A conversation with my brother sparked a memory from a trip to India almost 10 years ago. I think we were talking about solo travel in places with a language barrier, but I don’t really remember.

I was traveling from Benares to Agra by train. I had spent a few days along the Ganges and my next stop was to see the Taj Mahal. If you ever have a chance to see Benares, you should go.

The driver who had brought me to the station hailed a porter, gave him instructions in Hindi and handed him my suitcase. The porter nodded and walked away with my suitcase on his head. The driver said, “Don’t worry, Madam. He will take care of your bag”. He pointed me in the direction of my platform, and said goodbye before I could ask any questions. I watched his car drive away not really knowing what questions I would have asked. I turned my head in the direction the porter had gone but he had long disappeared into the crowd.

I swallowed the panic rising in my throat and made my way towards my plaform. “It is going to be fine,” I kept telling myself. “Maybe this is just how things worked here in India”.

In the moment, I had little choice but to trust the system. Still, my logical overthinking mind considered that I had my passport and wallet with me so if this was a con and I never saw my bag again, the catastrophe was limited. With no other choice really, I was going to be ok with however it turned out.

The platform got more and more crowded. There were people sleeping, people with large piles of luggage that I couldn’t imagine how they were going to get it onboard. There were chickens squawking in crates. Vendors walked up and down yelling about their wares. I didn’t understand the language but my nostrils understood when it was food or soap. The other wares were a mystery and I tried not to stare as deals were made. It was a lot to take in between the sights, sounds and smells of the bustling station. All my senses where firing with the moment being both a little daunting and also thrilling in that “I can’t even believe I’m sitting in a train station in Benares on a grand adventure” way. I wanted to capture all of it but also to be respectful and not gawk.

People were coming and going in every direction as trains arrived and exited the station. There was a momentary gap in the crowd and I caught site of some porters at the far end of the platform in a sea of luggage. I was too far away to even look for my bag, and I really didn’t know that I would be able to recognise the porter. I’d only caught a glimpse of him in the overwhelm of arriving at the station and fretting about the overnight train journey.

The train chugged into the station with a wailing whistle and the crowd on the platform doubled as the train came to a halt. It seemed like people carrying suitcases, boxes and still more chickens came from every direction. The surge of people pushed onto the train, carrying me with them. From the top step I looked over towards where I had seen the porters and I could see a red bag, that might possibly be mine, floating above the crowd. But there were far too many bags doing so for me to be sure. The throng of people pushing to board the train made it impossible to pause, as I was half shoved down a corridor to go find my berth. The crowd thinned on board as people found their seats or made their way to other cars.

When I found my berth it was two sets of bunk beds with a table between them. There were other people in the little chamber also settling in. It was going to be close quarters for spending the night with strangers, but all part of the adventure. I checked the number to make sure I had the lower bunk, and looking around to get my bearings, I found my suitcase already stowed beneath the bunk.

A wave of relief washed over me as the train pulled out of the station. My next stop would be Agra, but my next priority was to order dinner from the next vendor who came down the aisle taking orders for delivery at the next station.