The Train

I couldn’t really think of a better title than this. You see, the train is a bit of a foreign object to me, the kind that you know you were once acquainted with, but which you struggle to connect with now. Until the age of 12, I travelled across the country by trains. Living in the south, and having relatives in the north gave my family enough of a reason to spend days and nights on this fascinating object. In the early years, I remember we used to travel by sleeper. I don’t remember much about those days, except that the moment we started travelling in the AC coaches, I remember missing the wind. So even though travel in the AC coaches was supposed to be a step up, to me, it meant giving up one thing that I had loved longer than I realized I did so.

In any case, that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the train rides. Looking back, what I can remember is a multitude of random images and videos that are burned into my memory – learning to play and acing the art of playing rummy and other card games with the family; walking to the pantry car clutching tightly on to the cup of cup-o-noodles and asking for hot water; mami coming to drop us off at the Delhi station, and always with some delicious dinner to go; bhai and a friend of his lying down on the top berths eating moomphali (peanuts) by removing the outer shells, which they discreetly placed on top of the heads of unsuspecting passer-bys; crouching on the toilet and waiting to do my business while watching fascinatedly as the ground raced by underneath; mamma neatly laying out the bedding at night only for it to be a complete mess by the morning (or a few minutes); worrying every time pa stepped off on to the platform that he may not be able to get back on the train in time; jumping up and down the berths excitedly from different places; watching the rail tracks criss-cross as though they were moving with us; feeling extremely proud each time we successfully crossed that point where the two coaches are joined; watching pa stand at the doorway and hesitantly approaching him, only to be pleasantly surprised when he’d let me stand by his legs near the edge of the doorway, feeling like a daredevil.

And then suddenly, just like that, the travels stopped. We moved countries, and subsequently, also our mode of travel. At the age of 15 I took my first solo flight, and from then onwards, it seemed I never stopped. Travelling across countries, trains were hardly the most feasible option; yet somehow, we stopped travelling by them even when we came to India. I mean, yes, we could afford flights now, so it just made more sense to take those, but coupled with the limited time we always had, travel now became more about getting to the destination than the journey in between. Everyone was so busy with their lives that it never even occurred to us (or to me) that I could travel by train from one city to another.

And so, here I was, a 25-year-old girl who had not only not been on a train for 13 years, but had also never done so alone. Basically, when the opportunity to change this cropped up, I jumped at it – both in fear and a determination to set things right. My first journey last month was about 28 hours, and I was travelling with a friend who resolutely refused to travel by AC, so after all those years, I found myself in a familiar and not-so-familiar bogie. The wind – it was just as I remembered it; the toilets – even more so; the hijra who lifted up her skirt when a passenger refused to hand out money – not so much. But over all, the journey was fun. I spent it in parts sleeping, looking out the window, reading a book and sitting on the doorway (which was a first!) with my friend as we chatted into the night.

But I knew that this was still the relatively easy part. I’ve spent the last year hearing a lot of friends recount what an amazing experience it is to travel by train, particularly alone. So I was determined to give it a shot. In an attempt to control my parents’ already rising heart rates, I decided to travel by AC instead of sleeper. I kept a book handy, charged up my laptop, picked the side lower berth so as to get the best window view, and made my way to the station. The train was, of course, delayed. And the station is hardly the same as an airport where you could just plop yourself on to an empty seat and read your book as you wait. Firstly, there isn’t anything that qualifies as a seat. Secondly, it was just so damn crowded! And everyone looked absorbed in conversations with either every single member of their family who had decided to drop them to the station, or busy with a phone. Option number two was closed to me since I had recently lost my phone. So, steeling myself, I found the place where my coach would stop, took out my book and tried to look as nonchalant as I could while standing in the middle of the crowd and reading.

When the train arrived, I’m proud to say that I was one of the first inside (no, I didn’t push anyone out of the way, thank you very much). It turns out that the fear of missing your train during the few minutes that it stops for can really pump your adrenaline. That and the huge family with over a dozen suitcases I saw making their way towards the coach. Inside, there was no place to put my suitcase, since the Indian railways seems to have an unofficial rule that each passenger must carry at least three suitcases as big as themselves. That was sorted after a few minutes of moving things around. Next, I settled in on my seat to look out the window, and instantly I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t see anything. Granted, it was dark, and the laws of physics would dictate that the window of an AC coach does not allow for gazing out at night, but even the few lights that passed by looked messed up. The doubt was confirmed in the morning, when I realized that my window was the one window on the coach (or the train) that was too messed up to see anything through. All you can see is glass. And tiny water droplets. To top off the journey, the berths next to mine (in the next cabin, if that’s what it’s called) were filled with a family consisting of seven children. That’s right – seven, and the oldest of the lot didn’t look older than six years old. Basically, when one started crying, the rest took it as their cue to follow. So the night was certainly musical.

But more than anything, I think the part that’s disappointing is that – I’m bored. I mean, sure, I exchange a few sentences with my other passengers occasionally (mostly to complain about how late the train is getting), and the rest of the time I’m trying to pass time with my book or my laptop. But still, the time is passing so slowly. I really don’t know what my friends were going on about when it comes to travelling alone by train. I suppose if you’re the more talkative type, then this grants you opportunities to start lifelong conversations with random people. But that’s really unlike me. So here I am, sitting on my berth, staring out at glass, missing the company – with my parents, with my brother, with my friend. Because, I really do have some great memories on the train, but most of them involved other people. Alone, all I care about is reaching home. All I want right now is the destination.

On a side note, I found that the one spot that has remained my favourite across these 25 years and sleeper / AC trains is the doorway, and standing there by myself, all I could think of were those times the much tinier version of myself would carefully sneak around pa’s legs, hoping I could stand there for as long as I liked.

Well, I suppose I can. The way this train is going, Bangalore isn’t getting here any time soon.