MY EARLIEST CHILDHOOD MEMORIES of rail travel were when we visited our maternal grandparents in Maharashtra, during summer holidays. I and my brother would be thrilled to bits, especially my brother, as from that tender age he had a secret desire to become an engine driver. A metal trunk would be packed with our clothes, as suitcases had not yet appeared on the scene. And there was a handy hold-all, a khaki colored cloth contraption capable of holding a mattress, a pillow and a couple of sheets, firmly rolled over and secured by sturdy leather straps. I was given the all important task of carrying the flannel covered metal water bottle. Or there was a surahi with a lion’s head for its spout.
And so we
would set off for the station. A coolie would be hired to take us to our
designated platform. After much haggling he would bring down his price to four
annas. It was a princely sum in those days. Balancing the trunk on his head and
carrying the hold-all he would race ahead with all four of us trotting behind,
vainly trying to keep pace with him. Depositing our luggage on the platform, he
would depart, promising to return when the train arrived.
While my
parents would occupy the platform bench, we kids would sit on the luggage.
Stations would hardly be crowded those days. A few families would be there,
some coolies, the ticket collector in his white uniform and a smart peaked cap,
and stacks of wooden crates waiting to be hauled away. A sweeper with his long T-shaped stick would walk and swab the platform from one end to another. A
passenger train would arrive and there would be a sudden frenzy of activity.
The excited chatter of people, coolies bustling about and vendors selling their
wares through train windows. When the train departed, silence would reign once
more over the platform.
There was often no need for reservation as there was plenty of space in the compartment. Food
was not needed as our journey was short. An occasional cup of hot tea served in thick white porcelain cups was sufficient. Mom’s golden rule was, ‘no eating or
drinking during journeys’, as trains were notorious for their filthy loos, but
who cared!? In the moving train, vendors would sell tea, biscuits, peanuts and
chana jor garam. I and my brother would happily much on chikki and nankatai.
We didn’t mind the hard wooden benches or the dirty carriage strewn with
beedi stubs and bits of paper. As long as we got a window seat, we were fine.
For us children it was an adventure with a capital A.
We would
come across miles and miles of uncultivated barren land, clumps of grass, a few
scattered trees and the unending horizon where earth and sky meet. And horror
of horrors I once beheld an awful sight – a bleached skull grinning grotesquely
at us from beyond the tracks. I wonder which unfortunate person was mauled to
death by a wild beast and I was mighty grateful for the iron bars on the
windows which protected us from the cruel world outside.
In the wee
dark hours of the morning, the train would slowly pull into a station. One
could palpably feel the echo. I would watch with wonder as the huge platform
pillars would slowly glide by, plastered with film posters of Dev Anand, Nutan,
Sunil Dutt, Madhubala, Dilip Kumar, Mumtaz, Shammi Kapoor and Asha Parekh. To
my untutored eyes, these beautiful people with pink complexions and perfect
teeth lived charmed lives in fairytale castles. I did not realize that the film
stars owe much of their beauty to makeup. A.H. Wheeler, the famous bookshop
would still be closed. A coolie wearing his red shirt and dirty white dhoti
would be sleeping on the bench with a mangy dog curled beneath keeping him
company. The only things alive were the bright tube lights and the large clock
hanging from the roof. After some time the guard would blow his whistle and
with a jolt the train would start once again.
I can
still remember those glorious sunsets when the sky would turn blue to orange to
pink to purple and finally black, stars twinkling in the sky, a full yellow
moon racing with our train, dry and cracked river beds with a thin silver
stream of water, the sudden inky darkness of a tunnel, the tracks, signals and
cabins, the permanent way inspector making his routine inspection on a small
trolley and the famous Chambal ravines of Madhya Pradesh. Dad would regale us
with stories of Tantya Bhil – a local brigand – who would stop a passing train and chop off passengers’ legs or stretch them to match his own. Such
medieval torture!
Fellow
passengers are a class apart. We would tend to look on them warily in the
beginning but as time went by, we would settle down comfortably and become like
one big happy family. Some would immediately clamber into the top berth to get
their much-needed sleep. Others would discard their footwear, sit cross-legged on
the benches, burp, pick their teeth or noses and talk incessantly. Some would
pull out their dog-eared books and start reading while mothers would comfort
their wailing babies.
Most if
the co-passengers I have come across have been good. Some provide a bit of
amusement while others are downright obnoxious and it is best to avoid the
latter category.
Many years
ago I was travelling from Nagpur to Delhi and I had the misfortune to get an
upper berth. A local politician was also going to Delhi with his friends and
offered to exchange his lower berth after his dinner which was a sumptuous
affair as he had a ten-box tiffin carrier with him. To this day I can still
smell the spicy aroma of zhunka and bajra rotis, typical Maharashtrian fare.
He was going to meet a minister and was carrying a huge bunch of raw peanuts as
a gift.
Then there
was the young Sardarji couple whose baby son was running a fever. A bit of
Crocin brought the fever down. The parents were so overwhelmed. The father gave
me his card should I ever need his help. I should have retained it as he was a
lawyer.
Rural eye
camps were held in winter. I had to travel from Itarsi to Khirkiya (which
literally means windows), a tiny hamlet in Madhya Pradesh. The rest of the team
had gone on ahead and I along with the hospital ward boy were bringing up the
rear. In our carriage, apart from ourselves, there was only one other occupant—a
lady. She stared at me for a long time taking in my bob-hair, sari, high heels
and lipstick, and then picked up the courage to ask me timidly if I was
‘foreign returned’.
Travelling
by AC coach has its own merits. Everything is so spotless. Meals are served in
hygienic plastic covered trays. A pillow and blanket would be provided at night
for a nominal fee. Once I used such a pillow and next morning to my dismay I
discovered that there were lice in my hair. Even the snobbish AC passengers
have feet of clay. My son aged ten, undertook his first train journey in the
padded comforts of such an AC coach, a far cry from journeys we undertook as
kids. Seated opposite us was a plump girl, also going to Nagpur, after
purchasing her dowry items from Delhi. Munching on kajus she gave me the glad tidings that she knew 17 Indian
languages. “Good for you. I hope your husband keeps that fact in mind when you
have one of your fights”, I thought to myself.
Someone
wrote in the newspapers, “Once it leaves a station, a train morphs into an
alternate world, a world humming with romance and filled with deception, where
you can lose your heart or your life.” How true! As for me, I still remember
that world with nostalgia where train journeys were pleasant and the passengers
were kind, courteous and friendly. I wish that era did not have to end.
...........................................
Dr. Kalpana Sarkar
