Lifeline

‘‘Kashmir is even more beautiful,’’ the bearded Mohammad Younis, a Srinagar-based bank manager, gently mocks at my wonderment. But having said this, he lays aside his The Da Vinci Code and proceeds to look out of the window.

The Jammu-Udhampur line is the first step in a long journey to the Valley that began 22 years ago, and will link the rest of the country with the state’s interiors.

It was a dream in 1982, says Maqbool Shah, a ticket-checker from Udhampur, but an attainable one. ‘‘When the violence surged, it became a mirage.’’ Twenty tunnels, 158 bridges and winding stretches not only bring Jammu and Udhampur closer by an hour, but will also make it possible for traders to transport goods headed for the Valley right up to Udhampur.

As the train trundles towards Bajalta, the River Tawi meanders along, sometimes green and sluggish, at others transparent and fast-flowing, but always within sight. A little ahead, near Sangar, the third station on the way, a grove of red-and-green bottlebrushes with horses grazing underneath almost makes you want to paint. And then comes a policeman with a gun.

Like in the Valley, the beauty here walks hand in hand with security—about six policemen to a kilometre, says Inspector Raju Masish of the Railway Police Special Force that mans the tracks.

Dressed in khaki, they merge with the surroundings. More visible is the Army camp guarding a power generation centre, with a huge sign that says: ‘We welcome all except accident.’

New to these parts, the train draws stares from women and a flock of sheep, whistles from children and furious waves from jawans. Only the dashing Bakerwal shepherd, dressed in trendy black togs that could launch a fashion label, looks indifferent.

The clock is racing to eight when the train glides to a halt at Udhampur. Strings of wrinkled marigold flowers wave a spirited welcome and the wind tugs at my hair as we step out onto what’s easily the most breezy station I’ve ever been to. ‘‘It’s like this only,’’ grins Sansar Chand, the station superintendent, who sports a delicate red tilak, pointing to the tall hills encircling the platform.

The sleepy station that stands next to a picnic spot, complete with a waterfall and two springs, has now become the most happening place in the area, with the entire town congregating here for an evening walk. We get a glimpse of the hoopla surrounding the train as a Diesel Mobile Unit, painted in Punjab police shades—blue and red—chugs in.

Nine-year-old Krittika and her two younger siblings stand frozen as their father Suresh Bharti, a junior engineer in the public works department, tries to get them to board the gleaming locomotive.

‘‘It’s their first time,’’ he laughs as his elderly mother asks the driver, Gulshan Lal Sharma—natty with his pencil mush, blue uniform, and black bowler hat—whether the road (she means the track) is fine.

It reminds me of what Maqbool Shah, the ticket-checker, said an hour back: ‘‘These tracks are like the nervous system, they bring life.” The railwaymen believe it won’t be long before the rail reaches Srinagar.

But Younis has his doubts. ‘‘It’ll take a 100 years,’’ he says. What if everything goes right, you ask him, and he thinks hard. ‘‘Okay, 10 years.’’ We’ll take that.