Sukhdev
Singh, B.E.,
Late Superintending
Engineer,
Public
Works Department,
Ambala
Ambala
November 1956
THE DAZZLING SHOW OF exquisite goods on display in the fashionable bazaars have never held any charm for me, except perhaps to buy a few necessaries that are basic to the business of living.
THE DAZZLING SHOW OF exquisite goods on display in the fashionable bazaars have never held any charm for me, except perhaps to buy a few necessaries that are basic to the business of living.
How does
it come about that people throng the bazaar dressed in their evening best, and
flit from shop to shop, carrying back basketfuls of fancily wrought goods, half
of which they might never use throughout the year, is beyond my power of
comprehension. I suppose these folks like to stock up on merchandise in
competition with their neighbours. It is a universal trait that may be found all
over the civilized world.
These then
are my views with regard to the acquisition of goods. But of late, I find a change taking place within
me. There is one object here in the marketplace which has cast a spell over me. I have often halted
beside the New India Radio & Gramophone Company on my way to Harminder’s
home. Each time I am here, a sweet melody may be heard floating out of the
shop, a melody that is both soothing and pleasurable, mostly film numbers, but at
other times English tunes.
The
gramophone shop has an interesting assortment of goods. There are record
players and stacks of records ; then there are radio sets on sale (Harpreet
loves to listen to Radio Ceylon) ; and there are microphones and tape recorders
and all the associated circuitry. As an added attraction, the shop also stocks
on prismatic binoculars, slide projectors and magnifying glasses.
I wish I
could get a record player for Harpreet, but a better idea would be to get her a
radio set, so that they can tune in to their favourite stations. The girl often
makes her way to her friend’s home a few blocks away, her frame swaying awkwardly with
every step she takes, to sit by the radio and listen to Radio Ceylon. Here at
the gramophone shop the latest British made Pye radio sets are on sale, but
each set costs no less than Rs 300, and you need a license besides to own a
radio receiver.
These were
my musings as I seated Biji and Harpreet in a III Class Sleeper carriage of 6
Down Mail. But this is no time to think about music and radio sets and
licenses. I am here at the railway station with Harpreet and her mother, and after a wait of nearly an hour in the Waiting Room, the train has steamed in. The Punjab Mail standing at the platform arouses a sense of urgency ; there
is no telling when the locomotive at the head of the train will commence to
exert its tractive pull at the drop of the signal. There is the unmistakable
feeling that an event of the first magnitude is about to take place, and event
that will irreversibly change the destiny of those seated meekly within the
train. The yellow board on the carriage
side is tilted over to one side; it reads ‘Howrah—Amritsar—Howrah’. Another carriage down the train declares its
destination to be Dehradun. This, I am told, is a through carriage that will be
detached when the train pulls into Laksar in the dead of the night. I think I must study the
timetable; this is the place that will furnish me full partculars of through
carriages on this train.
Having
settled Biji and Harpreet, I bid them farewell and hurriedly moved up the
platform hoping to catch a view of the locomotive as it drew out with the
train. I stumbled along, dodging handcarts laden with luggage and passengers
scurrying to and fro. I reached the end of the platform canopy—oh dear, there
were still four more carriages to go, out under the night sky—when the engine
gives out a deep sonorous whistle, like a ship's siren. I had hoped to catch a
glimpse of the driver opening his regulator but missed the event. With a great
roar, those mighty cylinders let out plumes of steam setting those steel rods
into motion. There were three men in charge, active in the brightly lit cab. One
blast, then another, WHOOOF—WHOOF—WHOOF , and the locomotive slowly began to move out
with the train. I glanced at the yard ahead where a semaphore meekly pointed
the way down shining a feeble green light towards us. “Gentlemen, all is clear,
you are authorized to proceed…” it seemed
to say.
The rest
of today's evening was uneventful. As the train pulled out, I made my way to
the station restaurant for a vegetarian meal. Once out of the building I
turned, as I often do, to glance at this great railway junction. Ludhiana
railway station. A cold mist has descended on the night; the concourse feebly
lit with incandescent lamps; tongas wait in uncertainty for passengers emerging
from the main portico.
----------------
Continued below...