There’s something about railway stations at night—the way the fluorescent lights cast long shadows, the hum of anticipation that hangs in the air like incense, and the mosaic of travelers, each carrying a story stitched into their luggage. At 10:30 PM, Ranchi Railway Station was alive with this quiet electricity. My wife, Tania, and I stood among the crowd, our bags packed with essentials and our hearts tuned to the frequency of adventure. We were waiting for the Hyderabad-Raxaul Express, the train that would carry us to Raxaul, a border town in Bihar, en route to a week-long training program on Family Medicine at Duncan Hospital, organized by the Christian Medical College, Vellore.

But Indian railways, ever the trickster god of travel, had other plans. A crackling announcement informed us that our train was delayed by 2 hours and 45 minutes. Instead of a 10:45 PM departure, we’d be lucky to board by 1:30 AM.

Chai, Patience, & Parental Warmth

Rather than stew in frustration, Tania and I exchanged a glance—a silent pact to make the best of it. We returned home for a few hours, greeted by my parents with warm smiles and a quick cup of chai. There’s a kind of comfort only parents can offer: not in grand gestures, but in the quiet reassurance of their presence. As midnight approached, they drove us back to the station, their encouragement a gentle nudge toward the journey ahead.

Back on the platform, the energy hadn’t dimmed. Families huddled under blankets, vendors hawked steaming cups of tea, and stray dogs darted between legs like mischievous spirits. When the train finally pulled in, its horn slicing through the stillness, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd. We boarded our 2AC coach, grateful for the clean compartment and cool air. A quick visit to the toilet reminded us of the realities of train travel—less than pristine, but survivable. As the train chugged out of Ranchi, the rhythmic clatter of wheels lulled me into a light sleep, my mind already wandering to the days ahead.

Making Up Time, Finding Momentum

Despite its late start, the Hyderabad-Raxaul Express made up for lost time with surprising efficiency. By the time we reached Raxaul, the delay had shrunk to a mere 15 minutes—a small triumph that felt like a cosmic wink. Stepping onto the platform, I felt a surge of anticipation. This wasn’t just a stopover; it was the threshold of a new chapter.

The training at Duncan Hospital loomed ahead, but first, we had to cross into Nepal. Our destination: Birgunj, a bustling city in Nepal’s Parsa District, recommended for its accommodations. Known as the “Gateway of Nepal” and the “Commercial Capital,” Birgunj pulses with trade, history, and a kind of kinetic charm that’s hard to define but easy to feel.

Into the Chaos of Raxaul

Exiting Raxaul station was like stepping into a living mural of chaos and choreography. Autorickshaws, totos, bicycles, and pedestrians wove through narrow lanes with a rhythm that felt both reckless and rehearsed. The air was thick with honking horns, vendors shouting over one another, and the occasional clatter of a passing train.

We quickly learned that while autorickshaws could take us to the border, crossing into Birgunj required a different mode of transport: the tanga—a horse-drawn carriage that’s as much a cultural artifact as it is a vehicle. For the Madheshi people, the tanga isn’t just a ride; it’s a tradition.

The tanga was a revelation. As we climbed aboard, the driver gave a gentle flick of the reins, and the horse began its steady trot. The carriage swayed slightly, the clip-clop of hooves a soothing counterpoint to the chaos around us. We wove through Raxaul’s labyrinthine streets, passing shops overflowing with goods, children darting between vehicles, and elders chatting on street corners. The tanga ride felt like a step back in time, a reminder of a slower, simpler way of life that persists amid the modern bustle. Tania and I exchanged smiles, savouring the novelty of it all.

The Tanga Ride: Time Travel on Wheels

Climbing aboard the tanga felt like stepping into a sepia-toned photograph. The driver flicked the reins, and the horse began its steady trot. The carriage swayed gently, the clip-clop of hooves a soothing counterpoint to the urban cacophony. We passed shops spilling over with goods, children darting between vehicles, and elders perched on stoops, deep in conversation.

Tania and I exchanged smiles, savoring the novelty. The tanga wasn’t just transport—it was a portal. It reminded us that travel isn’t always about speed; sometimes, it’s about surrendering to the pace of place.

Crossing the Shankaracharya Gate

Soon, the Indo-Nepal border came into view, marked by the Shankaracharya Gate. This iconic structure, also known as the Indo-Nepal Gate, has stood since the early 20th century, a symbol of the deep ties between Nepal and India. Built during the reign of King Prithvi Narayan Shah, the gate blends Mughal and Neoclassical architectural styles, its arches and pillars a testament to the region’s rich cultural heritage.

Over the years, it has witnessed political rallies, cultural festivals, and state visits, its presence a constant in the ever-changing border landscape. Recent renovations have preserved its historical charm, ensuring it remains a proud landmark for both nations.

Crossing the border was a moment of quiet exhilaration. The tanga driver navigated the checkpoint with ease, and as we passed beneath the gate, I felt a thrill—this was my first time in Nepal. The transition was seamless yet profound, the shift from Raxaul’s frenetic energy to Birgunj’s vibrant rhythm almost imperceptible. The streets of Birgunj were just as lively, filled with the same mix of vehicles, vendors, and voices, but there was something distinctly different—a sense of being in a new country, a new story.

Arrival in Birgunj

The tanga carried us deeper into Birgunj, its wheels rattling over the uneven roads. We passed bustling markets, their stalls piled high with spices, textiles, and electronics, and glimpsed temples and mosques tucked between modern buildings. The city felt alive, its pulse quickened by its role as a commercial hub. After about 20 minutes, we arrived at the Annapurna Hotel, a modest but welcoming establishment that my father had thoughtfully booked for us.

It was evening by the time we checked in, and the 17-hour journey had left us exhausted. The hotel room was simple but clean, with a comfortable bed that beckoned after the long day. We decided to save our exploration of Birgunj for the next day, opting instead for a quick meal and some much-needed rest.

As I lay in bed, the sounds of Birgunj filtering through the window—distant horns, the murmur of voices, the occasional neigh of a horse—I felt a deep sense of gratitude. This journey, with its delays and detours, had already taught me to embrace the unexpected.

Reflecting on the Journey

Looking back, our trip from Ranchi to Raxaul to Birgunj was more than just a means to an end. It was a tapestry of moments—some frustrating, some exhilarating, all unforgettable. The late-night wait at Ranchi station, the tanga ride through Raxaul’s chaotic streets, the quiet thrill of crossing the Shankaracharya Gate—these were the threads that wove this adventure together. The training at Duncan Hospital loomed large, but it was the journey itself that felt like the true beginning.

The training at Duncan Hospital would shape my professional journey, but it was this border-crossing adventure that reminded me why travel matters. It’s not always about the destination. Sometimes, it’s the detours and delays—the chai breaks, the horse-drawn carriages, the unexpected smiles—that make the story worth telling.

And Birgunj, with its blend of histories and hopes, felt like the perfect place to begin.