WAITING AT FEROKE STATION

By Radha Nair

First published in Hindustan Times (Mumbai edition), 26 February 2008.

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TRAVEL ALWAYS HOLDS a lot of excitement for me. Equally, soaking in the atmosphere of an almost forgotten tiny station is also most enjoyable for me.

 

I had been sitting on a hard bench for an hour on the Feroke station railway platform. It had been raining heavily. Then it changed to drizzle.

 

Rain water sloped down the tin sheet awning, and fell in liquid ropes to the uneven ground. It collected into small pools, or dribbled into the cracks, which had been widened by blades of grass springing up in gleeful green.

 

The platform was quite empty except for a stray dog, which came up to me wagging its tail and settled down close by, looking up at me hopefully with huge mournful eyes.

 

The faint light cast by the few lamps on the platform, set widely apart on tall wrought iron poles, spread slippery, silver shine on the rain washed rail tracks. In the shadows, a man leant against the closed doors of the waiting room. 

 

In the hush, I heard the coarse scratch of a match, and turned to see in its brief flame, a face time etched and worn. He cupped the flame against a gust of wet wind. Soon only an orange dot glowed in the darkness.

 

Just behind me, the station master’s room blazed with light. He was busy answering the wireless. He buttoned and unbuttoned his black coat in impatience. The train from Ernakulam to Mangalore was late. Just then the phone rang. He grabbed it. He called out, “Velayudah” !  

 

Soon Velayudan, emerged from the gloom, gathered up the thick cotton sheet which he had spread on a bench, and drew it close round his shoulders. He knotted his turban tightly round his bald head. He took the green signal lamp and walked to the dark end of the platform.  As he swung along, the light from the lamp cast a greenish bloom on the rough stones of the station walls.

 

A metal rod was struck with such force that it set my teeth on edge. The beggars who slept behind the fenced-off side of the arched entrance leading to the platform, mumbled in their sleep and turned on their sides. This station had been their sanctuary for years. They had nowhere else to go. Their best friends were the trains which passed through, night and day. The sharp whistle, the hiss of steam, the surge of passengers, and the way the ground shook, when the iron horse thundered past... this was the music of their lives.

 

Through the curtain of rain, I looked at the shimmer of lamp light from the opposite platform. Some people scrambled down from that platform and ran across the lines just before the train arrived, to clamber up again to safety onto the platform where I sat.

 

These people always loved this little nocturnal flirtation with danger. Whatever else there was on hand  for them, it  could wait. But this wild dash over the rail track, just minutes before a train arrived, held some adrenalin pumping, important moments for them.

 

One single clang reverberated across the silent platform. I could make out nothing in the dark. Then a faint whistle floated through the air. A beam of light cut through the sooty dark. The shuddering sounds of the approaching train made me look more carefully.

 

Soon at the far end.  I could see the engine, followed by the curve of compartments behind it, as it took the sharp bend. Faster and faster it came, until it swept in most dramatically into the station and past me, in one earth shaking, blurred rush of sound and movement.

PAPER LINE CLEAR

IT IS TIME I INTRODUCE YOU BOYS to an elderly gentleman here called Mr Vinod Nanekar. You have already read his writings on this site. Nanekar retired several years back as Deputy Station Superintendent of Nagpur Railway station. He is getting on in years, and yet does not have a single white hair on his head. When I asked him about this, he said his hair was naturally black. I find it difficult to believe this.  I would rather believe a friend who once told me that Vinod is a first-rate liar!! I feel certain he uses hair dye, but doesn’t want others to know.  Just scroll down to his post titled Suspension Order and you will see what I mean. 

Engine drivers these days are educated men, but in early days, steam drivers were mostly uneducated folks.  Most drivers began their career as a young apprentice mechanics in the locoshed, not unlike the young chhokras you see in scooter repair shops on the roadside.  Many of them could not even read or write.

Nanekar tells me of a case long ago when the home signal of the wayside station where he was posted, was out of order. A semaphore signal is so constructed that if it fails to function for any reason, it drops down automatically to the STOP aspect. When a train arrives it has to halt till such time as a pointsman arrives with a letter of authority from the Station Master allowing the train to draw forward.

A goods train had arrived at his home signal , Nanekar said, and was awaiting further clearance.  The ASM on duty was too tired to fill up the form of authority, so he asked his pointsman to walk down the line and tell the driver to bring in his train. The pointsman did as he was told and returned dejected. The driver was a conscientious worker it seemed, and he refused to start without a proper authority. When the pointsman narrated how adamant the driver was, the ASM drew out a blank form, and scribbled the following words on it : “You bloody bast.., you come here AT ONCE !!”  The messenger was dispatched again. This time the driver heeded the 'authority', for he was illiterate, and brought in his train. Both the driver and the guard sauntered into the ASM’s office.  “Are bhaiyya,” said the ASM to the driver, “why do you make such a fuss over an authority? You already knew the signal wasn’t working for the past several days. Do you realize what I have written here on this form?”

The poor driver was forced to digest the station master’s words of wisdom.

What the ASM did with regard to the letter of authority is an example of what is known on the railways as “dilatory working”, just another term for an unwillingness to follow the full recommended procedure. The rules are tiresome to study, even more tiresome to follow at times. And yet they have been worked out with the utmost care and thought, and if followed to the letter, will keep accidents and mishaps at bay. Many times ASM’s and other staff don’t realize this, and turn to ‘shortcuts’, little realizing the grave danger in using these quick and ready methods which they have come to love.

On the night of 5 May 2005 over 200 passengers were traveling on a passenger train bound for Surat. The Jalgaon—Surat  No. 114 Passenger train had pulled into Bardoli station at around 3-30  in the morning. While sleepy eyed passengers were wondering what was holding up the train, Assistant Station Master A. K. Kesari was having an argument with the driver. A goods train had left Bardoli an hour ago on the same track, and Kesari felt sure it had reached the next station, Chalthan. The signal did not relay if the goods train had passed Chalthan, and Kesari was in no mood to verify its position from the control room.

When electrical instruments fail to give an indication of line clear, the ASM has to ascertain the position concerning the train ahead, from the next station as well the control room, using his phone before dispatching the train on paper line clear. Instead, ASM Kesari boldly assumed that the goods train had cleared the next station, and proceeded to prepare a letter of authority for the Passenger train to move on. The driver was wiser. When he saw that the authority was issued without consulting the control room, he refused to budge from the spot.  Finally Kesari contacted control and found that the goods train was still on its way, that it had not reached the next station.  He immediately cancelled the letter authorizing the driver to move on.

Had the driver started from Bardoli under the Station Master’s letter of authority, a major mishap would have taken place.  An enquiry was held the same day, and Western Railway suspended ASM Kesari and Traffic Superintendent Rajkamal, in charge of the area.  When asked , Divisional Railway Manager Arunendra Kumar agreed that there was an error. “There was no damage,” he said, “ but if one person made a slip, other persons involved in train operating should know these things will not be tolerated.”

Ravindra Bhalerao

ADVENTURE IN AMLA

AMLA IS A MEDIUM SIZED junction about 3 hours run from Nagpur on the Grand Trunk route. Proceeding towards the north, we first have Nagpur, then Amla, followed by Betul, Itarsi, and then Bhopal. Long before electric and diesel came on the scene, Amla was a small sized railway centre, with a branch line going to Parasia. There was a regular Passenger Train service connecting Amla and Parasia. Those who have stayed in this area will also remember the steam run Bhopal--Parasia Fast Passenger train which would pass through Amla late in the night.

Amla also had a sizeable goods yard, and of course , a loco shed. The Grand Trunk Express halted here, as did the Dakshin, and several other trains too. I have been through Amla several times while on my way from Itarsi to Nagpur back in the 1980s. And I unfailingly traveled by the Itarsi--Nagpur Passenger. Once I even had to spend the whole night at Amla, seated on the platform. It was a tiresome experience, but I had a great time nonetheless.

Mr Vinod Nanekar, Deputy Station Superintendent of Nagpur railway station tells me that once, a long time ago, a problem had arisen in Amla. Wagons had accumulated in the yard, and the staff were at a loss to understand how to clear up the mess. Amla phoned Nagpur control apprising them of the situation, and so, that very evening, an official from the Operating Department was dispatched from Nagpur to study the situation and suggest a remedy. Cases such as this are not uncommon. Yards do get out of hand at times, and when this happens, an official is sent who will suggest for instance that six wagons lying at this corner be attached to a certain train, another three lying over there be taken to a nearby station and stabled till further orders are received, and so on.

Our official from Nagpur arrived in Amla travelling in his saloon, and set about doing his work. When night came, his saloon was stabled at one end of the platform for him, so that he would have no trouble in entering or getting off the carriage.

An Express was due to arrive late in the night and Amla found themselves in a fix. Both platforms were occupied, one with the saloon, the other with an empty row of carriages. The ASM on duty ordered that the saloon be shunted to a nearby track, as a single carriage would take less time to be shunted out than whole line of carriages. Soon a shunting engine came in and stood a little distance on the same track as the saloon car. The pointsman standing close to the carriage gave his signal and the engine backed up with a mighty woof, but in doing so the driver made an error in judgement and banged against the saloon a bit harder than usual. The official within was jolted from his sleep, and woke up. He was in a towering rage. He climbed down from his carriage, and gave the driver and pointsman a piece of his mind. Then he strode along the platform to the ASM’s office to report the matter.

While the shunting staff stood beside, terrified of the punishment that would be meted out, a phone call was made to Nagpur. Soon the official in Amla was yelling into the phone telling his superior in Nagpur about what had taken place.

It is impossible to say what Nagpur had to say on the phone. It appears the boss in Nagpur wasn’t too pleased hearing such a complaint coming in the dead of the night. Maybe he yelled back saying “What nonsense, I didn’t send you to Amla for sleeping in your saloon!!” Whatever it is he may have said, Nanekar tells me that our official soon calmed down, to everyone’s enormous relief. He put down the receiver and looked around sheepishly. Then he told the men that it was quite okay, that he would return to his saloon, and they could resume with their shunting !!!

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Ravindra Bhalerao

VINTAGE PICTURES

Back in February this year, I received a delightful set of pictures from Dr Ardeshir B Damania showing views of Devlali and Bhandup stations back in 1925.  "Last week I was in Mumbai," wrote Dr Damania, "and went through my father's photo album and also found pictures of De

vlali Station and Bhandup station from 1925. Devlali was one of my father's favorite hill stations and Bhandup was where my father and his college (VJTI) friends would go for excellent toddy from the date palm trees.

"Notice that Bhandup had overhead electric traction already installed in 1925. There was no electric traction at Devlali in 1925."

Readers of this site may wish to compare the view of Bhandup station with what  it looks like now. Here's a colour snap provided very kindly by Rajendra Aklekar, which shows the same tiled office which is the Stations Master's office now. 

Many, many thanks both to Dr Damania and Raj for the lovely updates.
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Picture Courtesy:
Upper and middle :  Mr Behramji M. Damania (1893 - 1982)
Lower : Rajendra Aklekar

THE MAGIC OF BEING MISS MARGARET

Radha Nair has sent in another piece telling about her tuition teacher, Miss Margaret. The writing has a fairy-like quality to it, and will make you want to dip into it again and again . . . Many, many thanks Radha for this delightful masterpiece !!
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SCHOOL WAS NO WHERE in my horizon at age six. Instead I sat for two hours with Miss Margaret, my tuition teacher, in a room in No. 1 “Rail View”. That was the only time my mind did not chug – chug off, to the sounds of the trains passing through Dadar station just outside my window.

I was more fascinated by the lovely dresses she wore, beautifully flared out from the tiniest of waists, which she swung daintily from side to side as she clicked her way, into our house on her very high patent leather heels. I was so spell bound that after she left I practiced her walk, only to fall flat on my face with each dismal attempt.

Each day she wore a new dress with exquisite lace collars and boat necks, silver brooches on broad lapels, blouses made of the most delicate Broderie Anglais, and three-tiered polka dotted skirts from which sometimes peeped, lace-edged satin slips, the likes of which I had never seen before.

There was always a single strand of pearls at her throat. And when she settled down, I was drowned in the most wonderful perfume you could imagine. I don’t remember a thing of what she taught me from the text books. For, to a girl of six, there were other things of lasting appeal.

But I do remember the way she sat, always upright. I watched the way she dabbed delicately at the light film of sweat on her upper lip with a silk hand kerchief; or the way she turned the pages of the book, leaving behind the memory of her perfumed touch. I loved to hear the rustle of her skirts as she moved slightly forward in her chair. Her hair was always brushed to perfection, cut in wavy layers and therefore having an exquisite bounce.

But what riveted me was her excellent pronunciation, and the way her Revlon lip-sticked mouth formed perfect O’s, or the way she bit her lower lip ever so slightly for the V’s.

When she was served tea, politely, she nibbled delicately at the biscuits, and sipped her tea without a sound. When she left, there was the imprint of her lipstick on the rim of the cup. One day I promised myself, “Thou shalt have all the sailor collars in the world, pick and choose this perfume and that, and yes, thou shalt paint thy lips a ravishing pink”. I think she found me alright, for never once did she chide me, or pull my ear, or have a word with my mother. And therefore I loved her all the more.

Instead, for Christmas, she called me over to her house. I just don’t remember where it was, but I think we took a tram. When she opened the double doors, into which had been set panes of colored glass, they lent that much more magic to the sunlight which fell through it.

It was a home so very cozy that she let us into, with soft drapes letting in gauzy light, plump cushions that made you want to sit a little longer, chiming clocks, and carved furniture, Bing Crosby’s Xmas carols from the radio-gram, and heavenly smells of Anglo Indian food cooking drifting from the kitchen.

There was a tall Christmas tree all done up in tinsel, and shiny baubles. Tea was served in the finest china. I was so awe struck, comparing my staid , in-between-naval transfers/transit -home at Rail View, to this beautiful place, that she helpfully, came round as I raised my cup, to put 2 sugar cubes... (SUGAR CUBES?????. . . I had never seen them before), and then tinkled a silver spoon in my cup of hot chocolate with a swirl of cream.

From that moment onwards I decided, I would stop drinking ‘Ovaltine’ and insist on hot chocolate with cream, with 2 sugar cubes each time! Shamelessly, I drained the cup to the last delicious drop, forgetting how her good manners always reminded her to leave a little tea in her cup, every time she had tea at my house.

Miss Margaret, insisted that I have patties and ham sandwiches, along with pastries topped with chocolate icing, tiny silver balls and roses.

The first bite drove off all my shyness, and soon I was tucking in with the gusto, which only a 6 year old is capable of. Finally she offered me some home-made Marzipans. The taste was so divine, that all the way back home I repeated Marzipan, Marzipan, so I would not forget and tell my mother about its wonders.

Needless to say, on my return home, suddenly the trains which otherwise enchanted me, looked singularly dull in comparison to the elegant clink of cups, a house rich with warm oven smells, lace covered tables, and the gentle boom of ancient clocks.
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Radha Nair