One of the reasons I so much enjoyed the Oscar winning movie Slumdog Millionaire was that it brought forth so many memories of that extraordinary country which is India. My first experience of this part of the sub continent followed arriving by air at the Holy Hindu city of Varanasi on the Ganges. After a few days I travelled by train to what is probably the best known of India's tourist destinations the city Agra. My proposed journey, around three days hence, would not only be long, but in good part at night.

Standing in what I would loosely call a queue before the 1st Class Ticket office at Varanasi station I was stood behind two Australian travellers intent on travelling to another part of this great continent. I say loosely because anyone who knows India will recognise that, unlike its railways, queuing is not of of those many things bequeathed to their culture from the days of the British Raj. Indeed it was only after several elbowing episodes that any of us reached the counter at all.

Being in fairly close proximity to my erstwhile antipodean companions I was able to hear a good part of the conversation between them and their request for a ticket. My ears therefore pricked up when they asked the official about “bedding” for their trip. “You will need to be going to the Assistant Ticket Collector's Office on platform 14” came the reply in a near perfect Peter Sellers accent. Although I was next in line the nature of the “queue” was such that I had to wait some time before loosing patience, I elbowed various ticket-wallas out of the way to take my rightful turn with companions now long gone.

“I would like a ticket for Agra next Monday please” “Very well Sir, would you be filling it this farm” spoke the Peter Sellers voice as he pushed a sheet of paper across the counter. “Form??” I replied studying the lined, otherwise blank, sheet before me. “Well we haven't got any farms, so will you be filling that in instead.” I dutifully began filling in all the information I thought the official might want in order to provide me with a ticket. First Name, Name, where I wanted to travel to, on what date and on what train. I even put my passport number before passing the hitherto empty document back to the official. “You haven't filled in your date of birth”

Mnm I thought to myself, funny, I wonder how I could have missed that little detail. Anyhow, I mused, it seems at least I have managed a ticket without having to fork out a large baksheesh. “So I suppose the matter of the bedding can be resolved by going to platform 14 and the Assistance Ticket Collector's office.” “Yes Sir” smiled the official head gently saying from side to side.

I began to slowly wend my way across the innards of this Waterloo of the east towards platform 14. The crowds were simply immense. Huge piles of luggage lay interspersed with excreting cows, people people and more people. Platform 14 seemed to contain a veritable plethora of offices in a huge railway bureaucracy. Inspectors offices of all kinds abounded. There were ticket collectors office and then, at last, the Assistant ticket collectors office. As I entered the office I was confronted by the following scene. There in front of me were my two travellers who, far from being long gone, were sat facing an official on one side of a table. Behind him were two other Indian uniformed officials one of whom I took to be non other than the Assistance Ticket Collector in person. The two were engaged in a conversation in a language which I did not understand ignoring completely the harassed look on the faces of their customers a few feet away. With some the help from the first official the aussies were filling in a “farm” which bore a striking resemblance to the one I had just received in earlier at the ticket office. Their faces said it all as they were obviously having similar problems with it that I had had with my date of birth.

I stood watching until, with an air of exasperation, one of the two interrupted the conversation speaking out loud. “Excuse me but we've got to go to a wedding” Unlikely though it might seem, I happened to know that such an event was taking place in Varanasi that very day. Considering the context, however and the strong resemblance in English of the words wedding and bedding it was hardly surprising that the two separate subjects became confused in the subsequent conversation. There then followed a few moments worthy of a Brian Rix farce with the words wedding, bedding and wedding being repeated by Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.

When eventually the boss realised exactly what the real issue was he said “Ah but you don't come here for bedding, you must apply for it on the day by reporting two hours ahead of departure.” At this point antipodean humour failed completely and standing to his feet one of them lost his cool screwing up the farm and threw it at the official. I was in fits of laughter for at least they had saved me the bother of yet another fruitless hour. We all duly tramped out of the office The following Monday I duly reported for my train found my name on the passengers list but never did find any bedding. The journey was another story