The Beauty of Indian Railways

There isn’t a public place that represents a city more truly than its railway station. The city’s railway station is its metonymic figure in life and blood, brick and mortar. With good reason, the railway station in the city of Jamshedpur is called Tatanagar Junction. A fading board affixed on a pillar at Pipariya station proudly proclaims “Alight here for Panchmarhi”. At 2 AM in the night, passengers in deep slumber – the one possible only in trains with their rocking motion and reassuring rattle – wake up to sounds of men selling sev at Ratlam Junction.

The late evening Kanpur railway station cut a microcosmic picture of the city. Dimly lit, dirty, and congested – its air putrid with intense stench of filth and human waste. The daily travelers awaited their train home, wary from travel on Kanpur’s potholed roads. Families spread their belongings, forming miniature households on the railway platform. The mothers packed and unpacked food, children alternately ran and cried, as the elderly perched on bags muttered advices. A destitute old woman spending her days and nights on a tattered plastic banner beside a food stand swung her arms violently at swarming flies. The railway station appeared as if expressing its sadness with the current state of affairs and its despair about the city’s future.

Running an hour late, the Avadh Express, on a long and arduous 3 day 65 stops journey from Gorakhpur to Bandra Terminus, rolled into Kanpur Central at quarter to midnight. The AC coaches passed by. Lights switched off and curtains drawn across their glass windows. Had it not been for the windows, waiting passengers on the platform could have heard men and women snoring smugly under warm blankets. Then, as if to serve as a reminder of India’s reality, followed the sleeper coaches. Young boys and men stood at the door with empty plastic bottles in their hand, their eyes searching for the nearest water tap. Lights from the platform briefly lit the insides as they rattled by. From Bihar to the city of Bombay, trains do not travel – they migrate. The coaches were full of people and their luggage. Two, or at times three squeezed into a berth meant for one. The ticketless slept on newspapers spread on aisles between seats. In dimly lit coaches, boarding passengers at Kanpur Central fought their way to their berths, shouting at those sleeping on floor to move aside and carefully watching their steps. A misstep could have crushed a man’s foot, a woman’s hand or a child’s face.

I found my side upper berth in S9 occupied by a tall and wiry man fast asleep. His bright orange hair stood out in the dark. He crouched to fit his frame on the short side upper berth and rested his head on his bag.

A man’s bag often betrays the story of his life. This trusted travel partner is a silent witness to his travails, and bears the brunt like his own blood and flesh. The color of fading green, the man’s bag had small square pieces stitched up at different places. Its cloth had worn thin from the years, much like its owner. I tapped him on his shoulder. He woke up, as if expecting a nudge or a tap any moment.

“Bhaiya, mera seat hai”, I showed him my ticket.

He climbed down the berth, put on what once, a long time ago, must have been spotless white sports shoes, pulled his fading green bag and walked away – all with swift, assured movements. Perhaps it was routine. Traveling ticketless, choosing an empty berth and waiting for luck to run out at some point in the night. Never mind the account books of Indian Railways. Never mind the breach of rules and regulations. Why does a man travel? Or a more pertinent question is why do the poor travel in this manner? On dirty aisles between seats, legs going over them all night; beside the doors of toilets reeking with the smell of human waste. The answer perhaps lies in hope – hope of finding work, a better place to live, enough food to eat, and in faint chance of it all falling into place, perhaps a brighter tomorrow for the children. That is why the poor travel, in the hope that a new destination holds the answers to their great miseries. The Indian Railways keeps this hope alive. While most public institutions utterly fail in their responsibilities, Indian Railways does a great service to the poor, by keeping their hopes alive.

I woke up with a start. The train had come to a halt beside a nondescript platform. Early morning sun reached into the coach through its grilled windows. The tall, wiry man was asleep on a patch of newspapers on the floor, crouching to fit his frame in the small vacant space, his head resting on a fading green bag. A few minutes later, the train rumbled to life. I drifted back to sleep.

Bolo Naashta! Naashta! Naashta! Garma Garam Naashta Bolo!

9:15 AM. A loud voice with a peculiar characteristic boomed across the coach. It belonged to a stocky, middle aged man carrying hot samosas and batata vadas in a blue plastic bucket on his head. His voice woke up a passenger sleeping on the opposite upper berth. The passenger stretched and his feet hit him in the face. Unperturbed, he walked ahead, delivering his breakfast time monologue in his peculiar voice. Years of shouting out the contents of a hot basket on his head, day in and day out, had rendered his speech utterly listless and indifferent. He could be nearby, but it seemed his words were coming from a distance – almost as if his throat had become one of those old sound players. A few seats ahead, the usual routine scene played out. One of the passengers inquired –

“Eh Samosa! Idhar aa!”

“Samosa kaise diya?”

“Bees ka do”

“Garam hai?”

“Garam hai”

“2 de”

Exchanging money, the passenger takes the samosas in a piece of newspaper, with a chilli wedged nearby.

“Eh! Yeh kahaan garam hai? Garam bola tha na!”

The passenger digs his hand into the basket, touching samosas to gauge their temperature.

“Sab ek jaisa hi hai saab”

“Jaa fir waapas le ja. Mera paisa de”

He fishes for the twenty rupees in the pouch made into his stained apron. Returning them to the passenger, he walks ahead, delivering his breakfast monologue in his peculiar voice, to run into another such passenger in the next coach, for another such exchange. Little wonder then that he spoke and walked like a robot. Years of catering to the thankless passengers on moving trains, of carrying oily snacks on the head, in a stained apron had drained him, his voice of human emotion. It was no longer capable of surprise, of joy and even grief. Perhaps there would be anger. Surely, there would be anger.

Courtesy: A day in the life of India (TOI)

Three young men occupied the opposite berths. They were different ages and traveling together. The oldest among them must be in his early twenties. He looked out of the window, at the passing landscape, digging the last bits of Rajshree from his teeth with the overgrown nail on smallest finger of his right hand. His well-oiled hair parted from the middle. The youngest of the three idled on the upper berth and got down only to fill his 1.5L plastic bottle with a Coke cap with water from platform taps. The third guy, dressed in a red t-shirt and dark blue jeans, hunched beside the elder brother, black earphones plugged into his ear. They rarely ate or talked amongst each other, each whiling away the time in his own way. At noon, as the train departed from Kota Junction, a couple, probably in their early forties, occupied the two berths vacated a while ago. The lady, a black shawl wrapped around her, settled beside the window. The man in a checked shirt and black trousers sat beside her with the day’s Dainik Jagran.

Amidst the quintessential hustle-bustle on a long distance train, the quiet and silence in this section of S9 coach was stark and unsettling. Nobody ate anything for lunch. A few hours passed. The man, tired from reading sad affairs of the nation and the world, lied down and drifted into sleep. The lady continued to look out of the window, her eyes unmoving, her gaze fixed. She was looking at the farms and trees and wastelands rolling by without really noticing them. She was deep in thought and reflection. The constantly changing landscape, objects speeding past her eyes gave her the solitude to ruminate. It seems so strange, that of all places in the world, a moving train with its rattle and tattle should provide the seclusion to dive deep into nostalgia and reminisce unlike any other.

“Kahaan jayenge?” the elder brother asked me.

Kahaan jayenge… Often the first question strangers ask each other on a train – the question that is meant to break the ice. This simple question paves the way for long conversations and camaraderie. It could be an impassioned discussion on local politics, a general rant about scams and corruption, or a window into their private lives. It all starts with “kahaan jayenge?”

“Baroda”

“Naukri karte hai?”

“Nahi, ghar hai”

“Accha ek baat bataiye, Baroda…aur Vadodara ek hi shahar hai?”

“Haan ek hi hai… Aur aap?”

“Hum Vapi jaa rahe hai. Navneet factory me duty karte hai… Badi company hai”

In the hierarchy of jobs that low income households cherish for their young boys, the elusive sarkaari naukri takes top spot, followed by duty at a badi company. The word duty, with all its associations to a uniform, a work schedule and perhaps a cap, gives the job a comforting guise of dignity and stability. Naukri connotes unemployment – Naukri nahi mil rahi, Naukri ki talaash hai –while duty connotes a steady income.

“Hmm, badi company hai. Navneet ki kitaabe, copy acchi quality ki aati hai”

Acknowledgement of Navneet’s importance made the elder brother smile. He neatly opened a packet of Rajshree and lowered it in my direction. I politely declined. He emptied the contents in his mouth, and looked out of the window, chewing onto the gutka contentedly. The sky adorned shades of orange as the train speeded towards evening from a harsh summer afternoon. The air turned cooler and more agreeable. On the berths opposite, the man was now awake and sat upright as the lady, so many hours later, continued to stare vacantly outside the window. At long last, she turned and spoke to the man in a low tone –

“Phone karte hai usse. Pata nai bedsheet change kiya bhi hoga ki nahi”

A few moments later, the man replied,

“Kiya hoga. Humne nikalte waqt kaha toh tha”

“Ji… Maine makaan malik ko bhi kaha tha badalne ke liye”

“Dekho makaan malik bhi kitna accha tha. Aaj kal kahaan milte hai aise log”

The lady didn’t respond to this. She turned her gaze back to outside the window, as distant landscape obscured from view in the fading evening light. A catering services boy carrying biscuits, cakes, wafers and chocolates moved around cheerfully, loudly exhorting passengers to buy some. He moved quickly and cleverly paused to rearrange the contents of his basket near the section with kids to entice their attention and nudge this attention into stubbornness. A passenger picked up a Britannia cake packet. Its expiry date was next month. She refused to buy a packet due for expiry so soon. But the catering boy persisted – weaving vague stories and theories like a salesman keen to close a deal. He took ‘personal guarantee’ of the cake’s quality, explaining how companies always undermined the life of their goods. It doesn’t work out that way in India, he quipped. As the haggle continued, a now-familiar listless voice filled the air, as if leaking from an old loudspeaker in the distance –

“Khaana! Khaana! Khaana. Sabzi roti ka garam khana boliye!”

The difference between two men doing the same work couldn’t have been starker – one morose and mechanical, the other ebullient and enthusiastic. One wary and hardened from the years gone by, the other filled with hope and optimism for the future. That is the thing about youth; one thinks one can change the world.

“Kanpur kaahe gaye the?” the elder brother resumed conversation. He had noted me boarding at Kanpur Central.

“Interview”

His eyes widened. He leaned forward and asked “Naukri?”

“Nahi… Padhaai”

“Accha…” He slouched back into the seat.

“Hum soche ki hum yahaan Lucknowve se Gujarat aaye hai… koi Gujarat se U.P. kaahe jayega 
naukri ke liye”

There are articles and statistics galore highlighting the poor economic growth and rampant unemployment in the Hindi heartland of India. But the momentary disbelief on his face, upon hearing someone going to U.P. for a job interview, captured gravity of the situation like no written word can.

The lady turned her gaze away from the window to speak to her husband –

“9 ghante ho gaye…”

“Hmm, 9 ghante ho gaye. Kal subah ek poora din ho jayega. Isi tarah din aur mahine beet 
jayenge…”

Silence ensued. She looked out of the window. It had turned pitch dark by now. One could barely see the outline of trees and hillocks passing by, beyond the lights from the train. The elder brother reached for his bag beneath the seat and took out a rectangular box with a shiny sticker on its head. Bold letters in dark green majestic font read “Lucknow Bakery”. He opened the box and offered –

“Lijiye bhaiya. Lucknow ke mashoor”

“Thank you” I took one biscuit and ate.

“Hum jab bhi Lucknow aate hai, do teen box zaroor le kar laut te hai Gujarat. Chote ko kaafi pasand hai” He looked at the upper berth.

“Kitni baar jaana hota hai Lucknow?”

He sighed and looked out into the dark as he spoke –

“Saal me do teen baar. Jab bhi ghar me kaam aata hai, chale aate hai. Baaki samay wahin Gujarat me. Factory waale room diye hai just factory ke bagal me. Wohin par khaana, peena, sona”

“Lucknow me hi naukri lene ki koshish nahi ki?”

“Lucknowve me kahaan bhaiya. Naukri milegi bhi toh paisa nai milega. Aur Lucknow, Kanpuri ke aage kuch nai hai… Yahaan Gujarat me paisa theek milta hai. Parivaar ke 6-7 ladke yahin kaam karte hai. Iss baar Chote ko bhi lekar chal rahe hai. Bade saahab bole hai Chote ki duty lagwaa denge”

Forced migration and its perils – that explained the youngest brother, Chote, spending the day alone on the upper berth, not talking to anyone, not gazing out of the window or listening to songs. He even refused to eat Lucknow Bakery biscuits. He was making the journey from home to an unfamiliar place, filled with strangers and an alien language. He was making the journey from friends to fellow workers, from freedom to ‘duty’, from cricket in the gully to stacks of white blank paper in a factory.

The lady spoke again –

“Khaana khaya hoga ki nahi?”

“Nahi khaya hoga toh kha lega…kyun itni fikar karti ho”

“Pehli baar ghar se alag, apne aap rahega. Pata nai kaise…” Her voice cracked.

The man sighed.

“Reh lega… Bacche sikh jaate hai. Buwajaan ka ladka Feroze bhi toh reh raha hai ek saal se”

He continued –

“Kal se class shuru ho jayegi. Fir padhai me hi samay beet jayega uska. Ghar ki yaad nahi aayegi”

He spoke as much to himself as to his wife, consoling his own uncertainties and fears he chose not to give words. It all became clear now. They had boarded at Kota. They had come to drop their son for his studies at the hub of IIT JEE and AIEEE preparations. Every year, thousands of students migrated to Kota to realize the ultimate dream – IIT – the passport to unbridled success and prosperity, the bragging rights for life.

The lady concurred –

“Aakhir uske future ke liye yahi theek hai”

She opened a bottle of water and drank a little. The man called his son. He had finished dinner and changed the bed sheet, about to sleep to be up in time for the 7 AM Physics class next morning.
The rattle of moving train became more pronounced in the silence of night. Cold wind gushed in from the open windows. A space of six train berths, and three different stories – one, of flight from home to earn a living for the family thousand miles away, the other, of separation from lone son in hope of a better education, and yet another a journey in search of newer pastures. And yet the three disparate stories shared a common theme – hope, hope for a better future.Therein lies the beauty of Indian Railways. Each train is a microcosm of quintessential Indian society.

The unforgettable voice, peculiar in its complete lack of emotion, like sound leaking from an old loudspeaker could be heard from the distance.

“Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana. Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana”