THE ROAD TO Miss Clifford’s school wound through an area that was both progressive and rural in outlook. Taking a turn at the main square, it took me beside the stadium, then an attractive colony housing railway folks, tiny brick bungalows each with its garden and its hedge. To my right was a dismal looking area, tiny lanes leading into a maze of traditional style houses. Herds of buffaloes would sometimes be seen crossing the street as I made my way to school. Further on was a tiny post office, a flour mill, and a few shops that resembled a village bazaar. When I reached this spot, there was always excitement, for ahead lay the level crossing. I would fervently hope that a train was due for this would give me enough reason to halt for a while and treat myself to the sight of a rushing train.
It was an
old fashioned level crossing and the gates, all four in number, were of the
swing-out type, painted in white. Beside the gate was a tiny hut and a sleepy
eyed attendant was often seen next to the hut which I was naïve enough to
believe was the gateman’s home.
I do not
see any of those kind of level crossings today—where have all those white
painted gates disappeared? Picturesque in appearance, so restful to look at. I
think the gateman found his task a wee bit cumbersome walking up in the face of
oncoming road traffic to swing the gate shut, and to ease his job, a new kind
of gate was in due time installed.
The new
design hardly met with my approval. It did not look like a gate, it was more
like a road barrier; a long steel pipe painted alternately in yellow and black
with flimsy tin strips dangling all along its length to check our passage when
a train was passing. This clumsy looking thing stood tall pointing skyward all
the while as road vehicles crossed over the tracks. Then quite suddenly without
warning a bell would begin to ring. Cyclists would be seen hurrying up the
pathway fearing that the gate would come crashing on top of them. I never
hurried; instead I dismounted and stood at one side watching the proceedings
with fascination.
From the
distance comes a screeching whistle, then a chug-chug-chug
which grows louder and louder. Schoolchildren may be seen eager to catch a
glimpse of the train, now furiously moving up the line as though saying out of my way, out of my way. . . The majestic engine thunders past and for a
moment all eyes are riveted on the smoke billowing creature that is riding past
in a sheer display of strength and determination.
A moment
later the engine has rumbled past and the tension eases. The carriages ride
past, tame enough creatures, none possessing the fire and strength of the
motive power far ahead. They hurl themselves one by one in a mad frenzy, till
at last the Guard’s van comes into view and with a final clunk clunk, passes away noisily into the distance.
The train
has passed and life returns to its former zest. The gateman is back to his post
cranking up the barrier. Motorcars roar into power, and as the gate lifts, all
rush forward, there is no time to lose. The train was an intrusion but only
momentary; all are eager to get on with the business of living.
I wheel my bike slowly over the level crossing, gazing pensively at the gleaming tracks stretching away to the horizon. When is the next train due, I wonder, as I begin my slow pedal to school.
I wheel my bike slowly over the level crossing, gazing pensively at the gleaming tracks stretching away to the horizon. When is the next train due, I wonder, as I begin my slow pedal to school.
----------------------
Ravindra Bhalerao
