Tigers on the Bhore ghat

J. N. Sahni's Indian Railways: One Hundred Years, 1853-1953 has a startling picture showing a tiger sprawling across a railway track cuddling with her cubs, while another tiger looks up threateningly towards native workmen who are fleeing the spot in terror. For many years this jungle scene left me feeling doubtful. Was the danger posed by these wild beasts as real as the artist had imagined (the picture was reproduced courtesy of The Illustrated London News) ? And how would tigers dare to trespass on a piece of railway over which those mighty trains thundered each day?

For the uninitiated, the Bhore Ghat is a hilly terrain on the Bombay-Poona route as the railway traverses the Sahyadri mountain range, also known as the Western Ghats (see picture alongside). The area is inhospitable, rains are frequent, and in the days before electrification, a banking engine was attached at Kalyan to enable the train to negotiate gradients as steep as 1 in 37. The danger in those days from wild animals was very real. Mr. Frank Clarke, in his Retrospect on the G. I. P. Railway Under the Original Company's Administration records the following message sent at 8.10 pm on June 8, 1898 by the Signaller-in Charge, Cabin No. 2, Bhore Ghat, to the Station Master, Lonavla, the District Traffic Superintendent, and the Chief Traffic Manager. It read: "Both awfully frightened. Tigers roaring and coming in front of the cabin, arrange more assistance, if not loss of lives." 

Brave cabinmen!

Plain Horse Sense

Here's an incident narrated to me by K. R. Vaidyanathan. Click here to read about who Mr Vaidyanathan is.
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"THERE WAS AN ENGLISHMAN who retired from the ex-G.I.P. Railway and settled in England. A hobby after his retirement was to cast his mind back over the happy years spent in India and recall the good old times in conversation and in his writings. These anecdotes are indeed collectors’ items which any rail fan would be happy to possess.
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Speaking of those days, he recalls a certain Resident Engineer (R. E.) in British days, who was transferred from his station to a place some 300 odd miles away on the Jhansi division of the GIP Railway. This gentleman had a horse of which he was very fond and which he was accustomed to ride on his jaunts. He was also a little tight-fisted with his money. He had a first class Silver Pass that entitled him to a four-wheeled saloon on transfer.
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This man had a brain-wave as to how to save the fare for his horse, for which he did not get free carriage. He decided to put the horse in the kitchen end of his saloon while he himself refrained from using the saloon, travelling a few carriages away as an ordinary citizen.
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When the train arrived at the new station, a crowd had assembled waiting anxiously outside the saloon to greet the new R.E. The Englishman got off the train and walked up to the saloon to find a great commotion among the station staff who had gathered to welcome him.
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What had been the matter? The kitchen window of the saloon had dropped and the horse had poked his head out, introducing itself to the crowd as the new Resident Engineer of the district."
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Pam and the Antique Stove

PAM BEETON lives in Perth, Australia and shares with us memories of the time when her mum used the classic "Beatrice" stove to get food cooked for her dad, serving on the Indian State Railways, when he had to go for duty 'on-line'. A lovely post, Pam. Your Beatrice stove has seen the golden age of railways in India, and deserves a pat on its back !
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"IT IS FASCINATING to watch the BBC programme, 'The Antiques Roadshow', and whilst watching a 'repeat' the other day it suddenly dawned on me that I had something worth talking about.
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Beatrice… The story of this antique piece starts in Bangalore in the 1940s. It was a wedding gift to our parents, and if my memory serves me right, or so I was told, it is from the "Beatrice" series of Queen Anne stoves.
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Having lived in the small railway colonies of Shahdol and Dongargarh, I remember there were times, any part of the day or night, when Dad got the 'call book' to go on line. Mum was expected to prepare a meal in less than an hour, and she did so using the Beatrice. What an achievement!


If ex-railway folks read this they will not need reminding of what life was like on the railways! Living in small colonies, where electricity was non-existent, the humble 'kerosene oil' stove was the best thing we ever had.
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With our transfer to Bilaspur one would have thought it was time to lay the Beatrice to rest, but this didn't happen. Instead, she took her pride of place in the dinning room - on a side tea table, and was put into use immediately.
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I also remember using the stove on a few occasions - putting the kettle on for a pot of tea, no teabags in those times, and making 'suji' or semolina porridge for breakfast.
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It was, therefore, no surprise, after Mum's passing, in 1980, to find Dad using the Beatrice in preference to the other stoves. He used it to make dishes that Mum excelled in, even lime pickle using the limes from his own trees, and the best parathas that I have ever tasted.
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After faithfully serving the Fletcher household for the better part of 46 years the Beatrice stove was retired upon Dad's passing in 1986. However, Beatrice's journey was not to end in Bilaspur. She was carefully packed up and made her final journey by ship across the Indian ocean to Perth, where she is now part of my family.
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As you can imagine she is quite the talking point of all who lay their eyes upon her."

The Ghostly Railway Bridge

"Railway briges are always a sight to watch for hours and hours," says an eminent rail historian of our times. Robin Parrie agrees, but his fascination for bridges goes much deeper than that. Here's a chilling tale, first published in the ANGLO INDIAN PORTAL where he narrates his experience when he once tried to make closer acquaintance with a bridge by walking along its length.
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TELEGU-SPEAKING RAMU, my alter-ego friend from the village, was a buffalo-boy and was summonsed by Freddy Fernandez and myself. Ramu's village was a bullock-cart ride away and we became friends after my mum, a midwife, performed a caesarean on his mother one fateful stormy monsoon night, saving her life and that of his baby sister who grew up to be dead cute. We wanted him to let us accompany him on his daily trip to the dry-season muddy ponds of the 2nd Bridge river.
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One afternoon in Ravkalam (an inauspicious time of day) we set out to slay the myth or be devoured by it! Freddy had a buffalo to himself. I had to double ride and cling to Ramu (my friends know and understand why I am unable to grip an animal with my knees and stay aloft). We jaunted along at a negative speed of knots wondering what on earth lay in store, but in the bright light of day nothing really scares you. We waded through the hoof high ford at 1st Bridge, a relief tributary of the main river we were heading for! Approaching 2nd Bridge we could see a full flowing river. Who knows how deep it was, but about 100 ft high over the water level was this imposing iron bridge with a single broadguage track. We scrambled up the embankment with a view to walk across and complete our mission. Between the tracks lay an 18-inch-wide steel pathway stretching the length of the bridge, put there for maintenance men to walk along in the course of their duty. Freddy and Ramu decided to speed-walk across because the iron plate was hot enough to make a dancing bear jive. Freddy, the danger-smart kid, looked up and down track then pulled his shirt up to his face and covering his ear he put it on the hot rail to listen for vibrations, giving Ramu the thumbs up as an all-clear signal. They stretched their arms out sideways like tightrope walkers and took off.
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Alone now, I decided to venture no further than the third sleeper-rung, sat on it and dipped my head as low as possible between my knees to get a glimpse of the river that appeared diminutive from that height! That is when I heard the ear-piercing, pig-squealing, rusty-brake-screeching cacophony of swirling high frequency singing of a 1000-voice choir. My whole short mischievous life flashed past me ... too late to make amends now ... this is IT ... my pulse rate shot up, then down again to a slow thudding, backing zero! My ubiquitous dog Bonzo appeared, whining with his tail between his legs, barking frantically, but would come no nearer than 20 feet. Holy Hell! Now there's a train coming.
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Got to get out of here, but there is no panic because to a railway child the close proximity of a broad gauge steam train is no scarier than a few lorries in convoy driving down your average suburban street. Off the bridge now I slide, rough-bellying down the steep embankment, clawing the roots of dry grass to control my decent, but a babul (Acacia nilotica) thorn bush stopped me - Ouch! Choking from the dust and smarting from the scratches-'n'-pricks inflicted by this plant from Satan's garden, I crawled back up with Bonzo willing me on. I sat on the chips of granite by the trackside, legs akimbo, and sneezed my brains out. After each sneeze and another stop-go intake of nostril-tickling dust, I'd do it again and again and again, until my weary neck muscles gave up and left me slouched with Bonzo-boy licking my face. With replenished nerve I climbed back to the trauma spot as Freddy and Ramu retraced their steps to rejoin me. That's when the penny dropped! This screaming on 2nd Bridge was nothing more than the singing of bare wire telephone lines running parallel, anchored to the metal bridge, causing an amplification of vibrating wires, like holding a struck tuning fork down on a table! Of course on that high wind-swept bridge it could get even worse when the air is heavily ionised before a storm.
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Time to mount up and head home before dusk. So Ramu, Freddy and I, with my tail-wagging mongrel, got moving again with one more bridge to cross!

The Railway Colony

Good old ROBIN PARRIE is one of the few persons who loves to reminisce of his days back here in a railway colony. One interesting and little known fact that emerges is that the location of railway towns which sprang up had something to do with the water capacity of the locomotives then in use. These memoirs which first appeared on the ANGLO INDIAN PORTAL make fascinating reading:
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THE RAILWAY COLONY was a vital cell of Colonial India, each one strategically placed in the synapses of the largest land transport system in the 19th-20th century world. An age when no geographical barrier or financial restraint would get in the way of opening up the frontiers of uncharted territory in the hither-to undeveloped world.
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From the valley of Castle Rock where the sun rose late and set early, to the plains of the Deccan, where vacuum drawn tumble-weeds would chase every passing passenger train for a while and then be left in it's wake, moving at high speed, with maxim effort to escape the devil-sent heat and dust.
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The natives in each territory would vary in looks, dress and manner, as their surroundings would encourage. The folk who lived in the hills for instance were generally longer necked and maybe therefore taller, as opposed to the shorter sturdier necked plains people whose women were always seen balancing large pots of water or bundles of firewood on their heads (sorry about the Darwinian jibe, only kidding) how tough and skilled they were to balance 5 gallons of water on a few delicate vertebra, carrying them over long distances, giggling all the way and still moving with elegance.
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Don't know and can't tell if my great grandmother had sturdier shoulders than the norm as she was a teapickin-mountain-climbin-scottishmarryin-sodadrinkin-mama who was taught to assist my great grandpa in eye surgery, dance the jig, wear an Ascot hat and host "Tea Garden Parties" (1802) which of course was the forerunner of the exclusively British "Garden Tea Parties". Yes there was a railway colony up there too in the Nilgiris (blue mountains) of the dinkiest kind. Toy passenger trains, no more, on narrow gauge tracks with cog slots for the locomotive to engage and keep the train from slip-sliding back to base before it's scheduled return journey. What a world! What a life!
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We would play between the neat rows of trellised bungalows, hide behind the outhouses and kitchens, which were away from the dwelling because coal would always be the cooking fuel, (no better way to cook marsala chops) generating unbearable heat and unmanageable smoke at start-up. One had to blow through a Woudhancole (mini didgeridoo) or fan the flames to get the fire biting, a very difficult job to ignite pure anthracite or indeed to snuff it out. Straight sandy rutted roads would connect small clusters of these smartly designed semi-detached houses, the living quarters of railwaymen; some were larger and built of stone when rank had to be observed. The road would stroll along lazily for a while, fairly well maintained till the last house in the colony, and then suddenly disappear under a leafy glade where a spring-water pool (blind well) would hide from the sizzling evaporating rays of the blazing sun.
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Self-contained and whole, every colony had two churches (Church of England and Roman Catholic), a school, a surgery, an Institute, a few multi-purpose midhans, a market, and a graveyard where you left your mark even if you didn't make one in life! Not forgetting the station, that often came first, around which a town would spring up with all its amenities, they were spaced scientifically apart (a maximum of XXX miles) which had something to do with the water and fuel capacity of a broad or narrow gauge locomotive moving between the major far flung Indian cities of the time. The service stops were the railway colonies.
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Tall Palmyra trees in the compounds of the lucky few who, if not agile enough to climb, would pay the box-boy or peon to frog-jump up one, and harvest the most sought after fruit of those hell-hot summer days. The Thati Noongue (Ice-apple), an always cool purple coconut look-alike fruit, with four pods of melting, liquid soft edible porcelain flesh, the taste of which made you feel momentarily religious (Uber-alles). If that don't beat all! Wait a couple of months till the rich deep orange fruity fibre ripens with a pungency that calls the parrots in from miles away to a shrill screechy wing fluttering feast! Is this the fruit for all seasons? No, that doesn't do it justice, because it now has a new name Punchuké which I guess should mean lingering taste! You can chew it till the cows come home and beat them at their own game. Sure beats standing and staring! The favourite early-evening pastime of the long gone pre-TV railway generation. Nothing much to do before 7:30 pm and "The Binaca Hit Parade" or "The Ovaltine Hour" or "The Colgate Pop Parade", with David Jacobs and company on Radio Ceylon or SEAC. Oh! yes, and "Cavalcade". Such a lovely name for a radio show, that I forget what-'n'-when-'n'-where. My memory fades, much like those radio waves in the middle of your favorite song . . . . .
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Holding back the years!

This is the house where Terry lived...

This post which originally appeared on Terry Fletcher's ANGLO INDIAN PORTAL gives us a close-up view of a typical railwayman's quarter during the Raj era. Thanks Fletch for an outstanding post, and let's hope we hear from you soon again !
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THE REASON FOR starting at this point, apart from having to start somewhere, is that our recent personal circumstances seemed to take an upward turn. Through sheer chance, a property to which we took an immediate liking, turned up out of the blue. We saw it as a place to which we could 'retire' - permanently. From the daily grind and the rat-race of the city. But for the moment that is all it remains - a dream.
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My background is that of railway-brat, born and brought up in India. It is also where I completed my studies, without distinction, excelling on the sports field whilst under-achieving in the classroom. Not an uncommon trait for an Anglo-Indian boy of the time, but eminently regrettable with hindsight!
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A railway-brat, contrary to popular belief, lived a pretty spartan life. Sure, there were houses with verandahs and 'compounds' (far too large to label them mere gardens!) that had outhouses for the servants. Yes, there were servants (for the politically correct - "domestic help"); at least two, often three and sometimes four. But the built-in facilities of those standard railway houses were fairly limited. No running water, sometimes not even electricity. Two areas that were afterthoughts or 'add-ons', were the kitchen and the bathroom. Two tiny rooms were thrown up at each end of the house, leaving the occupants to adapt them to their lifestyle.
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The kitchen was a cramped space, annexed to a larger room that was grandly labelled the "Dining Room" by the lady of the house. It had a brick and mud fireplace built into one corner and a sunken wash-up area in another. It was the domain of the cook who lovingly tended to his or her fire, heaping on piles of good quality anthracite that came from the many tenders of the many locomotives in the shunting yards, and all for free! The coals, once lit in the early hours of the morning for boiling water for 'bed-tea', burned throughout the day until the cook was dismissed to his or her quarters. Now you know where the idea for your Aga Cooker originated, although the modern Aga doesn't use solid fuel as its heating source!
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At the opposite end of the house, well away from the main living areas and usually attached to the 'Master Bedroom' (we only had one), was the bathroom cum toilet facility. Without wishing to plumb the depths of this subject, just accept that this room, across the breadth of the railway colony, was not the most popular room in a house. We railway-types only had a fleeting acquaintance with flush toilets and Thomas Crapper. The good old 'commode' was the accepted utensil, and if you were really well off, there might be one for each member of the family. In our house there were a couple of ornate wooden stands for the man and woman of the house with a scattering of metal flowerpot stands to serve the rest. By now you're either cringing with embarrassment, curling your lip with disgust, or even laughing out loud at a memory revived, but in those days this detail was not a cause for concern, nor was it one to be remarked upon. It was a fact of life; the way it was. Imagine my astonishment when, some 17 years later, I arrived in England in the early 60's to find that a huge percentage of dwellings didn't have indoor toilets. They relied on a 'thunder-box' (an ancient version of the loo) at the bottom of the garden.
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The washing and bathing facilities were equally primitive. A metal oil drum, recycled and painted inside and out, held water that was drawn from an outdoor standpipe and was filled daily by the cook who hand-carried the water in buckets, making several journeys of 50 metres or more. It served as the source for sluicing oneself down when washing or bathing. A bucket of hot water was usually whistled up from the kitchen and a bit of deft mixing served to take the chill off the water in the drum. As a quick aside, the soap was usually a brick of 'Lifebuoy' or 'Carbolic' that would refuse to lather even in the softest of water, despite what the makers claimed. In retrospect, this was the epitome of water conservation; we didn't have running showers or overfilled baths to waste the precious commodity.
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Since leaving India over 40 years ago I have lived in 27 houses whose appointments have varied from 'adequate' to 'luxurious', depending very much in which part of the world I found myself. I have to say that none of the dwellings that I have occupied over the years have been without a flush toilet or a bath or a shower. Indeed, for the last 8 years I have also been in close and intimate contact with that typically French invention, the bidet. It is not uncommon for people who have never used bidets to think that there is something strange about them. In contrast, residents of countries where the bidet is to be found in every private house, find it a perfectly normal and acceptable adjunct to their daily ablutions.
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I may have lived in many houses, but I have never owned my own. I have been a gypsy all my life, a circumstance imposed on me by the moving around with my parents during dad's postings from one railway colony to another, followed during my own working life by the flitting between one RAF station and another every two or three years, or when the dreaded posting notice dropped on the movement clerks desk. As a consequence I have never felt the urge to actually invest money in something that I could not pick up and take with me.
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But, as mentioned earlier, there is an air of expectancy all around just now. I anticipate that circumstances will change for us soon. Whether for better or for worse, only time will tell.