Life is a journey

Railway budgets come and go but a train journey remains the same. It is never incident free. As a class seven student staying in Summer Hill...

Railway budgets come and go but a train journey remains the same. It is never incident free. As a class seven student staying in Summer Hill in 1937, when my father was serving the British government, I would go to school in Shimla by a shuttle train. One morning, as the train slowed down at the platform, I jumped out. This was noticed by the guard who informed my school headmaster. When my father received a phone call, I was severely reprimanded.

I did it again at a station while we were moving to Delhi after the summer session. As the train halted at the station, the boyish impulse to have a closer look at the majestic steam locomotive hauling the nearby mail train drew me to it. My enchantment shattered as it suddenly whistled into motion and I ran back towards our compartment in panic. My anxious parents were waiting in the doorway. Dad was very angry and would not allow me in but later relented to my mother8217;s pleas.

As a teenager, I once travelled by 8216;Light Railways8217; during a visit to my ancestral home in rural undivided East Bengal. Hauled by a 8216;mini8217; steam engine, it is comparable to the children8217;s train run at Bal Bhavan in the Capital. Cyclists would go faster, but the four-bogied little monster, as it precariously made its way past shallow ponds, and grazing past huts and courtyards with banana plantations, has left behind a pleasant memory. At one point it just stopped besides a semi-brick hut so that the driver could deliver vegetables to his waiting wife!

During a family trip to Bombay in a hot summer, we were worried as our express train jerked to a halt at mid-noon. We were surrounded by miles of farming land. There had been a short-circuit in the electric locomotive and the replacement might take an hour, we learnt. There was no adequate catering service and in the scorching heat just a glass of water retrieved from a surahi was not enough to soak perched throats. But before panic could spread, a tubewell was noticed within walking distance. We collected the surahi and our empty tiffin boxes and braved the dusty and uneven field under the burning sun to quench our thrust.

Once returning alone on a Delhi-bound journey, I opted for a Calcutta double-decker 8212; which the locals avoid 8212; to reach the Howrah station. Only a few minutes were left for the departure when the slowmoving vehicle reached Howrah Bridge overlooking the station. I thought I would miss the train. Sensing my nervousness the passenger next to me warned me about the futility of continuing in the overcrowded bus. But I could still make it if there were no traffic snarls, he said. And it happened that way. I managed to land on the platform just as the train was about to be flagged off.