AS ANY SCHOOLBOY will tell you, if you are late in arriving at the station, you miss the train. Pretty much the same thing happened here as far as my camera and I were concerned. The few books on rail history I had on my shelf were a treasured possession which I held in the greatest regard. I read them, pored over the pictures, re-read them. These books told about the railways of India, how the system began, and what the earliest carriages were like, and how the early engines worked. Reading these works not only gave me pleasure, they also did something else. They clothed me with a false sense of security. Why bother to take pictures of steam trains with those books lying around my shelf?
Then the
bombshell exploded. The engines I loved began to get fewer in number with each
passing year. I knew what was happening, but was too complacent to do anything
about it. When I finally did carry a camera to the station, I was late in
arriving. Steam traction had been dismissed contemptuously as an antique mode
of power: everything had turned modern and sophisticated. And the antique engines had all been sold for a song, I was told.
Fortunately for me, there’s more to my fascination with trains than just photographing steam engines. Railways are a fascinating hobby, one that can grow around a person like a creeper. Here is a youngster who is fond of watching engines steaming in the yard. Oh, how he rejoices to watch an ageing loco as it draws out of the yard with a line of carriages, throwing up plumes of smoke into the air! These engines are his life, and he may be seen pottering about near a siding, even the yard, looking up those magnificent old machines at work.
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| Accident Relief Trains were stabled in the locoshed in earlier times. Here is a modern ART stabled on the main railway station itself. |
Fortunately for me, there’s more to my fascination with trains than just photographing steam engines. Railways are a fascinating hobby, one that can grow around a person like a creeper. Here is a youngster who is fond of watching engines steaming in the yard. Oh, how he rejoices to watch an ageing loco as it draws out of the yard with a line of carriages, throwing up plumes of smoke into the air! These engines are his life, and he may be seen pottering about near a siding, even the yard, looking up those magnificent old machines at work.
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| Manufacturers' Plates. Picture courtesy of Dr A. B. Damania |
Soon our
boy tires of watching engines alone; he comes to recognize that each iron horse
is a distinct entity with a personality of its own. Manufacturers’ plates suddenly take on a new
significance for him; they reveal to him the loco’s identity, and help him to
look upon each loco as he would look at each individual boy in school. So he
begins to keep a diary where he will begin to document each loco he sees by
noting down engine numbers.
After a
while, our young man with his notebook full with numbers moves on to explore
the yard, then the station, the level crossing, and the locomotive shed. If he
has a technical bent of mind, he may be tempted to explore how the railway is
run. He is going to make friends with the station staff, eager to learn what
comes his way. And if he has access to a library, he will find himself looking
up books on history, old documents. Since the past is nearly always more
interesting than the present, he will set his sights on the antiquity of the
railway: a signal lamp made a hundred years ago, an ageing brass buckle once
worn by a refreshment room bearer, a rustic old platform bench, old locos lying
around in the scrapyard. And when our boy reaches the stage where anything that
points to his beloved railway is a joy to contemplate—anything ranging from an
old movie that features the railway to the picture of a merry faced station
master in baggy trousers—when he reaches this stage he may be said to have
reached maturity. His pastime is no longer confined to watching old locos in
the yard; it has become an all-embracing pursuit.
This is
far from being an exhaustive list, and followers of the railway trail will find
many other facets to arouse their curiosity and interest. But after exploring
the railways as far as I could, it still leaves me feeling empty within. There
is a void within, a void that is as inexplicable as it is agonizing. If you are
a victim of this malady, you need not despair. The cure is straightforward
enough. Turn to literature; turn to memoirs, to old timer’ tales; turn to
stories that dwell on the railway age long past, no matter how briefly; watch
movies based on the Raj. It will act as a soothing liniment to the troubled,
wandering soul, a spring of fresh water in the parched desert.
Bill
Aitken discovered this and proclaimed jubilantly to the world that John
Masters’ Bhowani Junction was
unlikely to be bettered for the most genuine flavor of India’s steam age.
Aitken got his flavor from a footplate ride described in great detail by
Masters in his book. I read the novel and found that nearly every page of the
book smacks of the railway; it is a railway story in the truest sense of the
word. Forster’s A Passage to India in
contrast, is not set in railwayland throughout its entire breadth ; yet if you
are a lover of the railways of the Raj, you are bound to be an ardent admirer
of the Raj too; and Forster does dwell on the railways of hisday, though
briefly. Spend a night pacing up and down the platform of Chandrapore station
with Dr Aziz waiting impatiently for his English company to arrive who he will
gallantly escort for a picnic at the mysterious Marabar caves. Here at the
station you will find at the first hint of dawn third-class passengers stirring
from dark corners preparing to clean their teeth on the twigs of a tree while a
man from the station office goes putting out the lamps. The Raj, the English,
the railways, the natives…. it is all there. And when you are done with
Forster, I would recommend that magnificent epic which earned Paul Scott a name
in literature. You have probably already seen in on television, but nothing can
quite equal reading the original Raj Quarter comprising four novels set in the
final tumultuous years of the British Raj. “… If in a hundred or three hundred
years from now,” wrote M M Kaye, “anyone wants to know exactly how it was like,
they will be able to find out by reading The
Raj Quartet.” That is enough reason for anyone to want to read the Quartet;
there is not much of railways in there save for a hint or two, but there is
enough of Raj and Railways to satisfy
the perpetually thirsting soul.
Literature
then is the path the rail enthusiast must take if his excursion is to be deep
and satisfying. Mere facts and figures serve to inform; they do nothing more
than that; a tale takes one back in time and makes him re-live history with all
its sights and sounds and smells, its places and its people. It is like an
exciting replay of a bygone era that has passed into history.
Along with
literature I had mentioned anecdotes and old timers’ tales. These are hard to
come by, but the reader who takes the trouble to hunt up a copy of K R
Vaidyanathan’s A Trainload of Jokes and
Anecdotes will find his effort is amply rewarded. This book is literally a
treasure trove of little nuggets gleaned from old railway magazines, newspapers
and other sources. Each of these tales is like a gem which borrows sunlight and
reflects it back in a thousand glittering shades. They are priceless little
commodities, sometimes plain and unadorned, often witty and humorous. You can
never tell how many times a tale has changed hands before it falls on your
ears; we can’t even be sure who originated it in the first place, and how much
of it is fact and how much invention. They stand like sublime little pointers
to the past; they serve to regale us as well as inform, like lighted lanterns
casting their glow amid the cold world of historical fact and figures.
Here is an
excerpt from an old letter written many years ago. The writer is a lady named
Eleanor writing to her friend Julia who had taken ill after a short stay in
India and had to return to her home in Windermere in England:
Dear Julia,
It is ages since I last heard from you, and yet
you complain I am irregular when it comes to replying to mail ! I keep a record
of my correspondence and my entries show I have written four letters to you
over a period of one year, while you have written only twice. How baseless are
your accusations.
And so here I am in Nawabganj to spend a
Christmas with Melanie and Frank. I am here seated on the lawn and how I wish
you were here with me! Bougainvilla, azaleas, and dahlias are all around me. I
have just finished doing my cards. Little Doris, playful as ever, is rolling on
the lawn. In between spells of play she looks up at me with eyes screwed up as
though seeking my approval. Winter sunshine can be kind, I think I can sit here
on this cane chair for ever. This garden is truly paradise; cuckoos and
robins are all around me, within trees, on hedges, and on walls, letting out
chirps of birdsong.
I still carry pictures in my mind of the tender
affection that grew up between you and James, but that was a year back or so?
He is magnificent, something like a knight-in-armour, so very chivalrous. I can
tell you the young knight still pines for his lady, that his affection hasn’t
cooled a bit. It is such a shame you had to go home before we had wedding bells
ringing here. But you needn’t despair, my girl, you needed a long rest
after your illness. What better place to breathe in health giving air than the
countryside of Windermere?? Beatrix Potter herself lived there, so it must be a
place full of memories, so full of inspiration amid the lakes. How cruel it
must feel to be forced to separate from the one you love! And yet it is only
for a while, for James is preparing to return, as he no doubt must have told
you, so eager to join up with you. Delays are never denials, and the sooner we
learn this, the better....
As for me, romance if out of the question it
seems, miserable old spinster that I am! But there are compensations. There’s
freedom to come in and go as I please. There’s freedom to spend my leisure as I
wish. And there’s also time on hand to indulge in a bit of fantasy with romance
fiction.... You will find some very good titles at the Wheeler’s bookshop on the
station. Melanie, full of chatter, full of jokes, is a constant companion on these excursions. First comes
coffee at the refreshment room, gossip over cups and cups of brew. Then we dash
down to the platform threading our way through the growling crowds to those two
jazzy ticket weighing machines side by side close to where the ticket collector
stands. Melanie has to get atop one of them fervently hoping those blinking red
and orange lights will dispense a bit of luck. She climbs on, and the
little red and white wheel behind the glass begins to turn. She inserts her
coin, clunk-thud, and the ticket pops out. The verdict printed is always a
dismal seventy kilos—oh, how disappointing! Clearly the result of more of
weight-watching, less of dieting and exercise ; but I am told those machines
sometimes do give a false reading. From there, on to the Wheeler’s bookstall
down the platform. The variety of books you will find here is astonishing;
books on puzzles, books on travel, books on leisure and management and humour,
horror stories and fiction—and magazines, magazines, magazines. I wonder if
those men you see leaning so studiously against the counter are really
interested in making a purchase—or are they only whiling away time? The rest of
the station is a seething mass of humanity sweating to catch a train, but these
men appear strangely aloof, lost in profound thought. Mr. Diwan, the
proprietor, is an old friend and he’s always prepared to show me some
interesting titles. I found some pretty story books for little Doris, a Kodak
book for Frank, and a number of mystery novels. And my collection is growing
all the time....
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| A selection of books from the Wheeler's bookstall |
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| Wheeler is still a name synonymous with the railways of India |
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| The lone railway platform |
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| A train is shunted out of the station |
..................................
Fiction;
Ravindra Bhalerao