Myriad stars remain unwavering in the sky while dark silhouettes of trees flash past as I rest my cheek against the cool steel rod delighting as much in the gentle swaying as in the metallic rhythm of wheels on rails. In the channel of water running along the embankment, the moon races on with us. The wind ruffles my hair. A faint aroma of a coal fire hangs in the air whilst the occasional glowing fleck drifts past. 

 

Several crisscrossing lines appear as the train slows down. We approach a dimly lit platform. Other than one person asleep on a bench under the open sky, the platform is deserted. Only the hiss of steam cuts through the eerie silence. A faintly audible familiar melody of “paan, biri, cigarette, garam chai” grows louder as a lone vendor moves closer. He carries a tray displaying some paan,  a few packets of cigarettes and a big aluminium kettle of steaming chai and tiny earthenware pots to serve it. A sleepy stationmaster appears holding aloft a brass lantern. There is a heavy clanging of metal on metal followed by a high pitched whistle and we start chugging forward leaving behind the sleepy station which holds so many possibilities worth exploring.

 

Vacations had a special place in one’s life. These were aplenty in my lot because the high court peppered its calendar with as many vacations as did our school. Both were clearly designed to suit the needs of expats  in those early days after independence. For our family, vacation meant travel. Where and how and with which companions was where the choices lay. Quite apart from its skeletal services and its scant comforts, air travel was still too  new to be an option for family holidays. But whether it was to be by road or by rail, holiday travels were always full of enriching  experiences and have left a trail of happy memories to look back upon.

 

 

When I look over my shoulder, the earliest abiding image that jumps out of the frame is of my

father waist deep in water, fully dressed, and reaching out to get a lotus that had caught my fancy. This was in an unfamiliar tank somewhere in the backwaters of Bihar and was probably when I was no more than 4 years of age. Linked with this are images of evening shadows flickering on unfamiliar walls as kerosene lamps valiantly attempted to keep the outer darkness at bay along with all the strange creatures lurking there. To  this day the aroma of a kerosene stove or the hiss of a petromax light triggers an adrenaline boost making me  explore  possibilities of the next fun filled  holiday. Friends and family have been longterm sufferers in my unerring tryst with ambitious holiday destinations fraught with adventurous goals and scant regard for physical comforts.

 

 

The swaying of the coach increases as we pick up speed.  Distant pinpoints of light move backwards. Imagination races ahead tinting the countryside in romantic hues.  Cows must have been tethered and hens gathered in. Villagers are now back home settling down with smiling faces around a family meal at the end of a tiring day. Children have already settled down for the night. Lamps will now be put out and homes locked in for the night’s rest in preparation for the next days labour to begin at sun up. All is well out there I tell myself confidently.

 

 

 

The noise magnifies to a crescendo as we pass criss crossing metal grids obstructing the view of the wide swathe of water below, glimmering in the half light. Which river is this I wonder as I mentally scan the map. River crossings were especially interesting - was there going to be a thin trickle through an empty bed of send or was it going to be a raging torrent? What was the course of the river? Where did it disgorge its contents? Was it deep or shallow? Was there a bed of rocks? Was it a snow fed river or did it turn into a wide bed of sand in summer?  Was it a tributary of a bigger river? 

 

A river had so many tantalising possibilities made all the more exciting by all the hours spent poring over maps before setting out on the journey. Of course one needed to know the names of the rivers we would encounter and the expected times of the crossings. The stations adjoining the bridges had evocative names and such unforgettable characters. Whether it was Mughalsarai, or Dehri on Son, Saraighat or Gorabazar each one of them represented a colourful historical narrative to delight in. 

 

The times of which I speak were different in multiple ways. For one thing not many had tasted nor even heard of this new-fangled commodity called air conditioning. Electricity itself was a stranger except in the major cities. AC trains were beyond conception. The grandest accommodation provided by the railways was called the First Class. These were coaches boasting upholstered berths and extending across the full width of the train. They had exit doors on both sides opening directly on to the platform. Each such coach had its attached toilet with shower and washbasin. There were coaches ranging from two berth to eight berth.  One could reserve as many berths as one could pay for, regardless of the number of travellers. For how on earth could a lady, though accompanied by family, be expected to travel with strangers in the same compartment?

 

 

Those were times when the onus was on the traveller to ensure that all his requirements were part of his personal luggage. This typically included bedding packed into a canvas roll secured with leather straps in a contraption aptly called a hold-all. Indian Railways did not provide bedding probably because in those times of social segregation based upon race, religion and caste,  this item would find no takers. Since bottled water was not even a blip on the horizon, a voluminous flask of drinking water was an integral part of one’s luggage. For some this was the typical round bottomed  earthenware Matka complete with its wooden stand. On long journeys this would have to be refilled braving a queue at a major station notwithstanding the angst of family members as the process frequently involved a dash to board the train already in motion.

 

If one was not too fussy, food was not such a major challenge on long journeys. At normal eating hours, there would be vendors at every platform selling puri aloo, local mithai and fruits. The railways themselves also provided basic food at a reasonable price to those who wished to avail of the service. Long distance trains typically departed from Howrah Station in the evening. Meals on order picked up at a station named Khana junction just beyond Burdwan, would be served to takers in their seats. Perhaps serving the same function was a station named Barka Khana near Ranchi on South Eastern Railways, then called the BNR (Bengal Nagpur Railway) line.

 

There were some trains prestigious enough to warrant a dining car and an a la carte menu. The Howrah Delhi Mail was one such train. Window curtains matched red checked table cloths. Crockery and cutlery were laid out and a flower vase held pride of place on each table. As I gazed upon the red hot slag heap of Durgapur steel plant racing backward I tucked into my mulligatawny followed by roast chicken served with bread rolls by liveried bearers. Clearly the railways were still operating in their colonial hangover avatar. 

 

But vacations did (and still do), merit all the fuss to which one can rise. And what could be more important than the food to brighten up the journeys. This has always been high up in the agenda of travel plans. Despite options available nowadays, this remains the rallying point of the pre travel sessions. What sets those early days of travel apart is the availability of committed and capable womanpower. On every train journey there was an enormous aluminium dekchi containing a roasted leg of mutton with melt-in-the mouth potatoes and onions. This consistent travel companion merits some introduction. The said leg was to be a “rewazi” hind leg purchased essentially from a certain Hafiz meat shop at the junction of Park Street with Lower Circular Road. It had to be cooked in its own juices on very low heat to get the taste and texture right. In those primitive days of coal fired kitchens, this involved mastery at maintaining the heat supply at the requisite level. It also entailed the willingness to undertake through the night, multiple trips of the lady of the house from her bedroom upstairs to the kitchen downstairs. 

 

I wonder sometimes, whether the richness of the canvas of life took a battering, when the lady of the house emerged as a working woman.