The next morning, I rise before the crack of dawn and start my seven hour train trip to the foothills of the Himalayas. The previous night, I bought some bread and fruit for the journey. I needn't have bothered: a constant stream of sales people snakes through the train. 'Chai! Chai!' 'Brrrrrreakfast!', 'Tomato soup!', 'Chips, biscuits, cake, water!', they cry in a continous mantra. It is never-ending. As soon as I only tentatively glance into their direction, they stop and try and place a cup of tea in my hands. Two Indian soldiers with turbans sit diagonally across from me and play with their guns. I am pursued by the same cockroach for the whole journey. Every time I flick it away, it magically re-appears on the same spot a minute later. Eventually, I give up
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