzed with commuters grabbing quick breakfasts before plunging into the capital’s daily chaos.
As we sat near the automatic doors, a young boy hovered outside, watching closely. He waited until a table cleared and he darted in—snatching up a leftover tomato sauce sachet, which he tore open and sucked dry like it was nectar. The image stuck with me. You always read about poverty in India, but when it’s a kid scraping ketchup off a wrapper beside your breakfast tray, it hits hard. This was real.
The Great Delhi Gauntlet
We stepped out into the smog—Tim, ever the practical one, pulled on a face mask. I laughed it off, pretending the smoke didn't bother me. (Spoiler: it did. I coughed like an old smoker.)
Our goal: New Delhi Railway Station. We entered the Kashmere Gate metro interchange, Delhi’s largest and most hectic, connecting the Yellow, Red, and Violet Lines. After a few minutes of deciphering signs and jostling with commuters, we turned around and decided to get a TukTuk to the massive railway hub, which took about 20 minutes and was far less hassle, but also death defying and VERY noisy. Sounding your car horn is compulsory in India (or Delhi at least).
How Not to Buy a Train Ticket
If you've ever tried to buy a ticket at New Delhi Railway Station, you’ll understand the word “chaos” doesn’t quite cut it. With absolutely no clue where to go, we were quickly approached by a tout who confidently took over. “You want ticket? Come, come.”
Suspicious but lost, we followed him. He ushered us toward a counter, where—miraculously—we were sold tickets heading east to Moradabad for just a few quid, plus his 50p “guide fee.” Fair enough. Tim decided we’d head that way, then switch lines north to reach Nainital via Kathgodam.
Platform Madness & a Bit of Luck
We made our way to the platform and stopped dead. It was unlike anything I’d seen: families camping on blankets, kids asleep under benches, vendors weaving through crowds shouting “chai! samosa!” and thousands of people jostling for space. The train arrived and stretched on for what felt like a mile—an enormous beast, heaving into the station.
The train is going east toward Moradabad, we joined the flood of bodies pushing into the carriages, unsure of where to sit (being politely British while everyone scrambled). It was sweaty, hectic, disorienting. People kept moving us on, indicating we were in the wrong seats. The ticket inspector found us and guided us forward through the crush of bodies to our assigned sleeper car—a four-bed compartment that felt like a tiny oasis. In First Class A/C, no less and tucked away far up the platform, it was a clean-ish, cool carriage. We sank into padded seats and accepted biriyani and chai from a uniformed attendant—just £1.50 for the works. The contrast was unreal. From street kids and station hawkers to air-con and stainless-steel trays, all within the space of an hour.
As the train finally pulled out of Delhi (late), we sat back and watched the chaos fade into countryside. It was our first real breath of India—intense, colourful, messy, and moving.
That’s where we met Deep Deep—a kind, composed Indian woman dressed in traditional attire, travelling alone to visit her sick father near Sealdah, the eastern terminus in Kolkata. Her English was excellent. What followed was 3½ hours of genuine conversation: Wales, India, culture clashes, scams, safety tips, what not to eat, and definitely what not to trust.
She offered some strong advice: “Don’t waste your time going to Nainital—it’s dirty and not worth the effort. You should go to Rishikesh instead.” We’d barely made a plan for the next step, but that was all we needed to hear. Plans changed instantly.
🏙️ Moradabad: From Tracks to Trash
As we stepped off the train in Moradabad, we entered what felt like another world—and not in a good way. Straight into the slums. Filthy, chaotic, and suffocating. Eyes were on us—hard, unfriendly stares. It felt like we were the first foreigners to set foot there (or at least the first who didn’t immediately board another train).
The main street—[likely Station Road or Budh Bazaar area]—was a jumble of shops, grime, and confusion. We considered staying the night, but absolutely nothing looked safe or clean, and the sun was sinking fast.
🚓 An Accent and an Exit Plan
Back at the station, we stared blankly at the giant wall of train schedules, none of which made sense. That’s when a policeman approached us. He spoke English, but asked me to speak in an Indian accent because he couldn’t understand my Welsh one.
Slightly bizarre. A bit racist? Maybe. But I played along—put on the accent and explained we wanted to get to Rishikesh. He laughed, then got serious. “No more trains tonight. Taxi’s your only option.”
🚖 Meet Michael Messi – Taxi Driver & Chaos Pilot
That’s how we met Michael Messi, who greeted us with a confident handshake and an unmissable smirk. £45 was the deal—four hours north to Rishikesh.
The drive? Terrifying. India’s roads don’t care about your rules or your fear. We were overtaking on blind corners, dodging cows, weaving through oncoming traffic. Every minute felt like it could be our last. And yet... somehow, we survived.
At one point, Michael pulled over for chai at a roadside family-run café. Inside, locals were glued to the TV, watching India vs Sri Lanka in the 2023 Cricket World Cup. He noticed us craning our necks to see the score and, in a gesture of unexpected kindness, handed me his phone so I could stream the match for the rest of the drive. Class.
🌙 Rishikesh at Last
We handbrake turned and doughnutted into Rishikesh at 9:30 pm, knackered but relieved. “Where’s your hotel?” Michael asked. We didn’t have one. He chuckled at our relaxed (read: totally unprepared) travel style and pulled up outside a line of guesthouses on ISBT Road. It was near the bus station and near the dried up Chandrabhaga River.
We found rooms quickly at the first place, Hotel Suruchi. Mine cost £8, with a huge ceiling fan to ward off mosquitoes. Tim’s room had a hole in the floor for a toilet. Welcome to backpacker India.
A Peaceful Night, at Last
The contrast with Delhi and Moradabad was stunning. The streets were almost silent. A single cow wandered lazily past us. We searched for food and eventually found a lively café full of locals. The food was excellent—simple, fresh, cheap.
A group of lads kept staring at us, these two Welsh boys. They were curious and warm, they asked about our trip and told us more about the area. We learned that Rishikesh is a meat- and alcohol-free city, thanks to its spiritual significance. It’s also the Yoga Capital of the World, they proudly told us.
We’d stumbled into something special. Exhausted, full, and finally breathing easy, we walked back to our rooms—ready to explore Rishikesh in daylight.
