Delhi to Haridwar: A Train of Thought

Paharganj is empty and quiet as I step out of my hotel. In the darkness the streets resemble a scene from some apocalyptic movie - all grey smoke and potholes, shops boarded up, and only the odd person crouching aimlessly here and there. It's a little creepy, though not threatening.
At New Delhi train station I turn down the offers of the touts and taxi drivers and push my way through to the first platform. It's before dawn and already the place is packed. Finding a station attendant I ask which platform my train will leave from - No. 10/11. I climb the stairs and walk over the bridge to it. As I sit down I pull out my clock and am shocked to see it says 05:55. Somehow I have arrived an hour before my train is due to depart. Suspecting the alarm mechanism is to blame I engage in some experimentation and discover that it will go off within half an hour of the time it is set to. Oh well.
I munch on a packet of chips I bought yesterday. A shoe shiner approaches me and looks mournfully at the state of my boots. He offers to fix the terrible situation so that I may "be most appropriate for 1st class". I decline. A train pulls in and a mad rush by passengers on and off the train ensues. This results in gridlock and lasts for 5mins. Eventually, after much shouting, it is all sorted. The train then sits at the station for a further 15mins - as it was clearly announced to do by the station master.
I move to a more well-lit area. More shoe shiners approach, often spending 5mins begging to shine my boots. I ignore them after a while. Craving anonymity I cover my head with the hood of my jacket and bury my hands in my pockets. It seems to work. Finally it is 06:50 and my train arrives with much blaring of its horn. By chance my carriage stops precisely where I am.
I board the train and wait for it to move off. As we get under way I take in my surroundings. Around me sit 70 or so Indians with possibly one whitie apart from myself. Most are either reading a paper (Hindustan Times and Times of India seem popular - both are English language) or dosing after having woken so early. Towards the front of the carriage a small child sings to herself happily.
Not much can be seen of the outside world. Most of the windows have a saffron tint. The addition of several years of grime means that the passing trees and buildings of the Delhi outskirts fade into a haze reminiscent of an afternoon heavy with dust. One window, the emergency exit, is un-tinted, but with the breathing mass inside and the cold air out it quickly fogs over.
The interior of the carriage itself has an Eastern Bloc feel - grey lino walls and floor, faded aqua seat frames that are chipped and dirty, although the seat cushions themselves are a clean blue plastic. Apart from my fellow passenger's bags, which are surprisingly Western and new, the only shot of colour is to be found in two cast iron strips bolted to the ceiling (presumably as some sort of reinforcement) that are a gay shade of cyan.
Over the intercom a defiantly characterless mix of what I can only presume to be the Indian variant of 'lift musak' plays. Its mindlessly upbeat progressions (that dare you to be unhappy) are oddly familiar, sounding somewhere between laid-back bluegrass and bouzouki. I think it wouldn't be out of place in either context.
The first course of my breakfast (included in the ticket) arrives - a tea packet, some biscuits, a small thermos of hot water, and some chocolates. I make the tea black and sweet - it's soothing, though the biscuits are flavourless. What I took to be chocolates turn out to be rather nice caramels, giving a pleasant finish to the snack.
The train now slows to pull into its first stop - Meerut. This city was the sight of the genesis of the First Indian War of Independence. It was here that Indian soldiers (mostly Hindus and Muslims) under British command mutinied after a rumour circulated that the newly issued ammunition had been waxed with either cow fat (cows are sacred to Hindus) or pig fat (pigs are unclean to Muslims). The British CO, showing particular cultural insensitivity and imperial righteousness, ordered his troops to line up and load their rifles. This involved biting the waxed end of the cartridge off and provoked considerable outrage. Those who refused were imprisoned. The next day the garrison mutinied, shot the officers, and marched on Delhi. There followed an almost total rebellion of the Bengal Army and five months of sieges and fighting. Eventually the British won, but the East India Company, which had been in control, was forced to hand power over to the British government which immediately announced its desire for existing Indian rulers to control local matters so long as their loyalty lay with Britain.
...
Sometime later we have finished the main breakfast meal (chickpea dahl, bread-like nan, and two slices of bread with strawberry jam). Up the wall opposite me a lone cockroach meanders. It seems to be the only thing awake in here aside from me. After breakfast there was a burst of activity - newspapers were rustled, mobile phones exercised, chins wagged. But within 20mins all was quiet again as the efficient pantry-car staff cleaned away the trays.
From above me a distinctly Chinese influenced music now floats down. The hum of the train and the cartoon snoors of the chap next to me the only other noises. What little of the country I can see outside seems to be dominated by sugar cane. A man walks by me. He's holding a machine gun. As we slow to another station an army base shaded by eucalypts slips bye. I'm tired now. The journey has drawn on for 5 hours. Possibly only an hour to go.
The train crawls now while what sounds like an Indianised version of Knick-knack Paddy-whack plays over the intercom. The cane outside is tall and wild-looking, often with great swathes bent flat as if some giant had lain there the previous night. The carriage is half empty now, though most are still asleep, even though it is past midday. Suddenly the train leaves the sugar plantations and enters suburbia, and we arrive in Haridwar.