I first heard about the Trans-Siberian Railway in an online travel magazine a few years ago. Connecting the west and east of Russia, the Trans-Siberian Railway is one of the longest train routes in the world, taking about six and a half days to travel from Moscow to Vladivostok. It was a long article, detailing how grueling and rewarding the journey is. The article listed out all the fascinating places you travel through onboard and came with a set of stopover recommendations; places where you can spend a few days in, to catch your breath and explore before boarding your next train.

Needless to say, by the time I finished the article, doing the Trans-Siberian route made it to my bucket list. And it stayed in the list for quite a long time because the Russian visa process was a bit strange. Deep down, I never thought I will actually ever do it but it was a cool thing to have in my list.

But, on a fateful rainy Sunday afternoon in Mumbai, while surfing through YouTube videos, that changed. I spent the afternoon watching YouTubers travel on these Russian trains, surviving on instant meals and powdered coffee, sleeping on uncomfortable looking bunk beds, complaining about dirty toilets and meeting interesting people.

There is a famous saying – it’s about the journey, not the destination- and this sounded like one hell of a journey.

What followed was a gruelling few weeks of arranging documents for the visa, booking train tickets, hotels and finally on a cold night in September 2018, all the stars aligned and I touched down in Moscow, the starting point for my Russian train journey. I was going to travel more than 10,000 kilometers on Russian trains from Moscow to Vladivostok. I chose to stopover in Saint Petersburg- the Home of the Hermitage and Winter Palace, Yekaterinburg- the city where Europe and Asia meet, Irkutsk- the heart of Siberia and gateway to Lake Baikal and Vladivostok- the Russian Far East and the end of the line for the Trans-Siberian Railway (Or the starting point if you are travelling from Vladivostok to Moscow).

Things were about to get very interesting.

(Disclaimer: Because of the language barrier, it was difficult to ask people their names. Most names used in this post are based on the characteristics of the individual, the place where they got on or off. Though the names are made up, these people are very real.)

Chapter 1- All it takes is a smile

Moscow to Saint Petersburg

Train No. 748- Coach No. 2- Seat No. 39

Duration- 4 hours 18 minutes

Moscow was gloomy on the day of my first train ride of the trip. The sky was grey, puddles of water around the sidewalk, ice-y cold breezes. The jacket and sweaters were on, so was the woolen cap- a muffler wrapped around the neck for good measure. It was the cold, merciless Moscow that I had hoped to see, not the fun, sunny, vibrant city I had experienced thus far.

This was going to be the shortest train ride of my trip. Four hours on a high speed afternoon train to the city of Saint Petersburg, a bit off the traditional Trans-Siberian route. You could take an overnight train which is much cheaper, but I decided to forgo that for some comfort and ease. I would be spending enough uncomfortable nights on trains in the coming days.

Sitting in the waiting hall of the Leningradski station in Moscow, looking at the electronic information board that shuffled between Russian and English, I was approached by an uniformed guard. If you have watched enough movies, you would know that when a well built, uniformed Russian man approaches you, it is seldom good news. They have probably mistaken you for a spy and are about to take you to the slammer to beat some national security related information out of you.

“Ticket?” He asked, in his thick, intimidating, Russian accented voice.

I handed him the crumpled up the piece of paper upon which my ticket was printed on. He looked at it up close and then asked for my passport. I rummaged through my bag; my hand shuffling through a pack of chewing gum, my camera, guide book to find the small folder in which I keep my passport. As I did so, from the corner of my eye, I could see his boot tapping restlessly.

I handed him my passport, which he quickly flipped through. And then, as he handed me back my ticket and passport, something strange happened. He cracked a smile. He told me the track number on which my train will arrive and wished me happy journey. Suddenly, his booming voice was not as intimidating. His uniform, not as scary.

All it takes is a smile.

The thing about Russians is, contrary to popular belief, they are actually nice and friendly. They might not smile a lot and may seem curt at times, but when it comes down to it, they are actually very helpful and accommodating. It is said that Russians are known to be blunt; say what they actually feel and not sugarcoat their words. I remember meeting this French guy at my hostel in Moscow who narrated an instance of how he went out for dinner with a Russian guy he met somewhere in the city.

“That’s stupid.” The Russian guy had said, when he shared his opinion about a popular Russian movie they were discussing.

“I was shocked. That was so rude!” He told me over coffee, back at the hostel.

In the book, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F**k, it is said the Russian bluntness has its roots from the Soviet era when people did not know whom to trust. It was not uncommon for friends and acquaintances to tell on each other if they criticised the ruling government. The leaders of the era preferred “Yes men”. Criticism was not appreciated and was suppressed, often with severe consequences. The curtness is an aftermath of the fall of USSR when speaking your mind became the way for people to instantly build trust. If someone can call you out on your BS, it showed honesty and integrity.

The train had arrived on its track and passengers gathered near the doors of their allotted coaches, waiting for the boarding to start. The train had about 8 coaches and for some reason, my Coach No. 2 was the last coach of the train. A small group of people stood near the door; a lady peeking into the train through one of the windows for some reason.

This is where I met one of my cabin-mates, a middle aged man, dressed in a formal shirt, a neatly ironed jacket and newly polished formal black shoes. He was carrying a small laptop bag and all his attention was devoted to the newspaper he was reading. He had the air of a frequent business traveller. I approached him and showed him my ticket to confirm if I was standing in front of the right coach.

“Yes. This.” He told me pointing at the car, and buried his head in the newspaper again.

Having found my car, I decided to explore the platform a bit, see the train in its entirety before the journey commenced. The rain was getting heavier, the sky darker. Perfect time to leave Moscow.

By the time I returned back to the door of my car, the boarding had started. A petite, uniformed lady opened the door, placed a metal mat that bridged the gap between the train and the platform and proceeded to check the tickets and identity cards of the passengers before letting them board. All the passengers who had stood in groups a few minutes before had now formed a neat queue.

Mr. Newspaper, as I had named the middle aged man in my mind, saw me proceed to the end of the line and gestured me to stand in front of him.

“Thanks… Aah.. Spasibo.” I told him, but he was already looking the other way.

Three seats, facing each other. A shelf and a TV screen above each of the row of seats. Other amenities included a coat hanger and a table. The corridor through which you enter is lined with windows on one side and doors to each of the cabins on the other. The train started precisely on time and a part of me leaped with joy knowing that my Russian train trip was officially underway.

I quickly found out that my cabin-mates were not a talkative lot. In front of me was Ms. Reads, a lady who brought a cup of coffee and a book that she read throughout the journey, and Mr. and Mrs. TV who would spend most of their time watching the overhead TV that was showing an old black and white Russian movie. In my row, next to the door of our cabin, sat Mr. Newspaper, probably rereading the paper for the 20th time. In the middle sat Mr. Moustache, who was a middle aged man with a carefully trimmed moustache. His wife or girlfriend was alloted a seat in another cabin and they would spend a sizeable portion of the journey standing hand in hand, looking out the corridor windows, whispering endlessly.

And then there was me, Mr. Sleeps-a-lot, in the window seat. Within the first hour, the excitement of the train ride turned into boredom, which then let the exhaustion of the last few days in Moscow kick in, and I spent half of the journey sleeping. Partly to blame were views of endless forests of fir and birch trees and small featureless villages.

We mostly kept to ourselves throughout the journey except for that one instance Mr. Moustache woke me up with a tap on my shoulder when the uniformed lady came to serve some complimentary snacks. A box of juice and a boring, stale looking sandwich.

To sum up the first ride as uneventful and slightly boring will not be a lie. As our train arrived at the Saint Petersburg station that evening, I wondered how I will survive the other journeys which were much longer than this one. I realised that apart from the language barrier, fighting boredom will be one of the biggest challenges I will face during these train rides.

“Atleast I will get to lay down on my bunk.” I consoled myself.

Chapter 2: Magic Powder

Saint Petersburg to Yekaterinburg

Train Number 72- Coach No. 8- Seat No. 17 (Lower Bunk)

Duration: 1.5 Days

How many instant meals do I need? Three? Maybe four?

What else? Oooh… this looks interesting… dried fish!

What the fuck is this? Instant mashed potatoes? What the hell! Maybe just a couple.

Chocolates, yes… Chocolates! And chips. Big bag of chips!

Of course, some coffee. But which one? They have so many! This one looks safe enough. Can’t fuck around with coffee.

Apples? No, thank you.

Oh.. almost forgot.. Water! Not the fizzy one. The regular ass water. Why is regular water so hard to find? They all look the same! Shake them and see, man! Nope, still can’t tell the difference. This one says “with extra oxygen”. More oxygen? Can’t hurt, I guess. Or can it?

What else… What else…

Beer? Probably not. Vodka? Maybe later.

Chewing gum? Yes, definitely need some gum!

Oh… Cool coffee mug. Yes, sir!

My basket at the super market was getting heavier as I prepared for the next leg of the journey. An evening train to Yekaterinburg. And this one was going to be long. A day and a half long. Announcements in Russian boomed through the speakers of Saint Petersburg’s Ladozhsky Station. Hustle of the passengers and the announcements warmed my psyche up for the impending journey.

Most people who travel on long distance trains in Russia bring food from home or buy instant meals. They are convenient, easy and cheap. The restaurant cars on these trains are known to be a bit expensive and if you have your all meals there, it all quickly adds up. Every train coach has a hot water dispenser, lovingly and locally known as Samovar. It is free to use and you can make coffee, tea or instant meals with it.

927 Rubles, the cash register screen flashed. I pay and wait for the cashier to put all my stuff in a bag. She hands me a bag and we look at each other expectantly.

“Oh, I am supposed to bag these.” I realise. Yup, I was a long way away from home.

I met Mr. Kirov in the station’s waiting hall, wrestling the mobile charging points. I watched him put his phone in different charging compartments, press switches arbitrarily and then check his phone to see if it was charging. I waited and watched hoping he will figure it out for the both of us. Finally, exasperated, he collected his phone and gave me a shrug. After that, we switched places. I wrestled the machine while he watched. The machine beat the humans that day, taking their kind a step closer towards world domination.

I was travelling in Third Class which turned out to be much nicer than I originally thought it would be. It was more spacious, cleaner and comfortable than the ones that I had read about on the internet. Four bunks on one side, two on the other side of the corridor, similar to the 2nd AC Indian trains that I had grown up travelling on. To our delight, charging points were placed near each of the seats.

Add to that, our section was not that crowded. It was just Mr. Kirov and I occupying the lower bunks on one side and Mrs. Mom and Mr. Son, on the side lower and upper bunks. Judging by the way the mom was taking care of her son, who was a thin, droopy, teenager, with a nasty cough, he was probably not well. She served him some food out of a lunch box and when he was finished, prepared his bed. By the time the train started moving, he was asleep. The mom then quietly fashioned one of her blankets into a makeshift curtain around his seat and climbed to the upper bunk.

Natalia, a frail looking elderly lady, was the attendant of our coach. A kind smile was ever-present on her wrinkled face. Few minutes into the ride, she brought us our bedding kits, which included a hand towel, a couple of sheets, cover for the pillow and pointed to the thick blankets kept on the upper racks.

She said something to me in Russian as I took the kit.

“English?” I asked. Ever the optimist.

She said something in Russian again.

“Money” Mr. Kirov said, sitting in his seat, deciding to play the role of a translator. Natalia took out a piece of paper from her pocket and scribbled 136 on it. I paid Natalia for the bedding kit, to which she smiled, more out of relief I think, and left.

As the journey began, Mr. Kirov and I tried to talk but we would soon realised that it was too much work for too little information.

“I….” I said pointing at myself. “Yekaterinburg… You?”

“Kirov.” He said, rolling his hand, trying to say that the train reaches there the next day.

Few minutes passed and then he gestured with this index finger. “One?”

“Yes, I am travelling alone.”

I saw his face contort, trying to figure out what I was saying.

“Yes, one.” I tried again, pointing my index finger, vertically.

To this, he laughed out loud.

“You…” He paused, looked upwards, trying to figure out how to communicate the next part of the sentence. Taking cue from his hands gestures, I deduced he was asking where I was from.

“India.” I answered.

He nodded his head with a smile.

This went on back and forth for a while but soon we tired ourselves out and resigned to looking out the window at the endless mess of trees. Over the next few hours, the train had a few short stops at some small towns; the stations mostly empty and lifeless. It looked cold outside, but thankfully, the insides of the train were nice and toasty.

On the wall, next to the samovar was the schedule of the train. All the stations the train will stop at, time of arrival and duration of each stop. It is a very handy resource when you are locked inside the train. It is wise to make every long stop count and get some fresh air and movement in your legs.

First such stop was at a place called Babaevo. It was half past eleven at night and the stop was for half an hour. As I quietly put on my jacket to get off, Mr. Kirov woke up from his sleep.

“Babaevo?”

“Yes.” I said, strangely proud to be of help. Mr. Kirov and I were now even.

Outside, the platform was dark and empty except for a small shop selling instant meals and snacks. As I got off the train, I could see other passengers coming out as well. Some walked around a bit, while some smoked cigarettes. On the far end, was the giant red sign that had Babaevo written in Russian Cyrillic letters. It was a cold, clear night and you could see the stars twinkle above.

Natalia stood at the door, as did the attendants of other coaches. I would soon find that the train attendants had a whole routine every time the train stopped. They would first wipe the handles of the coach door with a cloth. Then open the door. Put out the stairs. They would then stand at the door, check the tickets of the people boarding the train and say goodbye to the ones leaving. Some would quickly make a trip to the shops on the platform to buy some food. Boiled eggs, fruits and bread seemed very popular among the attendants.

Uniformed guards, sometimes with big dogs, would patrol around some of the stations. Maintenance staff would inspect the wheels and the metallic pipes and wires beneath each of the train coaches. In the dark, you could see them approaching as the blinks of their torches get bigger and brighter. Many of the smaller stations were dimly lit at night; the yellow glow of the flood lights barely lighting up anything other than its foot.

Right on time, everyone got on their coaches and soon the doors were locked shut again as the engine growled and the train started rolling out of Babaevo.

Mr. Kirov was asleep. So, were Mrs. Mom and Mr. Son. Others in my car were either sleeping or getting ready for it. The ones who were awake seemed, like me, to have been awake just for that last breath of fresh air for the day at Babaevo. Now we were all ready to call it a night. I looked through the schedule before going to bed. Next long stop was at Vologda at 4.30 am for 25 minutes.

“No chance in hell I am going to get up for that.”

I went to bed having decided to wake up for the 6.47 am stop at a place called Buy, where we had a scheduled stop for 14 minutes.

I woke up the next day to the smell of eggs. Mr. Kirov was having his breakfast, rather loudly. Bread, boiled eggs and coffee, all neatly laid out on the table. I fished out my phone from under my pillow to see the time. It was 7.30 am. I had missed Buy. I had expected the third class bunks to be really lousy beds but surprisingly I had slept well. The next long stop was at a place called Shar’ya at 10.39 am. Another 14 minute stop. On the other side of the corridor, I saw Mrs. Mom and Mr. Son sitting together with cups of coffee in their hands, engaged in some hushed conversation.

The morning sun had lit up the train, its warm rays coming in through the windows; outside we were speeding past quaint villages with wooden huts and farms surrounded by tall birch trees and yellow fields; our ears ringing with the constant metallic sounds of the train. It was the kind of morning that makes you want to stay in bed. So, I did for another hour or so. It’s not like I had to be somewhere.

When I was planning this grand Russian train trip, the biggest concern I had was how do I keep myself fresh and somewhat presentable. There are no showers on the train. The toilets are seldom clean. To my surprise, the toilets on this train were definitely cleaner than I had expected them to be. Face wash, face wipes and deodorants replaced showers, to a certain extent. It’s not like I had a choice anyway.

(I would find later that this train actually had shower facility as well. 150 Rubles for a shower in the First Class car.)

Something magical happened over breakfast that morning. I saw powder turn into mashed potatoes, after I added hot water from the samovar and stirred it for a minute. And it tasted good too- a little chemical-y but good nonetheless. Instant mashed potatoes are a thing! The coffee I brought turned out to be way too sweet though.

We reached Shar’ya right on schedule. Natalia opened the door and let us out. I think the whole train got off. Some rushed to the nearby shops, some smoked cigarettes, others took strolled around, soaking in the morning sun- you know, the usual routine. Frankly, I was a little sad when few minutes later, Natalia signaled us to board the train again. I was missing the outside world.

After Shar’ya, Mr. Kirov continued his breakfast. A big box of shredded meat and a few more pieces of bread. Peeking over my book to see him eat heartily, I got an idea as to how Mr. Kirov was so big and strong. Unlike me, he was eating healthy. He was not eating magical potato powder with warm water. To fight the guilt, I made a mental note to pack some fruits for my next journey.

I passed my time on the train reading books, watching downloaded movies on my phone, looking out the window and sleeping. I hadn’t had much experience with long distance train travel and for some reason found it incredibly hard to sit straight. Several times a day, I would decide to sit straight for the next few hours. I would tell myself that I will immerse myself completely in my book, Tolstoy’s classic, War and Peace, and not lie down.

Fifteen minutes later, a small voice in my head would say, “How about we put the legs up on the bunk and lean back against the window?”

“Okay.” I would tell the small voice innocently in my head. Leaning back, legs stretched, I would sit for another few minutes. The small voice would return.

“You know that pillow looks comfortable. And you did pay 136 Rubles for it. It will be a crime not to use it.”

“True.” I would pick up the pillow and put it behind my neck, against the window.

“Comfortable, isn’t it?” The small voice would say.

“Yes. Much better.”

“Lying down is much, much better. Trust me.”

Slowly my body will slide forward on the bunk and I will lie down.

“Might as well use the blanket, buddy”

Wrapped in my blanket I would soon drift off to sleep, reading about elite Russian families, politics and war.

Not even a day into the ride, I had voices in my head. I was going crazy.

I woke up from one of these naps to find Mr. Kirov putting on his shoes. His bag was on his seat. He had his jacket on and his hair was neatly combed.

“Kirov?” I asked.

He nodded, smiling. We were reaching Kirov, his destination, in 10 minutes.

As the train approached the station, he picked up his bag, gave me a bone crushing handshake, said something in Russian and made his way down the corridor. Kirov was a 25 minute stop and was one of the bigger stations. Lots of people. Lots of shops and vendors. Lots of announcements. The sun had hidden behind the clouds, giving the sky a gloomy, grey colour.

Back on the train, as it left Kirov, I made an executive decision. I would venture out a few hours later and find the restaurant car and have a beer (or three) and have some warm food. I would stay there till 7.29 PM and get off at our 26 minute stop at Balezino, get the last breath of fresh air and then return to my bunk to call it a night. I told myself that I would need to go to bed early as we were scheduled to reach Yekaterinburg early next morning.

An interesting fact about Russian train travel is as you travel west to east through Russia, you start losing hours. Russia is the largest country in the world and is spread across 9 time zones. And that evening we were scheduled to cross one. At 6.26 PM when we reach the town of Yar, we would have lost one hour. During this trip, from Moscow to Vladivostok, I was going to lose 7 hours of my life.

Craziness!

With Mr. Kirov gone, I also realised I needed to be more careful with my belongings. He would normally stay back in the train at the stops, which allowed me to roam around carefree. Though theft is rare on the trains, it is not unheard of. I decided to carry my bag containing my passport, camera and wallet when I ventured out to the restaurant car.

The restaurant car did not take much finding. There are only two directions you could go in a train and by chance, I picked the right direction in my first go. When you are stuck in a dull compartment all day, the restaurant car can seem like a fancy restaurant. Well lit. Lines of big chairs and tables. Friendly staff. A well stocked bar and a full menu. By the time we reached Balezino, I have had a few cans of beer and a warm bowl of traditional Borscht soup. I also met the super friendly restaurant staff, some of whom spoke a bit of English.

“Yekaterinburg is good. Lot of good places.” The Manager in charge of the restaurant car told me. “I am from Yekaterinburg.” She added, with a smile. During the course of conversation, she showed me picture of her husband and son. It was good to talk to someone after a day of silence, albeit a bit surreal to be reintroduced to my own voice.

On my way back, I met Natalia and got coaxed into buying an official Russian railway coffee mug. She insisted and I couldn’t say no to that kind, old smile. I returned to my bunk as the train rolled out of Balezino to see the empty bunks of Mrs. Mom and Mr. Son. They had gotten off as well.

The lights turned on at 5.30 am the next morning. We were about to reach Yekaterinburg.

Having watched Mr. Kirov and other passengers, I had learnt that before getting off, you had to handover all your bedding to the attendant. I collected every item and joined the small queue in front of Natalia’s cabin. She was busy, meticulously taking count of the pillow covers, sheets and hand towels handed to her by each of the passengers.

Job of an Russian train attendant is not easy!

The train reached Yekaterinburg right on time and we all got off one by one, wearing our warm clothes and carrying our bags. It was still dark outside and terribly cold. But it felt good to be outside, knowing I did not have to board the train again in a few minutes. The biggest respite was to be free from the worry of the train leaving me behind if I wander too far away.

I was free to walk.

To explore a new city.

To do whatever I like.

As I walked towards the exit gate of the station, I wondered if prisoners who get out of jail feel the way I was feeling then.

Chapter 3: Fight! Fight! Fight!

Yekaterinburg to Irkutsk

Train No. 100- Coach No. 7- Seat No. 23 (Lower Bunk)

Duration: 2.5 Days

I would be lying if I said the thought of cancelling my rail tickets and booking flights did not cross my mind after the last ride. I questioned the sanity of this whole train trip idea. I questioned the practicality of it. The next two trips were going to be even longer.

I decided, for the next leg of the journey, I will change my approach. I would not think of the train as a means of transport. I would think of it as my home for the next few days. So, when I went shopping for supplies a night before my next train ride at a supermarket near my hostel, I was shopping to set up a kitchen. I bought a jar of coffee, a small jar of jam, sliced bread, apples, spoons, chips, some instant mashed potatoes, instant soups and, to keep my sanity intact, a bottle of vodka. Next day, I wore comfortable track pants and a loose t-shirt, had my last cup of good coffee at a cafe near the station and mentally prepared myself for the journey ahead.

I told myself, I was not going to go crazy and restless this time.

I told myself that I was ready.

It was a much older train this time around. And not a very well maintained one. It shook a lot more than any normal train should. It moved noisily; if you are a light sleeper, its loud titter-tatter can keep you awake for the whole journey.

The toilets stank, even when cleaned by the attendant. It was much more crowded and noisier than the last train. There were only 2 charging points in the whole coach. The attendant was a grumpy, middle aged lady who would growl if you came in her way as she rushed to run her errands.

I reminded myself, “This is my home for the next few days.”

The other three seats in my compartment were vacant and that allowed me to take up a corner of the table to keep my coffee mug and jar of jam. I watched from the window as train slowly leaving Yekaterinburg and made a promise to myself to visit again. Despite my short stop, this was a city that had showed me a good time. Few hours in, I made my bed and readied myself for a nap. Just as I was about to doze off, reading about the aristocratic lives of the Russian elites back in the day, an elderly, uniformed man tapped on my foot. He was one of the security personnel of the train and was checking bags of all the passengers. And as most people I had met in Russia, he did not speak any English.

His metallic scanner beeped as he hovered it over my rucksack. He signaled for me to take out whatever was causing it. Turns out it was the bottle of vodka. His eyes lit up.

“Nyet.” He said strictly. Apparently, you are not allowed to carry alcohol in the train.

“Do you want to take it?” I asked him, to which he looked at me blankly. I offered the bottle to him.

“Nyet.” He shook his head. He pointed towards me and said something in Russian. I looked at him, all confused.

He pointed towards the bottle and then towards me again, saying something coarsely. 

“Do you want me to drink it?” I asked, stupidly. He didn’t understand, ofcourse.

I gestured taking a sip from the bottle and looked at him questioningly.

“Nyet.”

“Do you want to drink it?” I asked offering him the bottle again.

This went on for a bit as I tried to understand what he was saying. The answer to everything was Nyet, which is No in Russian. Finally, he gestured for me to put the bottle back in the rucksack and using hand signals warned me not to drink it during the journey.

Every time he would see me during the journey, he would look at me questioningly and I would say “Vodka, Nyet.”

He would then smile, nod and leave.

At 5 PM, we reached Tiyomen from where my first compartment-mate boarded. We will call her Ms. Tiyomen. She was a middle aged lady who would grow more and more restless as the journey progressed. It would seem like everything bothered her. She had a problem with the man occupying the side lower bunk on the other side of the corridor. Apparently, he was coughing a lot and that disturbed her. She had a problem with the attendant who, while cleaning the floors of the compartment, woke her up from her nap. This resulted in a small spat between them.

Needless to say, I was on my best behaviour around her; trying to be as quiet as possible. Like I was not even there.

Things got a whole lot interesting that night when we stopped at a place called Ishim from where a bunch of teenagers boarded our coach with their teacher, probably heading to or returning from a school trip. Though the kids were quite well behaved, the coach was suddenly buzzing with a lot of activity, chatter and laughter. This bothered Ms. Tiyomen a great deal.

I could sense something was going to happen when she slammed down her book on the table and hurriedly put on her slippers. She walked down the corridor and gave a piece of her mind to one of the teachers; a poor young lady who already had her hands full with the responsibility of managing so many kids. Soon, the attendant joined in as well and a lot of loud, excited voices filled the coach. It was Ms. Tiyomen against the attendant again.

Round II.

Ms. Tiyomen returned to her seat, mumbling angrily, and a few minutes later the attendant and the superintendent of the train, dressed in a formal jacket and trouser, entered our compartment authoritatively.

As the two came down heavily upon Ms. Tiyomen, you could sense the tone of her voice change. From aggressive to defensive. I did not know what they said to her but Ms. Tiyomen was much more subdued for the rest of the journey. She did not react when we reached Omsk at a little after 2 am that night, and all the kids deboarded the train, noisily.

Having woken up by the commotion of the kids, I got off at the station for a breath of fresh air. We were officially in Siberia. Though it was not the merciless Siberian winter yet, the breeze was cold and I could feel my teeth tatter.

We woke up to a cloudy morning the next day. The train was speeding through the farmlands of rural Siberia, with trees and huts on both sides. It was much greener and fuller than I thought it would be. I made myself a little breakfast of coffee and bread as I waited for the hour long stop at Novosibirsk. Ms. Tiyomen, who had woken up before me, went to the toilet as I prepared my breakfast and before I took my first bite, she returned, grumbling. She gestured that the toilet was stinking and the entire coach was dirty and noisy. She rolled her eyes and shook her head when the attendant passed by, suggesting that she was not doing her job well. I quietly returned to my breakfast, not wanting to engage much with her.

I passed time, listening to music while watching the beautifully lifeless Siberian landscapes out the window. As we got closer to Novosibirsk, I saw Ms. Tiyomen comb her hair, put on her jacket and take out her bag from underneath her seat. She was getting ready to get off. It was hard for me to suppress a smile of relief.

Novosibirsk was the longest stop of the trip. An hour of fresh air and warm food. An hour of the outside world. I treated myself to some meat pie and iced tea while Ms. Tiyomen disappeared in the distance. Though, she was civil to me, the constant bickering and negativity was a bit stifling. A lot more people got on at Novosibirsk. Our coach was now full. The side upper bunk was occupied by a couple of teenagers carrying a lot of bags. I am pretty sure one of them was traveling without a ticket or did not have a seat assigned to him. Ms. Tiyoman’s bunk was now occupied by a lady with her young son. The bunk above her, by a heavily built man, who, during the course of the journey, would either be sleeping or fiddling on his phone.

The kid had a new car set. As the train left Novosibirsk, I found myself helping him set up the tracks on which the battery powered car would run on. Truth be told, however, the car spent more time smashing into the window and his mother than on that plastic track.

At this point, let me quickly add, I have new appreciation for how much patience and restraint mothers have with their kids.

The kid was a handful. And the car set soon turned into a weapon of mass disturbance. Its parts were flying all over the compartment, while the kid laughed, screamed and ran around. The mother was tasked with collecting all the parts and calming the kid down, which was easier said than done.

It all seemed to have ended when the kid tired himself out and fell asleep after a forced fed lunch. There was finally peace in the compartment and the chance for the lady to catch her breath. With the kid napping, the lady quietly fixed up a cup of instant noodles and coffee for her lunch. Half way into it however, the kid woke up and playfully jumped onto her, spilling the hot cup of coffee all over her lap.

It must have taken a whole lot of character to not scream out in anger and frustration.

After she returned from the toilet, all cleaned up, she went back to trying to put the kid to sleep. She then proceeded to clean the floor of the spilled coffee as her half eaten bowl of noodles rested on the table, getting cold.

Mothers are superheroes; their powers being unending patience and extraordinary restraint, wrapped in a warm coating of selfless love.

I spent a part of my afternoon trying to talk to one of the teenagers. The man on the upper bunk came down for a bit and tried, with very limited success, to teach me a card game. At around 6.30 PM, we reached Mariinsk. A 26 minute stop. It was chilly outside but it felt good to leave the train for a bit.

When you have a few days experience on the Russian trains, you would start getting familiar the routine of these stops. The attendant standing by the door, maintenance staff carrying out their checks, uniformed guards patrolling, the vendors selling different kinds of fruits, drinks and meats, the passengers smoking cigarettes or walking around the platform stretching their legs, some making a few phone calls.

The next stop was Krasnoyars where we reached just after midnight. The lady and the kid and the guy on the upper bunk got off and their seats were taken by a couple of men. One of them was Alexander (Real name) who spoke a bit of English.

“Are you going to work in the factory there?” He asked me, when I told him that I was going to Irkutsk, which is where he was heading as well, to visit his family home and see the new garage that his brother had started.

“No. I am just travelling.” I said, wondering if I should try and find that factory and see about finding a job there.

“You are travelling alone?”

“Yes.”

“You are brave.” He said, laughing.

He went on to give me his phone number, told me how to go to Lake Baikal from Irkutsk and offered to show me around the city if I liked. A very kind gesture. We talked for a quite a while before calling it a night. Next morning, over breakfast I told Alexander and his friend about the vodka situation and how for a second, I thought I was going to be fined for carrying alcohol. They had a good laugh over that.

Many times during these long train days, you would wonder why would anyone do this? Don’t these people value time? Don’t they have jobs to go to? How can anyone sit idle for days on these trains?

The answer, as Alexander would tell me that day, was quite sensible. Most people don’t. People who have jobs do not have time to spend a week travelling from Moscow to Vladivostok. A flight ticket is normally cheaper than a 2nd class train ticket for such journeys. People who use these trains are usually ones who need to visit smaller cities and towns which are not connected to airports. They would fly to the nearest airport and take a train.

“You will not see many people spending more than 2 days on a train.” Alexander told me as we strolled the platform of Nizneydinsk. “Except if you are poor or are a tourist.” He added afterwards.

“I am both. A poor tourist.”

That night we reached Irkutsk. The cold breeze felt like a sharp knife stabbing my cheeks. Alexander’s family had come to receive him at the station. We said our goodbyes after getting off the train and I promised to call him the next day to catch up. For some reason, I knew this was a promise I wouldn’t keep.

I didn’t know why.

In hindsight, it would have been fun to see Irkutsk from the eyes of a local.

But at that moment, after spending almost three days on a train, I needed to be alone for a bit. To explore the city on my own. At my own pace. Even though I was in a train the whole time, mostly doing nothing, I felt exhausted. I had met a lot of interesting people during this ride which re-established the reason in my mind as to why I was doing this trip but I needed a break from the close proximities.

I wanted my stay in Irkutsk to be full…of long, aimless walks. ..Of warm food… Of warm showers…. Of fun days… Of relaxing evenings… Of being free!

After all, I was finally in Siberia!

Chapter 4: Culmination

Irkutsk to Vladivostok

Train No. 008- Coach No.-10- Seat No. 20 (Upper Bunk)

Duration: 3 Days and 4 hours

The alarm rang at 5 am on a cold Siberian morning; each of its irritating rings echoing through my dormitory room. Not a soul awake, I tiptoed out to the showers. As cold and early as it was, a shower was essential. Onboard, there won’t be any showers for the next 3 days.

The taxi I had booked through the reception the night before arrived on time and we zoomed through the empty roads towards the Irkutsk railway station. Sitting in the backseat, warmly wrapped up in my jacket, muffler, cap and gloves, I reminded myself that this journey was the big one. The last one. To the end of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Far Eastern Russia.

It had started drizzling by the time we reached the railway station. With an hour to kill, I found a nice takeaway coffee joint outside the station. There is nothing like a soothing, warm coffee on a cold morning. Compared to the other cities I had been in Russia, Irkutsk was a bit more gritty. A bit more grimy. A lot more raw. And a lot more fun. I was sad to leave. I wish I had more time to explore the leafy roads and see a few more ancient wooden buildings. Maybe meet a few more interesting Siberian people.

“Taxi?” An aged man, wearing a dirty, checked jacket asked me in a thick accent.. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips. His ill fitted trouser was torn around his knees. The laces of his shoes undone.

Before I could say no, an uniformed guard came in hurriedly and shooed him away. As the man rushed away, the guard looked at me and asked, in broken English, if I was there to catch a train. I nodded yes, with the hot cup of coffee still in my hands. He gestured that I should enter the station.

“In” He said pointing at the door.

It sounded more like an instruction than a suggestion. Apparently, the authorities have been cracking down on the unauthorised cab drivers around the station, who have been known to take advantage of unsuspecting travellers.

The guard followed me inside, and after the security check was done, pointed towards the waiting room. The vibe in the waiting room was one of hopelessness and despair. Some sat in silence looking at their mobile screens. Some crumpled up in their seats, sleeping noisily. Most, however sat blankly staring at the big TV screen in the front, watching a show about police brutality in the US. People getting beaten up. Bloody mouths and noses. Screaming in pain. I heard a kid laugh when an overexcited teenager got punched in the face by an uniformed guard. He was quickly hushed up by his mother as the man sitting next to him grumbled for a bit before going back to reading his newspaper.

The train was not too different from the one I had arrived in Irkutsk on. This time around I had an upper seat in a 2nd Class cabin. For some reason however, the seats were much narrower in the 2nd Class than in the 3rd Class. Mr. Yakov (Real name), was sleeping in the lower bunk when I entered and quietly stowed by bag in the overhead spaces. Mr. Ude, who boarded with me, had the other lower bunk. He was travelling till Ulan Ude which was a 6 hour ride away and spent most of his time doing crosswords, while munching on toasted pumpkin seeds. I trekked up to my bunk and set up my bedding for a nice long nap, as the train slowly rolled its way out of Irkutsk station.

I was woken up a few hour later with a tap on my arm. It was Anna, the young, every smiling, attendant of our coach. Apparently, when you travel on the 2nd class, you get one complimentary meal and a plate of snacks. She handed me a menu, which surprisingly was in English as well. Though no one in the cabin spoke English, I understood that I needed to pick one dish.

I picked a noodle dish.

“Nyet.” Anna said, shaking her head.

She put her finger on the name of a pasta dish in the menu. White Pasta with Chicken and Mushroom, I believe the dish was called. I nodded my head, yes. I just wanted all this to be over and go back to sleep. But she was not done yet. Next I had to pick a number. 25, 26, 27. Turns out, this was the date on which I wanted to have the dish. Next was, whether I wanted to have it for lunch or dinner. After that, if I wanted to have it in my cabin or go to the restaurant car to have it. And on and on it went.

Exhausting.

We reached Ulan Ude that evening. This is the home of the biggest statue of Lenin’s head. And as I much as I wanted to run out of the station and see it, Ulan Ude was only a 25 minute stop and it was raining quite heavily. Mr. Ude got off, carrying his small bag and patting off the remains of lotus seeds from his jacket, giving me half a smile before leaving. Mr. Yakov was up from his sleep and stood in the shade underneath the platform building, wearing a bright blue hoodie, seemingly alternating between shivering in cold and smoking his cigarette.

I would find out in the days to come that the thin, middle aged, salt-pepper haired, Mr. Yakov was travelling from Novosibirsk and was a high school teacher. Since he did not know any English, he would use internet for translation and converse with me. On my first night, as I was lying in upper bunk, watching a Jennifer Aniston movie, bored to the bone, he tapped on my arm and gestured that I should join him for dinner. During the course of dinner, he offered me some delicious smoked meat that he had brought and also a mysterious sauce that takes instant noodles to a whole new level.

For the most part however, he would quietly sit and read his book, or sleep. After a couple of long stops in which both of us got off, he would let me know before every long stop. I can’t overstate this. Getting off and breathing in some fresh air at every chance you get is the most important survival tip for the Trans-Siberian trips. Mr. Yakov ensured that I did not miss any such stops.

The first day flew by. With just the two of us in the cabin, I could sit in the other lower bunk and look out the window. The sun was nice and warm. The landscapes outside were getting prettier by the minute. From our window, we witnessed beautiful mountains with rivers sparkling in the rays of the morning sun, few wooden huts in the middle of nowhere, dense forests and sprawling farmlands. Sitting by the window, with music plugged to my ears and sipping my morning cup of instant coffee, all of this seemed quite normal. I was not craving for fresh air, showers or fresh food. It seemed I was getting used to life on the trains.

The first stop of the day was in the afternoon at a place called Chernyshevsk. Old ladies, more popularly known as Babushkas, sold fishes, fruits and snacks. The sky was now greyish and the breezes had a bit of a pinch. The platform was full of activity with passengers walking around or buying supplies from shops. The flurry of activity was soon followed by the usual life on the train. The same metallic noise of the train chugging forward, the quiet chatters and the smelly toilets. Mr. Yakov finished off his book, took out his bag from underneath his seat and brought out a new one. This one had a picture of a lady walking through a 1980’s style open market on the cover.

More out of boredom than hunger, I visited the restaurant car that night for some chilled beer and fried potatoes with cheese. I asked Mr. Yakov if he wanted to join me but he smiled and pointed to his bag in which he kept his food. Anna was there chatting animatedly with the restaurant manager when I entered the restaurant car. She insisted that I buy this insanely expensive bottle of white wine, which I politely declined. She made a face and left soon after.

When you are stuck in your cabin all day, seeing the same people around, the restaurant car serves as a nice break and a good place to meet some new people. I met a couple of travellers from Singapore who were travelling to Vladivostok as well and hung out till late that night. People came and went, having their drink and food quietly, while we talked about our trips, present and past. Beer flowed, so did the Rubles when the bill finally came in.

Mr. Yakov was deep asleep when I finally came back to my cabin. I tried to quietly climb up to my bunk but bumped my head loudly on the wall as the train made a sudden jerk. I felt that bump for days afterwards.

Late that night I heard some movements in the cabin and woke up the next day to find a lady and a newborn sleeping in the lower bunk opposite Mr. Yakov. That day the aura of the cabin changed. We were trying to be quiet the entire next day because the baby was either sleeping or having food. Sudden noises would make the baby cry. The father, who was this big army man, was travelling in the third class and would visit often. He would give a quick nod to Mr. Yakov and me and then sit by his wife and help out with the baby.

Mr. Yakov read his book, deep in concentration the entire day. I lay around in my top buck, listening to music or watching movies on my phone. Every now and then, I would get down and stand by the corridor window. A part of me was sad that this was the last leg of my Trans-Siberian trip.

“Will I do it again if I could? Take a train from Vladivostok back to Moscow?” I wondered, while seeing the gorgeous vistas from the window. Seeing the rivers, hillocks, forests and blue skies outside, a part of me screamed out, “Yes, ofcourse!”. The other part was more practical. “When was the last time you showered?” it asked. “When was the last time you walked freely? When was the last time you saw something beautiful without this stained window in between? When was the last time you were actually present and not just rushing by in a metal box?”

I decided to deliberate upon this over some warm lunch and cold beer. I knew I spent a lot the night before, and if I visited the restaurant again, I might end up spending a bit more today but hey, it was my last full day and I did not want to be stuck in my upper bunk quietly because the baby was sleeping. We were scheduled to reach our next long stop in an hour. Enough time for me to make a visit to the restaurant.

I found the father of the baby (let’s call him Mr. Ussu as he and his family would get off at a place called Ussuriisk) sitting with his friend at one of the tables, full of empty beer cans. He waved at me to join them at their table. Language, as it usually was, a problem but his friend, who was from Bukhara, spoke some English and from him I got to know that Mr. Ussu have been drinking since morning.

“Seven” He said pointing at the empty cans and then Mr. Ussu. Apparently he has been alternating between beer and the baby.

“You?” I asked him.

“No. I’m Muslim.” He said defensively pointing to a bottle of Fanta. “No beer.” he laughed.

What followed is still a bit of a haze. A bit of beer was involved. A lot more was involved for Mr. Ussu. I remember talking and laughing a lot. At one point, they asked if I had some Indian music in my phone, which I did. They connected my phone to the sound system of the restaurant and suddenly the whole place was pulsating to the tunes of Angrezi Beat. I maybe imagining this, but the other patrons of the restaurant enjoyed it too. I think I saw an old Russian man, sitting at the corner table, with a glass of vodka, smiling and clapping as Mr. Ussu did his own version of a Bollywood dance step. He insisted that I dance as well, but I was not that drunk. We arm wrestled instead which I lost spectacularly within seconds. Mr. Ussu was not a graceful winner however as he proceeded to put me in a headlock. Playfully, ofcourse.

Sadly, it was all downhill for Mr. Ussu from there. I do not know what exactly happened, because it was all happening in Russian, but as Mr. Yarov and I were walking on the platform of the next long stop, we heard Anna saying something strictly to Mr. Ussu; fingers points, nostrils flaring and all. Few minutes later, as the train started moving again, she stormed into our cabin and said something very animatedly to his wife.

That evening, as I stood by the corridor window, Mr. Ussu came, looking gloomy. In hindsight, it was the look of a goat that was about to be slaughtered. He entered the cabin hesitantly and slowly closed the door behind him. Mr. Yakov stepped out and stood beside me by the window. A lot of screaming happened behind those closed doors. Followed by eerie silence. A few minutes later, the door slid opened again and Mr. Ussu left with his head hanging to the ground. That was the last we saw of Mr. Ussu.

I woke up the next day to find that Mr. Yakov had got off sometime during the night. I wished he woke me up so that I could say goodbye but from whatever I knew him, he probably did not want to disturb my sleep. The lady and the baby got off soon after and I had the cabin all to myself. As great as it was to have the whole cabin to myself, the thought of the trip ending in a few hours was saddening.

As the train inched closer towards Vladivostok, we caught glimpses of the Sea of Japan; its bright blue waters visible beyond the residential and office buildings. Yachts and ships were plying by; at some places, you could see families picnicking around the beaches, colorful umbrellas protecting them from the sun, which was now bright and warm. After passing through hills and forests for the most part of the day, suddenly the outside world seemed so vibrant and full of life.

Our coach was almost empty, however. All the familiar faces I had seen and travelled with over the last few days were gone. Just their lifeless empty bunks remained. I climbed up to my top bunk one last time to take out my bags from the luggage rack. Also for the last time, I freshened up with my “Russian railway face-wash and deodorant” routine. The showerless days were at an end now.

I packed up and put on my jacket and shoes. I made my final cup of coffee while waiting out the last few minutes. Though language barrier was a constant throughout the trip, so much so that I hardly know any names, people like Mr. Newspaper, Mr. Kirov, Alex, Mrs. Tiyomen, Mr. Yakov and Mr. Ussu really made this trip memorable. All the uncomfortable nights on the train, all the smelly toilets, all the activity-less days were just a small part of this epic journey from one end of Russia to the other. Flying would have been faster, easier and more practical but not nearly as enriching. The long endless days make you appreciate the vastness of this country. Things you see outside the stained windows makes you appreciate its diversity. The friendliness of your co-passengers change your perception towards the people of this country.

As you progress through the journey, the train will seem less like a prison and more like a moving home. The stops are like vacations to escape this new normal. And as you breathe in the fresh air at these stops, you quickly realise that the people you see at these stops are not just getting on or off the train. They are entering or leaving this epic, crazy journey of yours.

From the window, I saw the station finally approaching. Vladivostok, written in large Russian letters, adorned the main station building. We had finally reached the Far East. The very end of Russia. This was the end of the Trans-Siberian journey I had dreamed of for so long.

The decision made on that rainy Sunday afternoon in Mumbai, followed by overcoming the challenges of getting that elusive Russian visa, navigating through complex Russian websites to book train tickets had finally come to fruition. I had travelled 10,000 kilometers, spent almost 7 days on Russian trains and made memories that will last a lifetime.

Getting off at Vladivostok, I decided to spend a few minutes at the station, to take it all in. I watched as people carrying bags rushed to catch their trains. Most of them locals. Some foreigners. My trip had ended but theirs was just starting.

“Will I do it again, if I could?” I asked myself again.

“In a heartbeat.”

Thank you for sticking through this long post. Ending this post with the hope that it rains again in Mumbai soon.