SONEGAON, KANHAN, KHAPRI, Dongargaon, Kamptee... ask any old timer and he will tell you that these were once tiny settlements dotting the city of Nagpur, small villages where lived humble village folk who lived unpretentious lives and earned their bread by the sweat of their brow.
These were simple folk who pursued simple village trades. Thus there was the village barber and the blacksmith; there was the carpenter and the electrician, the plumber and the local school master. There was the village tailor busy on his treadle machine making garments for children and grown-ups alike. And needless to say, you had the odd grocer with his tiny shop who stocked up provisions and daily essentials needed by all and sundry who lived in the village.
There were others who tilled their land under the sun, who were sons of the soil. These men and their wives tended to their fields and grew their vegetables, their corn and their wheat and their fruit. Their produce was sold in colorful weekly village bazars welcomed by one and all.
A few of these men were more adventuresome, they would travel all the way to the city to sell their produce: their freshly picked brinjals and tomatoes, capsicums and cucumbers, onions and coriander. A trip to the city was a welcome change for the villageman: it afforded him relief from the monotony of village life, and besides he knew his produce could fetch a higher price in the city.
Amongst this varied crowd that you saw in the village, a few like old Mr Kale who lived in Khapri, were lucky enough to find work in government offices and business establishments in the city. Some even found work in cloth mills and industrial units such as the once famous Empress Mills of Nagpur. These men were looked up with awe and respect; they apparently seemed to possess a certain dignity that others were seen to be lacking in. They came to be considered as the elite of the village.
The elite folks then had to shuttle each day between home and place of work. If the village was close enough to the city, the men used bicycles for transport. It was both cheap and convenient. This was precisely what Mr Kale did who worked all his life as a sorter in a post office in the city of Nagpur. Old Mr Kale rode on his bicycle each day to town to attend to his job at the post office. There was a train that would bring him to the city in the mornings, but Mr Kale would have nothing to do with it, he would rather prefer his crumbling old bike. He was a calm sort of man given to a good deal of contemplation, and in his wisdom he knew his bike could be trusted to get him to office on time; the train from Bhusaval could not, for it was often late by several hours.
What kind of a train was it that Kale and others like him sought to avoid at all costs? It could not have been an express, for no express would care to halt at a small village halt. It was a legendary train in many respects, legendary not on account of its speed or timeliness, but by virtue of its spanning two cities nearly four hundred kilometers apart -- the longest run a Passenger train had ever been called upon to perform. It also owed its fame to yet another facet of its operation, which was the choice of locomotive that was assigned to it: old timers recall with great nostalgia the Bhusaval Passenger steaming out of Nagpur under charge of a bullet nose steam loco, the most attractive locomotive that ran on the metals of those days.
It is as well to remember that there were in actual fact two passenger trains originating from Nagpur, both bound southwards on the broad gauge line back in the seventies. There was the Bhusaval Passenger we have just seen, run by the Central Railway. The other was the Kazipet Passenger. One started in the morning, the other in the evening; both followed the same route till they reached Sewagram. Now discontinued from service, these were long distance passenger trains, both safe and inexpensive, but were often subject to long delays at roadside stations along the way. Barring this disadvantage, they were fine trains with plenty of accommodation. If you were in the mood for a train ride, nothing could be better than to pack up a lunch case and buy a ticket for a station nearby, preparing yourself to make the return trip by bus.
One of the last trains in the Nagpur area to be powered by steam, the Bhusaval Passenger was often late both in arrival as well as departure. This fine train was a pleasure to ride, it handled points and turnouts with incredible smoothness and ease; there was never a sense of haste as it traversed the landscape; and it courteously called on each wayside station as it merrily chugged along. It was truly a vintage train; a rail enthusiast's delight.
Leaving Nagpur behind, the very first stop was at Ajni, where there was a large wagon interchange point, then on to Khapri, where an LPG gas bottling plant had come up, and where Kale had his home in the rural setting of the village. Beyond Khapri, the line would lead on to Dongargaon, barely six kilometers away, another rural station serving a village. But the station in Dongargaon was strangely named Gumgaon. What might be the reason for this discrepancy in nomenclature, I cannot say, but here stood the little station with a tiled gabled roof amidst a desolate low level platform. Gumgaon was the archetypal village station: it was prettiness personified.
Khapri was no less picturesque. It too had an eye catching liitle station. It had a lovely pitched roof with tiles, and was elegant in style. It was simple and functional in architecture.
Then came along the twenty first century bringing with it burgeoning trade and commerce, a mass application of the computer to nearly every sphere of life, an increase in living standards, ever increasing educational opportunities, and vastly increased travel. The old stations in Khapri and Gumgaon could not keep pace with these new innovations. A Metro had meanwhile come up in Nagpur, the line going all the way upto Khapri. The old station here was then pulled down, new platforms built, and the yard remodelled to accommodate extra goods lines originating from the newly set up Container Corporation nearby.
Khapri is no longer the quiet little hamlet it once was, but is a growing township, the home to corporate giants like Infosys, the Container Corporation, Amazon, and the All India Institute of Medical Sciences. In nearby areas such as Gumgaon and Jamtha, we see similar developments in the form of engineering and nursing colleges, open air family restaurants with spacious lawns, and a world class sports stadium built by the Vidarbha Cricket Association.
One of my bitter regrets in life centers around the railway in Khapri. This pretty little station disappeared from view ere I could ever train a camera on it. That it would be razed to the ground without a thought for its heritage value, I had never once imagined. I had been presumtuous, thinking Khapri would live on forever, little realising that the arrival of the Container Corporation next door signalled the end of the old order and the beginning of a new one.
But all was not lost. Seeing that Khapri had passed into history, I set my sights on the next station a few miles down the line, making the happy discovery that the station there still stood as it must have done a century ago. Gumgaon station still remains, getting on in years, like a cask of old wine that gets better the older it gets. Its tiled roof has been replaced with tin, but it is still pleasing to look at. One of the last remnants of the steam age on this line, there's no saying when this too might be demolished, for a modern Station Master's office built of concrete and buzzing with computers and telephones is already in operation a few meters away. The old station's days are clearly numbered.
Like Khapri, Gumgaon station hardly sees any passengers, for road transport has been developed to the point where it is both fast and efficient. You step into the station and find not a soul in sight, the platform solitary and deserted as far as the eye can see. The MEMU bound for Wardha calls here in the morning, the occasional passenger climbs aboard, and in a matter of seconds, the train honks and begins to move out. Thereafter for the remainder of the day, the station stands in solitude and silence.
How long will the old station of Gumgaon stand only time can tell. The Station Master's office which once resounded to the sound of bells on the train instrument, is now bare, and is used by trackmen dressed in orange shirts to rest awhile when they get a respite from their arduous duties out under the blazing sun. At the entrance is a heap of scrap metal, old rails and pieces of equipment now obsolete. The ticket booking window still remains, the wooden gate leading to the platform still swings open as it did in the days of old.
I found rusty old iron benches along the rail platform of Gumgaon. Then there are, at intervals, small canopies with pretty red concrete benches under their shade where travellers could rest awhile. It looks so pathetic, such a sad irony : these colorful platform canopies... all to what purpose? There's hardly ever a passenger in sight at the station, not even for the MEMU. And yet the rustic seats remain, as though in anticipation for a tired traveller to come along and take his seat.
I seated myself on a bench in the warmth of the winter sun and proceeded to unpack my lunch box. Express trains rumbled by at full speed, screaming as they passed, drivers holding out fluttering green flags as they rushed by in haste. When the train had passed and the din had died, it was all quiet again. I could hear only the chirp of the birds, or the quiet tinkling of a bell showing a cow was grazing nearby beyond the hedge.
Gumgaon station puts me in the mood for philosophical contemplation. These metals here have served their purpose here for over a century, the station name board stands in the far distance unyielding, in fading colors against the pale blue sky. But what is this I hear -- did I hear someone strike two beats on the station gong? Who knows, someone did really strike the gong, and I must investigate. I rose, had a sip of water from my bottle, and strolled up to where the old station stood. To my great astonishment, the station is all abuzz with life, the Station Master and his men busy at work. The equipment in the office itself is minimal, I notice: a control telephone, double line block instruments, various train record registers, hand lamps, flags, a supply of kerosene, and other railway bric-a-brac.
Walking over to the waiting hall, I find a small group of rural folk standing in queue at the ticket window leisurely buying their tickets. Clunk-thud goes the ticket machine, as the booking clerk stamps his tickets, then the usual jangle of coins. The village folk slowly make their way to the platform where they assemble in groups, waiting for the morning train bound for Bhusaval. This train will take them on to Butibori, to Tuljapur or maybe Borkheri, to distant Sewagram and even beyond. It is late, I am told, but these people will wait on for their appointment with their beloved train. The semaphore pointing downward tells me that it is due.
A long scream of an air horn followed by the rattle of carriages aroused me from my blissful reverie. I glanced around and found no one was in sight; the platform was bare and solitary. I rose from my bench and slowly made my way to the old station. It was locked, the booking window thickly covered with dust, the passenger waiting hall showing no signs of use. The station gong still hung in place. No one had struck it for years.
I stood for a while contemplating. Set amidst trees and overgrown shrubs, this station would last for an eternity if no one touched it. It would last an eternity in solitude and deep silence, whispering tales from its distant past.
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Ravindra Bhalerao
