From Gaya to Chaos: A Journey to Kolkata

Uncle Peter and Uncle Bob weren’t your average travel companions. Peter, with his eccentric cowboy hat and a knack for disastrous adventures, had roped Bob, a thoughtful writer and social worker from England, into a trip from Gaya to Kolkata. Bob, who had come to Bodhgaya seeking inspiration for his latest book and to assist with a few local social work projects, was now reconsidering every life choice that had led him to meet Peter.

The plan was simple: take the 3:15 p.m. train from Gaya to Kolkata. But Uncle Peter had never been one for plans. “We’ve got plenty of time,” Peter assured Bob after their temple tour, his words slurred from the local toddy he’d sampled at a roadside stall. Bob, trusting Peter’s self-proclaimed expertise and his uniquely charming optimism, nodded reluctantly.

At 3:14 p.m., they were standing on the wrong platform, marveling at the pigeons fighting over a discarded samosa. At 3:16 p.m., the train to Kolkata whistled its way out of the station. Peter waved at it cheerfully. Bob, less amused, let out a groan that could rival a foghorn.

“We’ll catch the next one,” Peter said, his confidence unshaken.

That’s when the real journey began. The next passenger train, the Doon Express, wasn’t scheduled until midnight. The ticket collector, a man too tired to argue, gave them a once-over and sighed. “Fine. You can board, but don’t expect much. There’s no proper seating left—just grab a spot wherever you can.”

By midnight, Peter and Bob found themselves squeezed into a tiny corner of a crowded general compartment on the Doon Express. The floor was sticky, the air stifling, and Peter slapped the nearest berth with enthusiasm. “Luxury,” he declared, sprawling out on his bundle of newspapers as though he’d reserved the whole coach. Bob sat in another corner, clutching his notebook, his face a portrait of regret.

As the train rattled through the dark, Peter regaled Bob with tales of his previous misadventures. “Did I ever tell you about the time I hitchhiked with a goat cart in Rajasthan? We nearly got arrested for smuggling carrots.” Bob, trying to avoid the elbow of a snoring passenger wedged beside him, didn’t reply and instead jotted down some notes in his book. He was sure this misadventure would make for a brilliant chapter someday—though at the moment, he’d rather have been anywhere else.

At one point, Peter fished out his cowboy hat, tipped it over his eyes, and promptly fell asleep, snoring like a chainsaw. Bob, still wide awake, watched as a cockroach darted across the floor, narrowly avoiding a splash of chai spilled by another passenger. Even the insects seemed to be running from the chaos.

By the time they reached Kolkata at dawn, Peter was chipper as ever. He stretched, popped his hat on his head, and clapped Bob on the shoulder. “See? Adventure! You’ll never forget this trip.”

Bob, staring at his wrinkled, sweat-soaked shirt and the faint tea stain on his journal, muttered under his breath, “I’ll never forgive this trip.”

As they stepped onto the platform, Peter declared, “Next time, we’ll take a plane. Maybe even a hot air balloon!” Bob, swearing silently to himself, decided that his next visit to Kolkata for social work would involve a proper schedule—and certainly not Uncle Peter.