Of travel and travail

A train journey has always enthralled me with its kaleidoscopic experience. The leisurely moving landscapes, the golden wheat fields interspersed by greener ones; The more hurried string of coconut trees, the motley orchards, the blur of wild shrubs along the railway tracks, the occasional village urchin waving a tattered cloth, the metal rails of the adjacent track, the air garnished by the pungent aroma of diesel, and the distant hoot that heralds the passing of the giant serpent. Together they have left an indelible mark.

I have spent hours sticking my face close to the window grill into the abysmal darkness of the amavasya night or at the haloed aura of a full-moon one. The beauty of the clouds and the sun rays peeping through them (as witnessed from an aircraft window) although spectacular has never been able to replace this experience.

A lot of water has flown under the bridge since I made my last substantial journey in 2005, from Kolkata to Bangalore. The ticket was a paltry Rs 450 then. That it provided a berth in a 3-tier Sleeper Class coach and covered a distance of 2000 kms made the amount seem "paltry". Also, the 50% concession on the ticket price provided those invaluable alms to the hollow pocket of a student returning home for vacation. This pocket-money was invaluable for my sustenance of the journey just like a warm coat would have been to one of Napoleon's soldiers returning from Russia, .

A few things have changed since that time. An addition of Rs 58 to the fare, a couple of bed lamps embedded on the side walls beside each berth, and two 3-pin plug points for the convenience of passengers in the coup. The number of vendors selling puri-sabzi at Bhuvaneshwar station however has dwindled to almost nil. The plastic cups in which pineapple juice used to be sold at the Vijayawada Junction have halved in size, and doubled in price. Also, the juice tastes less of pineapple and more of the ubiquitous "Rail Neer" now. Lastly, the Indian Railway employees have reincarnated in their red black and white checkered uniforms shedding their erstwhile navy blue ones.

Other things have remained gladly the same. The distant hooting of the diesel engine, the breakneck speed and the shaking berths at the advent of the wee hours, the beeline of impatient travelers wishing to get down as the train approaches a station, and scampering to get back inside as it departs from one. The taste of coffee has thankfully remained true to its original self. So have the idli-vada and the dry coconut chutney that so many of my Bengali friends loathed. The latrines have "maintained" their standards and still require the passenger to know the right time during the journey to use them. I have traditionally used them only after the train departed from Vijaywada or Vishakhapatnam, strongly believing that these two are the only stations where the latrines are cleaned and the water tanks refilled.

I was making this trip with my wife. I have narrated many a story about my train journeys to her before, and this was my chance to have her experience the thrills and the perils of undertaking one. Therefore, one must pardon my demeanour at discovering the two pairs of eyes ogling in our direction as if to suggest the screening of a riveting movie.

The middle-aged man and the boy in his early twenties were sitting on the berth facing us. Now, I do not suffer from colour-bias, but the complexion of the two men suggested that they may have taken a fresh dip in a bucket of tar. This made their eyes and teeth seem outstandingly bright. At first, I felt a tad irritated by their constant smile, but soon dismissed it as an aberration caused by the contrast in the colour of the skin and the teeth. The man could be best described as a sooted version of Santosh Dutta (I almost waited with bated breath for him to pounce on a khukri and exclaim eta amaar!). The boy was thinner, more talkative and often used a Bengali dialect that I found difficulty in comprehending. He seemed an impatient sort and liked bossing around the older man. I suppressed a compelling urge to straighten him.

Time was whisking by. My wife and I were busy admiring the beauty of the farmlands as the train rushed through the wheat fields of northern Andhra Pradesh. Not being reared in an agrarian family and harbouring only a minimal knowledge about farming I was finding it difficult to answer my wife's queries about the type of crop, vegetables, reaping seasons et al. The boy heard her, sprang to his feet and with a spark in his eyes started explaining the types of crops to her. Soon we could distinguish the onion fields from the okra, and the tomato plantations from the chili. The man joined in and explained that the haystacks in the center of the fields were residue from machine-threshing of the strands of wheat. He lamented that in southern India they use machines to thresh wheat whereas in Bengal it is still done manually. Their knowledge impressed the ignorant middle-class in us and made them a little more tolerable.

As the train stopped at Vishakhapatnam for the change of engine, a sea of humanity filled the station. Shouts of "anda biryani", and "idli-vada" filled the air that was already saturated by the myriad sounds of children crying, mother's yelling and men bellowing. I joined the crowd and inhaled my share of the ether. My wife never left her seat. She was guarding our belongings like an Emperor penguin guards its chicks during the Antarctic winter. Long ago when we were in college she had once slept in a train and had woken up to find her bag missing. It is another story how she managed to retrieve it (after intense negotiation over phone) from the thief. But since then she has vowed not to abandon her belongings while in transit. As I stood alone looking for a pattern in the random movements of the passenger, out of the crowd came a dark finger and poked straight at my ribs! It was Santosh Dutta (my mind by then had already conferred him the name). I had apparently functioned as a human lighthouse and saved him from being lost in the crowd. On discovering me he had ensured that he would end up in the right coach when the train decided to leave the station.

When a man finds something he fears he may have lost, the release of angst sometimes makes him act funny. Such was the case with my friend. He was offering me tea and biscuit for no apparent reason. When I declined he asked about my whereabouts (in an effort to strike an amiable conversation). Not being a particularly suspicious man I gave him the details. I also told him that in case he wondered why my wife speaks broken Bengali, it is because she is not a Bengali by birth. Then I explained to him what "Konkani" means and where this section of humans dwell, because that is where my wife comes from. Although inquisitive, I found the man rather congenial.

We were back in the train. The night was approaching fast. The dim incandescent lamps illuminated the coup and one could see ones own countenance in the glass window. A few street lamps whisked by suggesting that the train was passing through a semi-urban area. After having a fairly sumptuous meal for dinner (the quality of which I found to have improved), my wife shifted to the middle berth to read something she was carrying for the journey. I was lying supine on the lower berth gazing at the ceiling fan. It said "Himalaya" at its center. I remembered the name. Another of the things that have not changed in Indian Railways. I noticed that the odd couple (Santosh Dutta and his stooge) were preparing to get down. The whites of their eyes were scanning in the dark to ensure that they did not leave any stray luggage behind.

As a passing query I asked my man, kothai jachhen aapnara? Anticipating a conversation he settled cross-legged on his berth and replied, Kaaatpadi Jaanction. The place rang a distant bell in my mind, but I could not comprehend why. Then he landed the blow directly in my solar plexus. It wasn't a physical one, but it hurt more. He said he makes this journey every month, with his stooge, who happens to be his nephew by relation. The reason; The boy suffers from blood cancer and requires blood transfusion every month. Hence, destination Vellore, hence Katpadi junction. He blurted out the reason of his travel in a matter-of-fact way, all the while flashing his teeth as if to make a mockery of any response I could muster. It was 11 pm. And the train would not reach Katpadi till 1 am at night. But, these seasoned pilgrims knew better than to lie down and close their eyes. They kept looking at each other in the dark, as I purged all my predicaments in the fire of their eyes. I recalled all the little worries that I have not been brave enough to bear with a smile. They were still smiling at me, and each time they did so my mind strained hard to maintain composure, to hold back that tear drop from a free fall. I looked out at the darkness. It was my only ally for the moment.

I stayed awake for the next two hours to bid them goodbye. As the train left Katpadi, I could see two shadows outside the window. Santosh Dutta was patiently standing. The young man was animatedly describing which way to go to his uncle. He exuded the same arrogance, the same irritation with the world that i had witnessed when I first say him. But this time, I bore no malice.