Travelling Trunks

Roast chicken and caramel custard. My earliest memory of an Indian train journey was in a first class compartment fitted with a stainless-steel basin, where three-course English dinners were served. It was also where my brother was forced to give up his pacifier…the little soother having been thrown out of the window by my mother somewhere on a journey between Monghyr (in Bihar) and Kolkata. It was also where, made to sit on the upper berth of the compartment as punishment, my brother and I learnt to jump our way down. It was where family games were played and my parents tried hard to keep four children, all within a six-year span, occupied and quiet. That was hard…very hard. But for us kids, it was fun.

A railway gate in Chirala separated ITC’s factory where my father worked and its residential quarters. The railway gate was in front of the driveway to our home and we spent many an hour looking out on the trains that passed through

The flagship hotel of Buhari Hotel on Mount Road. My enduring memory of the one opposite Central Station is of the food and crossing the street. Picture credit: www.buharihotels.com

Then we grew up and train journeys between Andhra Pradesh and Bangalore meant Enid Blytons. We lived in a little village called Chirala where the tobacco behemoth, ITC, had a leaf threshing plant. Where only one train stopped on its way to Chennai and where getting on and off that train with a family of six, and sometimes dogs, meant pulling the chain on the train as it halted for just two minutes. But once we got onto the train and slept the night off, daylight brought with it the joys of Enid Blytons often gifted by my father’s colleagues to help us weather the journey. Even as four of us children fought for the window seats, it was never the view we wanted but the joy of getting lost in tales of the Famous Five or Malory Towers, the breeze caressing our faces as we moved through all kinds of landscapes until the noxious smells of Basin Bridge hit us near Chennai (then Madras) and closed our books. A connecting stopover in Chennai almost always meant a meal at Buhari Hotel which was across the road from Madras Central Railway Station. I have distinct memories of a boiled egg in the mutton biriyani and, even today, love a boiled egg in my biriyani. Sometimes, we extended journey and holidayed in Ooty for a few days. These trips brought on the delight of what we called the “toy train” ride to Ooty from Mettupalayam. Up the mountain over a 46 km journey we would climb, sitting right up front in the first bogie, amused by the fact that our train had two engines, one to push and the other to pull. It is probably the only train where the guard sits right up front. As we wound around the edge of the mountains, we could literally stretch our hands out and grab lantana or dandelions.

In days when second class) sleepers were bare-boned, the holdall was a traveller’s saviour. Not only did it turn into one’s bed for the night (it carried it all from pillow to mattress to sheets and blankets), but anything that did not fit into one’s suitcase found place in the folds of a holdall.    Pic credit: Shirish Paranjape, www.irfca.org

Then, as I grew older, train journeys were associated with sports trips. Wretched, never ending journeys that flitted between reserved and unreserved berths. Journeys over long days where we would sneak into the first class toilets so we could, at the least, have a shower. Where the romance of a steam engine ride would sometimes see us do a short distance in the engine itself. I remember the heat of the fire and being covered in coal splints by the end of it. At times, we would jump off at a station to do a series of warm ups to ensure our muscles did not atrophy from a long trip. I remember a night when I woke up, my hold-all (they don’t exist anymore) soaked as water dripped from the roof of the train onto my berth. There was little I could do but sleep through it (or try to) as berths were otherwise bare and hard metal. I remember another night when we stopped at Chambal Valley (in those days notorious for harboring dacoits) for no apparent reason. Scared to the bone in a compartment full of only women travelling back from a sports tournament, we strategically took defensive positions to ward off a potential attack. Goalkeepers positioned themselves at the door, the hockey teams with their long, wooden sticks next and then the rest of us. Fortunately, it all came to nothing and we moved on, relieved not to be put to the test by dacoits.

The romance of steam engines. Picture credit: Harsh Vardhan/IRFCA https://www.irfca.org/gallery/Steam/heritageruns/HGS26761001.jpg.html

My last memorable train journey was first class on a Rajdhani from Mumbai to Delhi. No sooner had we got into the train than we were propped up with pillows, handed over the afternoon paper and served a pot of tea with an outsized samosa and a large wedge of cake. All through the journey, we were smothered with hospitality with a butler on call, a dinner of many courses, a complimentary toiletry set that included a plastic toilet seat cover and so on. Our beds were made up for the night, a step ladder was brought in to assist us with getting into the upper berth and the morning wake-up call came with a cup of tea. It was Indian railway luxury at its best.

I could actually count another memorable much less luxurious train journey when I was several months pregnant with my first child and got onto an overnight train with a friend and an unconfirmed reservation, hoping that some point in time our reservation would be confirmed. It wasn’t and I spent the rest of the night on the hard floor of the train on a sheet sandwiched between two berths. I survived as did my unborn!

Picture credit: Pixabay

As I grew even older, trains stopped being what they used to be. Faces now engage with their mobile screens, not with each other. Air-conditioned compartments are more popular and come with immoveable, tinted glass. There’s therefore no blast of varied smells that permeate through the compartment, no way of throwing coins with a tonneful of wishes into the Godavari or other passing river, no pulling down a mesh shutter at night so that the breeze could some through and not any nimble fingers. There’s no sounds of ‘kaapi, kaapi’ (coffee) that filter (pun intended) through as morning breaks. And sadly, no roast chicken and caramel custard either.

The decommissioned Old Godavari or Havelock Bridge (on the left) in Rajahmundry where many wishes were made over many coins. On the right is the newer Godavari Arch Bridge.          Picture Credit: Shashanka Nanda, www.irfca.org