Rail Duniya

by Balaji Iyer

[box]One cannot think of destinations and travel in India without thinking of trains. Trains are indispensable to the Indian way of life and for quite a few people, are a mind-blowing source of fascination. Just like Balaji Iyer. Catch him rave about Indian trains and the love he has for them. Remember, if destinations touch your soul, trains are the means to that salvation.[/box]

Indian roads are personal. Not only do they shamelessly intersect with other roads seemingly without purpose, they also invite the life outside into them. People take over the road in a very literal sense, with only crawlspace for vehicles. Life spills out of the verandah, onto the road, and finds momentum there. The rail on the other hand, because of its structure, precludes any outside life spilling onto it. Travelling by rail gives one the privilege of being an impartial observer, watching life flow past.

The Indian Railways has probably done more for unifying this country than any other organisation or phenomenon. In the pre-irctc.com era, huge volumes of train timetables were the only database for numerous train schedules. The books had page after page of tables, with references to still more tables. Strange trains going to even stranger places. Murkong Selek, end of the line. Okha, another end, Kanyakumari and Jammu, well known ends. In retrospect, those days of poring through those tables probably cultivated in me a love for travel.

Quite recently, my cousin shared a link on Facebook, a site for Indian Railway fanatics. I was of course overjoyed. I wouldn’t be the only geek to obsesses over whether Ledo or Lekhapani was India’s easternmost terminus or whether Sandhurst Road was still India’s only split level station (no, in case any of you are wondering). I could participate in earth-shattering discussions involving railway gradients, and locomotive engines. It is always sobering to know that there are other crazy geeks out in the world who share similar passions. After all, of what use is knowledge if unshared? And how long can I tell my bedroom wall that the Ibadat Express up becomes the Ziayarat Express down?

This extreme love for Indian Railways, I have always professed. Apart from the usual blahs about travelling (getting to see new places, new experiences, etc. ), there is a simple pleasure in sitting in a moving train, looking out of the window for hours on end and letting imagination run wild within. India being what it is, the landscape and the language change every few hundred kilometers. New scripts announce station names, chai becomes coffee becomes buttermilk. The dull oppressive heat of the day pulls at one’s lips and moulds hair into interesting shapes. Huge bridges span sandy rivers, the timbre of the train’s sound deepening as the devout throw coins that glint off the sunlight and fall in slow motion. Depending on the season, the world outside is a bevy of greens, in every conceivable shade, or dull browns. The earth itself is vibrant, fertile with promise, as colourful as the women in fields, the train whistling out to them. On some other days however, the train rushes past a dreadful landscape, not wanting to stop, urging the very earth towards urban progress, its slipstream leaving behind a litter of plastic cups and plates.

If I take to the skies to travel now, it is only because of speed. But my best views from airplane windows have been of watching trains. Long snakes of metal sneaking through the countryside, lost in their own world utterly unaware of great mountains yonder, or the great ocean ahead. In a fit of sudden nostalgia, I took the Amtrak to Chicago once, from New York City. It packed as much punch as a cup of stale tea. Sure the landscape was beautiful and all that, but there was no romance. The train moved mechanically to reach its destination. It did not caress the earth, flirt with the rivers, whistle at the countryside and plunge into a relaxing sigh at the destination. Indian engines tire beautifully, emitting a last puff of smoke as they come to a halt at the terminus. The tracks below are greasy and the train itself looks worn out, a testament to the journey undertaken. American engines are noiseless, clean, efficient and sterile.

If it is still not apparent that I am a fanatically hardcore, socially challenged, railway geek, I shall say so now. Apart from indulging in random railway facts, I also love tracks. Yes, railway tracks. Those metallic lines on which trains run. There is a beautiful symmetry in the way tracks move: a grace with which they curve about, the coy way in which they separate and the way they raucously merge. The awe-inspiring smell of Indian Railways (that’s cost me two dates so far) and the threat of accidentally ingesting cockroaches notwithstanding, I wish I could endlessly go up and down trains. Breathing India all the way.

Pic: rpb1001 – http://www.flickr.com/photos/rpb1001/

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