Riding the Train in India: How the Tracks Can Take You All Over . . . If You Can Buy the Tickets

The family waiting for a train

First things first: I take great pride in my independent travel skills. I used to feel like if you dropped me off at point A and told me to get to point B using only public transportation, I could do it.

Anywhere. In. The. World.

Language barrier? No worries—I once mimed “I want the boat to the island with all the monkeys” to a man in rural Peru using only my eyebrows and a crumpled ticket stub.

Poor infrastructure? Please. Is it even traveling if you’re somewhere with good infrastructure?

Incomprehensible bureaucracy? Sure, that one’s a pain. But I got myself from Moscow to St. Petersburg solo (although I did cheat a bit for the return trip—but in a very indie, loophole-embracing kind of way).

And then, in 2015, I started planning a trip to India.

All over India.

We had a bit over five months to cover India and Nepal. So our plan was to enter India through the far-south city of Madurai, cross to the west coast in Kerala, work up through Goa and Mumbai, then spend time in Rajasthan, before heading to Rishikesh in the north. Then on to Nepal, back to India, up to Kashmir, and finally New Delhi.

It was ambitious. But India has one of the most sprawling, intricate, gloriously messy railway systems in the world. So, we thought, "How hard can it be?"

Her Majesty’s Own Rail Project: 20 Million People Riding the Train in India

India’s railway system is the kind of infrastructure project you’d expect to find scrawled in the notes of a mad genius—or maybe a very caffeinated Victorian bureaucrat.

However you measure it, it’s one of the largest rail networks in the world. It carries more than 20 million passengers every single day. 20 millions passengers! That’s basically the population of Australia… in motion… daily.

And this isn’t new. The first train chugged out of Mumbai (which the British called "Bombay") in 1853, puffing 21 miles to Thane, and the whole thing has been wheezing and expanding ever since.

Originally built to move goods, soldiers, and colonial administrators around more efficiently—because nothing says “Empire” like thousands of miles of train track—it quickly became the circulatory system of India. Today, it’s one of the most democratically chaotic and gloriously egalitarian ways to get around. You’ll find sari-clad grandmothers, giggling students, chai-wallahs, barefoot monks, and the occasional bleary-eyed backpacker all tucked into the same mobile metal box.

It’s part miracle, part logistical fever dream—and somehow, it works. Mostly.

The Impossible Art of Buying a Ticket

Turns out, the hard part isn’t riding the train in India. The hard part is convincing Indian Railways (the company that runs Indias rail system) to take your money in exchange for a ticket.

Once you’ve got your ticket, things are easy: find your platform, find your carriage, find your bunk, defend it like a lion, and hop off at your stop. But first, you must pass the ancient trials of the booking system.

The internet told me I needed an IR (Indian Railways) account. Easy. Except… you can’t make an account without an Indian phone number. And once you’ve registered, the system sends you a code via text, which you then input to activate your account. That’s right—you need an Indian SIM before you can even ask to buy a ticket.

Fortunately, we had a friend in India who offered us their number. They texted us the code. We entered it.

It failed.

We tried again.

Failed.

We tried many, many more times. It failed a lot.

Eventually, we gave up and formed Plan B: we wired our friend the money (via Western Union, from Thailand) and asked them to book the tickets for us.

This was not just any friend. This was a born-and-raised Indian who had lived in India their entire life. This person had a lifetime of experience functioning in India.

They emailed back: they had been unable to figure out how to buy tickets online.

This same system that moves 20 million people a day . . . broke a born-and-raised Indian!

So, Plan C: our friend went to a local travel agent, explained our itinerary, and had the agent book it all for us. Bonus—turns out it was even cheaper than trying to do it ourselves.

From that moment on, we never tried to book our own tickets again. Instead, we identified our desired trains and classes, walked into any of the plentiful travel agencies (especially common near guesthouses), and let the professionals wrestle the system on our behalf.

Sometimes the only seat is your own luggage while waiting for your train

A Humble Guide to the Castes of the Carriage

Riding the rails in India is like stepping into a rolling microcosm of the country itself: layered, loud, and full of strong opinions. But before you hop aboard, you’ll need to choose your class. No pressure—just a life-defining decision with more tiers than a wedding cake.

1st AC (1A):

The Maharaja suite. Lockable doors. Fresh sheets. Peace and quiet. You won’t meet the real India here—you’ll meet finance consultants from Delhi and dazed retirees from Stuttgart. We never rode 1st AC. Our backpacks would’ve judged us.

2nd AC (2A):

Still air-conditioned. Just a tiny bit posh. Fewer people, more comfort. Curtains instead of doors. You might wake up with a chai vendor leaning slightly too close, but hey—cozy. We took this class for some of our longer journeys.

3rd AC (3A):

Six bunks per compartment, maybe curtains (but don't count on it), and your dreams of personal space may get folded into someone else’s luggage. But it’s affordable, reasonably comfortable, and people might offer you samosas or want a selfie with your kids. This was our go-to class for overnight trips.

Sleeper Class (SL):

The steel backbone of India’s railways. No AC. Open windows. Noise, dust, the occasional goat. Your tolerance for heat will be tested. But it’s cheap, authentic, and oddly charming. Just don’t breathe too deeply at the stations. We only took a couple of overnight journeys in Sleeper. It is fine so long as the train keeps moving . . . but the train will not keep moving all night. Be prepared for the odd hour here and there when the train sits still, the temperature rises, and the mosquitos make a mad dash for any part of your body that is uncovered.

General Class (Unreserved):

This isn’t a class. It’s an experiment in human compression. You don’t board General Class—you wedge, cling, hover, or dangle. We did this once or twice for short journeys. It wasn’t as bad as the Sri Lanka trains. But that’s a low bar.

Notes from the Rails

No matter the class, someone will always come by selling snacks and chai. Some of them will be official vendors. Some of them will just be people with ambition and a thermos. Either take a chance, or bring your own.

Toilets range from “perfectly functional” to “why is the floor wet?” Bring hand sanitizer and lower expectations. Expect squatters.

Trains are not always on time—but usually not wildly off. Except when they are. One of ours departed only 15 minutes late but arrived four hours late.

Evenings at stations can feel intense. Floors are often fully claimed by waiting passengers and the unhoused alike. Show respect to everyone, but it is OK (necessary) to step over sleeping people. Rollers bags will fail you here. Bring a backpack and your ability to tiptoe.

After a few successful trips, we got comfortable. We’d arrive 15–20 minutes before departure, confirm our platform, and wait for the great metallic beast to arrive.

Really, the hard part is buying the ticket. Riding the train? That’s the fun part.

For us, the railways of India were more than just transportation—they were connective tissue. They brought us to places, yes. But they also brought us to people, to new ways of being patient, to small acts of kindness and unexpected laughter.

Because travel isn’t always about where you go.

Sometimes, it’s about how you get there.

And who you share your samosas with along the way.

All aboard!