I knew leaving Delhi wouldn't be easy; nothing is easy about Delhi. And it did feel like an escape. It was as if we had to catch the city unawares.

We arrived at the railway station ready to do battle with the touts that peddle confusion and lies, pass the cows and work our bags through the mass of sleeping people sprawled as if the result of a sudden and deadly chemical attack by the evil Bush regime, queue in front of window after window in order to track down information as to how, when, IF! we could get out of Delhi. In the end, it was all rather quick and anti-climatic. We paid our money, and charged back to the hotel to pack and check out. When the train pulled out of the station, I think we both gave a silent sigh of relief: happy that the ordeal of Delhi was over at least for a short while. It was as if now the holiday could begin, for Delhi is not a place to holiday. It is a constant stream of attack on the senses that eventually wares you down. I had not fully recovered from my illness, and Dan was showing signs of fatigue. (The last few hours of my time in hospital, I gave up my bed so Dan could sleep. It looked as if his need was greater than mine.) No, Delhi had taken its toll, and we were glad to be leaving –and doing it in style: Air conditioned carriage, free food and water. They even provided us with face towels and piped western music played Hindi style. I didn’t even recognised 'Hotel California' but Dan was foot-tapping away.

From the window we could see the endless mass of green fields broken by the occasional settlement.

These usually consist of one room houses made of a mix of stone, wood and any metal that can be found. One of the most common sights from a train window is seeing people defecate. It’s a common enough occurrence for me to start counting as we travelled along. I stopped at 12. People of all ages and sexes do it; whilst they move away from the settlement area to do in private what comes natural, they seem to time it magnificently with the slow arrival of the train, giving us a full view of everything on show and the process – even the washing afterwards: Ah yes! In India you see it all. You have to be prepared for that fact on a trip to the subcontinent.

We shared the train compartment with one other: An Indian solider who I almost immediately took an irritated dislike to. Dan tried to remain friendly, but the man was not easy to deal with. He wanted to take charge of us: offering over and over again to organise anything we needed. He told the car-service guys that they should treat us specially. At one point they wouldn't even talk to us, but did so through him. We soon put a stop to that, making it perfectly clear that we could more than cope for ourselves. In the end, he felt slighted, but we didn’t care.

Things came to ahead over the sleeping arrangements. As there were only three of us in a four-bunk car, we had a bit of a choice as to where we slept. This is not how he saw it, and insisted that Dan slept in the bunk assigned to him. Dan shoved his face into the Indian soldier’s and snapped "Why are you trying to give me orders? I'll sleep where I like!" He meaningfully climbed into his bunk, and promptly fell asleep. For me, the night passed almost sleeplessly, listening to a George Michael CD on my walkman, as the train rattled on its journey to new promises of a hopefully, kinder, more peaceful India.