A WILD RUMPUS of Indo-Gothic style, Mumbai’s CST station stands as a glorious monument to the excesses of the British Raj. The evening’s rush hour is well underway amid its turrets and spires, great sprawling domes, leering gargoyles and, of course, the towering statues of Imperial Britannia.
Moving at break-neck speed through the building’s cavernous heart, the oceans of commuters make a beeline for the waiting trains. Once the blur of humanity is safely aboard, with many more clinging to the outside, there’s a whirring of diesel engines. A jolt, then another, a grinding of steel, and the packed carriages heave away into the night.
India’s rail network is vast and efficient, but low on frills.
It’s all about getting a whole lot of people across town – or across the country – with the least amount of fuss. The network has more than sixty-four thousand kilometres of track, fourth most in the world.
Despite the faded grandeur of its exterior, CST station has a stripped-down functionality, catering to more than three million passengers each day.
In their rush to get home, most of the commuters don’t notice the commotion at the far end of the terminus.
On the last platform, well away from the crowds, there’s the distinct whiff of luxury, on a scale that would have impressed even the British Raj.
A small army of staff are rolling out a lengthy red carpet – up the steps from the VIP parking and along the platform. As soon as it’s laid, a bearer sprinkles it in pink rose petals, while another steps forward with a silver salver laden with flutes of chilled Champagne.
A moment later, a brass band is in position. And, as they begin to play, the sleek crimson carriages of India’s most luxurious train, the Maharajah Express, glide into place.
Then, right on cue, the passengers arrive.
Hailing from the United States, Europe, and from India itself, they are soon festooned in fragrant garlands, symbolic red tikka dabbed onto their foreheads, their fingers washed in rose water. And, while they admire the spotless livery of the train that will be their home for the next week, the hospitality staff lead them aboard to their cabins.
I boarded along with about seventy guests. To accommodate us, the Maharajah Express had sixteen guest carriages, two restaurants, two bars, and dozens and dozens of staff.
The cabin assigned to me was in a carriage called ‘Katela’, located about halfway down the train. Adorned with sumptuous fabrics and with mahogany furniture, it was panelled in teak, bathed in old-world charm. Best of all – even better than the fact there was WiFi everywhere – was the en suite bathroom. I’m a sucker for fabulous bathrooms. Ornamented with marble and with silver fittings, it boasted a flush-toilet and a power-shower. The larger cabins were even more decadent still, with roll-top baths.
As I stood there admiring the details, my valet – named Vikram – introduced himself. Turbanned, ever smiling, and exquisitely polite, he begged me to ask him for even the most insignificant request. As I was to soon find out, he lived in little more than a cupboard in the corridor. Whenever he heard me approaching, he’d dart out. And, standing to attention, he would await orders, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
A few minutes after boarding, the Maharajah Express slipped out of CST station on a schedule all of its own. As it did so, I tasted real luxury – a world in which the train waits for the passengers to be ready for it to leave.
Pushing out through Mumbai’s endless suburbs and slums, there was a sense of awkwardness at first. It was as if I was separated from appalling poverty – that was inches away – by nothing more than a pane of glass.
On the first evening I took dinner in the Rang Mahal restaurant. Beneath a hand-painted ceiling – a gold floral motif on vermillion – the dining car was beyond opulent. The plates were Limoges edged with gold, the glasses finest crystal, and the flatware monogrammed with the letter ‘M’.
With an entire carriage devoted to the kitchens – packed with chefs, equipment, and the freshest supplies, the two restaurants serve cuisine from both East and West. The beverage list, too, features a tremendous range of wines and Champagnes from France, the New World, and India as well – there’s even a sommelier to help you choose.
Sitting there, as I watched the slums give way to countryside, I found myself thinking of the Maharajahs and their obsession with locomotives.
With the coffers of the Princely States filled to bursting, funding railways between their dominions wasn’t held back by the usual constraints. Vying with each other to create the most over the top carriages, the Maharajahs installed salons and billiard rooms, private suites, and even air-conditioning – made from electric fans and blocks of ice.
The Nizam of Hyderabad’s carriages were said to be the most opulent of all. They were adorned with ivory and 24-carat gold. But the prize for sheer bling-bling surely went to the Maharajah of Vadodara. He had a throne installed aboard his royal train.
Coincidentally, it was along his stretch of track that the Maharajah Express took us first. The next morning we awoke to find ourselves in the city of Vadodara, capital of Gujarat.
Stepping down onto a red carpet once again, we were serenaded by musicians, and then led on a tour of the ancient Gaekwad culture. And with it, came the first of a royal flush of palaces – a banquet at the Jambughoda estate at lunch, and another at the awe-inspiring Laxmi Vilas Palace at dusk.
There, in the great durbar hall, the royal band was positioned on a low dais. With a full retinue of staff and factota, the Maharajah could have commanded anything in terms of musical entertainment. And so I appreciated all the more what had been laid on. A pair of musicians was strumming simple stringed instruments, with a third playing about forty soup bowls filled with varying levels of water, with the end of a spoon.
During the night the train roved northward, reaching the Rajasthani city of Udaipur as I took my last bite of toast.
One of the great treasures of India, Udaipur has palaces aplenty, each one more astounding than the next. At the centre of it all is the Lake Palace, floating like a magical marble island amid the serene waters of Lake Pichola. Famously, it featured in the 1980s James Bond film Octopussy. From a vantage point high above, we were given a private reception in the sixteenth century City Palace, in which the Maharajah and his family still reside.
On once again through the night to Jodhpur, Rajasthan’s ‘Blue City’. Set on the edge of the Great Thar Desert, Jodhpur bustles with life, with wares, and with a kaleidoscope of colour. Many of the buildings are dyed blue with indigo, signifying the homes of aristocracy.
During a famine in the 1930s, the Maharajah there commissioned the Umaid Bhavan, a vast Art Deco palace, to give the starving populace paid work. The colossal dome was only accomplished by the ingenuity of a local engineer. The stones fitted together so tightly that there was no space for them to be pushed into position by hand. The engineer came up with a brilliant solution. The giant corner stones were placed on blocks of ice. As the ice melted, the stones dropped slowly into place.
On the evening of our visit to Jodhpur, we were treated to a banquet on the battlements of the colossal Meherangarh Fort, itself one of my most memorable experiences of recent years.
Yet, on the Maharajah Express there was almost no time to stop and ponder the wonders, which were coming thick and fast.
The red carpet was awaiting us once again.
Climbing back aboard, we sped northward once more, this time to the city of Bikaner.
The next afternoon was spent touring the exquisite Lalgarh Palace, its red sandstone structure adorned with sublime filigree work. Then, just before nightfall, we mounted a convoy of camel carts and trouped into the Thar Desert. A banquet had been prepared under the stars, Rajasthani tribal dancers and campfires illuminating the night.
Another day, and another city.
This time, the crème de la crème – Jaipur. Capital of Rajasthan, it’s a raw and regal fusion of medieval and modern. One of the must-visit destinations for anyone, the ‘Pink City’ is steeped in nostalgia and in a dazzlingly vibrant charm unlike anything else.
The highlight of the entire journey came for me that afternoon. Having reached the Jai Mahal Palace, we were invited to take part in the sport of kings – a match of ‘elephant polo’.
Mahouts steer the elephants, while the riders lean down with their mallets, in a desperate attempt to knock a football into the goal. Quite unlike the rip-roaring speed of equestrian polo, the game played on elephant back is sedate to put it mildly – the overwhelming problem being that the elephants tend to burst the ball by treading on it.
After Jaipur, the Maharajah Express rumbled on to the tiger reserve at Ranthambore, one of the only sanctuaries of the noblest of cats left on the Subcontinent. And on again to the deserted Mughal city of Fatehpur Sikri. Constructed by Emperor Akbar, it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and remains as pristine as the day it was built four centuries ago.
The following morning, we reached the most famous landmark of all – the Taj Mahal. Lost in an eerie mist, the Taj is one of those buildings whose chilling beauty can grasp even the most wayward attention for hours at a time. That the Maharajah Express should deliver us so close to such a jewel of human endeavour seemed like the ultimate perfection.
Late that afternoon, the bubble of opulence that we all now regarded as our home, chugged through an eternity of slums, the lead up to any sprawling Indian city. And, eventually, we came to a halt on a platform at Delhi’s Safdarjung station just in time for the evening rush. By now, there was a definite sense that it was our train, just as the thought of leaving it was almost too much to bear.
Before stepping down onto the red carpet for the last time, my valet, Vikram, eased himself out from his cupboard in the corridor and saluted me. Then he shook me by the hand.
‘Very sad you leaving, Sahib,’ he said.
I thanked him. He shook my hand a second time, and saluted again for good measure.
A moment later, I was just another lost soul adrift on a sea of commuters. I glanced back at the platform. The Maharajah Express had vanished.
I wondered if it had ever been there at all.