After packing and settling up we head out to explore, find an ATM and buy some bananas for the train. It is sweeping hour, when all of the shopkeepers busily wield brooms in order to sweep dust and rubbish off their forecourt and onto their neighbours'. In the market some of the more energetic stallholders are just setting up. We get about a kilo of small bananas for 25 rupees and provide great entertainment to the locals just by walking about and taking photos. We see a shop with a sweetie jar saying 'Orange bites' but the contents are other flavours so we pass. R is looking for small sachets of oil for when she gets some Mehendi done and nearly finishes up with half a kilo of sunflower ghee.
Like all good Indian towns Jalgaon has a clock tower. This one sems to owe more to the influence of dome five year plan than the Raj amd manages to display a different time on each of its four faces. None of them is correct. As we admire the edifice the fire brigade rush by with sirens blaring. The reaction ftom the other road users is to ignore them and carry on as usual.
As we are thinking of heading back to the hotel to collect our bags we hear drums down a side street. There is a large collection of men in fancy uniforms, milling about and a small crowd starting to gather. D starts taking photos and is immediately summoned to join them. At first we struggle to understand what the event is but eventually they manage to explain that they are celebrating the birthday of Mr CST himself, Chhatrapati Shivaji, by parading around the town. Everybody wants to shake D's hand and pose for pictures with him. D tries to hand over the camera to R and she is also pulled into the group photo. A passer by obliges by taking a few photos for us. There is a little dancing and some chanting, then we part with lots of smiles and more handshakes as we need to get to the station.
The station is visible from the doorstep of the hotel. We pick up our bags, walk down the street and across the footbridge. Jaljaon station will not win any prizes. It is infested with flies, most of the catering stands have no chai and there are no train indicator boards on the platforms or tannoy announcements. A chalkboard shows our train, the Howrah Express, as 15 minutes late on platform 3. D almost gets it badly wrong. A train for Howrah pulls in, coach A1 is in the right place on the platform but the train number is wrong. Is this ours? Forgetting the basic principle that the train number is paramount D gets on board and finds our berths occupied. A passing vendor is consulted. This train does not go to Nagpur. Quick! Get off before it starts.
D walks 15 coach lengths back down the platform to check the delay board again. That was a train running 6 hours late and taking a very different route, a narrow escape!
There is one more freight then our train slips quietly into the station. We have side berths in 2AC for this trip. One chap has borrowed one of our seats and the coach attendant is having 40 winks in our upper bunk but they shift without any fuss. We get settled in and enjoy the view. The window is a little grubby but definitely workable and the charging socket works so we hsve no groinds for complaint. One of the experts on Indian Railways once described 2AC as 'Curtain Class' and this coach looks to fall into that category. However there is a small girl with a very short haircut in the bay opposite and she keeps peering round the curtains at us. Soon mother, who has heavily Mehendied hands looks out to see what the attraction is. R digs out the sweets and soon the curtain is open and we are chatting away.
They are a family travelling to their brother's wedding in Nagpur. It looks like Granpaw, Mrs Mehendi, her two daughters (about 10 and 2) , her husband and her younger sister, who is a teacher and has flawless English. They are from Surat in Gujurat where they had to board the train at 3.45 am. No wonder they had the curtains closed. We while away the journey with dangerous pursuits such as eating on board samosas and door riding.
It would probably be fair to point out to those who have kept up with us thus far that, for the next few days, this blog will be about trains rather than culture. Although today's trip is primarily a means of getting to a starting point it does pass a couple of points of note en route. At Akola we cross the metre gauge line that once linked all the way from Delhi to the south, but which is being converted to broad gauge , section by section. At Murtajapur the narrow gauge line between Achalpur and Yavatmal runs parallel for a while but is hidden by trees. It comes into view as it climbs a curving embankment before crossing the main line by bridge. At Pulgaon there is a heap of old sleepers and rusting rail where the narrow gauge terminus of the line from Arvi used to be.
As we are getting into Nagpur we pass the very swanky new cricket ground. We get in about half an hour late, just as it is starting to get dark. There are some fairly persistent touts but we make straight for the Pre-paid auto booth where we hand over 2 rupees in return for a fixed fare of Rs74 to our hotel. The touts were suggesting 100 each and were told to get lost. The Peanut Hotel is about 15 minutes from the station.
This is a modern place with small, but clean rooms. Initially ours has no electricity other than the lights but they sort that out. We look up a couple of places within walking distance where we might get a beer and something to eat. Aren't phones clever these days? The first one, the Fionaa Bar is outrageously expensive and plagued with loud music. Nearly a fiver for two small beers? They must think that they are in Edinburgh. The next place is a bit more reasonable so we decide to try the food which is surprisingly good, lemon chicken with a broccoli and potato dish that we eould have again if we could remember the name. 
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