Train journey

Nowadays the train journey from Chennai (Madras) to Kolkata (Calcutta) along the east coast of India takes about a day. In my childhood (sixties, early seventies), it used to take close to 48 hours by the Madras-Howrah Mail. If we boarded the train late Friday evening, we would spend two whole nights plus most of a day and reach Kolkata only early Sunday evening. That's how far away my mom, dad and I lived from the rest of our extended family. Rarely did anyone visit us. We were the ones that made the long trip to Kolkata every year or two for about a month.

To catch the long distance (broad gauge) night train from Madras, we had to leave home after an early lunch (because we lived near Bangalore, now Bengaluru) to take a smaller, metre gauge train from the railway station near our town. Our luggage consisted of two large steel trunks and a holdall (it held sheets, blankets and small pillows and, to live up to its name, any last moment thing that we had forgotten to put in the trunks - e.g. a towel, some slippers). We also carried food for the first night (some good stuff like luchi torkari), some snacks and, believe it or not, a clay water pot in a wooden frame. Well, at least we didn't carry rice, dal etc. and plan to cook on the platform like my dad's parents did in the 1930s. Their journey from Bihar to their ancestral home in East Bengal (now Bangladesh), with nine children in tow, used to be far more adventurous with multiple changes between trains and river crossings by boat.

All the rivers that we had to cross had rail bridges across them. The three big ones were the Krishna and Godavari in Andhra Pradesh and the Mahanadi in Orissa. The almost 2 mile long Godavari bridge was the scary one. It was a flat bridge with no structure on either side. It felt like the train was suspended in empty space and would topple into the river at any moment.

My parents and I travelled third class in a sleeper coach. We would have the three berths on one side while another family had the three berths across from us. Sitting face to face for almost two whole days pretty much guaranteed that, by the end of the journey, our two families would have shared their entire life stories, along with snacks brough from home, and would be firm friends, exchanging addresses but never getting in touch as far as I remember. It was mostly the mothers that chatted. The fathers would be reading newspapers while kids stared out of the window at the passing scenery that never got monotonous. There were villages, fields, groves of trees, cattle, and sometimes half-naked kids waving at the train. The wind blew your hair into your eyes and some fine soot from the coal-powered steam engine onto your clothes. Then, for some respite from the wind, you would turn back inside and look around the train compartment. A big red chain hanging from the wall was labelled "to stop train, pull chain". It was made very clear to you by your parents that you were NOT to pull the chain, it was only for emergencies. This might be a time to dig out your drawing notebook or a game you had packed for the train (I remember having a spirograph on one trip). At lunch time, the meal service would deliver trays of rice, rotis and curries to people who had ordered food. Sadly my parents did not believe in train food and, after the cooked food brought from home had been stretched to the first meal or two, I would be eating bread and jam and bananas with my parents while casting envious glances at the meal trays of my fellow travellers.

The nonterminal train stations were called junctions with black and yellow signs in English, Hindi and the local language. Every time the train pulled into a large junction, the sound of the heavy wheels grinding against the tracks reverberated within the cavernous interior and mingled with the voices of waiting passengers and vendors flocking to the windows with tea, coffee, fruit and other food and drinks. Much to my chagrin, my dad would get off at every station to stretch his legs or refill the water bottle (that in later years replaced the clay pot) and I would be terrified that he would be left behind. At least a couple of times, he didn't come back and the train left. Luckily, he was able to jump into a different car and then walk back to ours through the linkages between bogies.

The coach that we travelled in was called a "three tier" sleeper. The bottom and upper bunks were fixed in place but the middle one was hinged. During the day it was a back rest. At night, after we had eaten, the middle tier would be hooked into place (unlike the ones in the picture, our tiers were made of plain wooden slats) by two chains hanging from the top (just like the ones in the picture). This was by far the most exciting part of the trip for me because I got the middle tier. My mother slept at the bottom which was boring. My dad climbed up to the top which was too close to the ceiling and a bit claustrophobic. But the middle tier. as Goldilocks would have said, was just right! Once a sheet and blanket had been spread out on it, it was entirely my personal space. I climbed onto it with my books and toys and decided where to set everything. I could stretch out immediately or just sit for a while. While the lights in the coach dimmed as people prepared to sleep, I could look out the sliver of window that the middle berth shared with the bottom one at the shadowy night scenes. Planes and cars assault your ears with their relentless noise and leave you exhausted but trains, they rock you gently back and forth and the soothing rhythm is the most comforting sound one can fall asleep to. I would wake up in the middle of the night, cosily ensconced in my middle berth, reach out and touch the leather covered chains keeping me secure, maybe glance at the person snoring open-mouthed in the bottom berth on the other side, then turn to the wall, hug my doll and to the music of the train, ta-daT-ta-dum ta-daT-ta-dum ta-daT-ta-dum, drift off into blissful slumber.

Most of our route passed through the relatively arid Southern states. As we approached our home state of West Bengal, the environment became noticeably greener and more moist with tree shaded villages and numerous ponds full of water lillies. My parents got busy packing everything up. Faces were washed, hair was combed in preparation for our arrival. Mama would be waiting at Howrah station to welcome us and we would take a yellow taxi home, looking forward to all the fun that was to come. I'm sure my parents were relieved to end the marathon journey and finally be able to take a proper bath and sleep in a bed. But I never left the train, my temporary home for two whole days, without a pang of sorrow that the trip was over.