Reminiscing my romance with railways

Shankar would actually signal the process.

To break the routine of playing marbles or tennis ball cricket he would suddenly say, iniki train pakartuku pola ma? (today shall we go train watching?).

Then we would traverse down Giri Road. Turning right before medini sahi, the serpentine road would wind between couple of ponds; meander its way past Berhampur’s Beverly Hills (Hill Patna for the uninitiated) before joining the station road. Excitement and eagerness would then get the better of us and we would start running all the way to the platform.

It was almost like running into mothers’ arms! The warmth, the contentment, the smell and the sounds….. it was so enchanting and magical. There was so much to see, so much to observe and so much to absorb. We would first check out the modest black-board that announced the train timings. Madras-Howrah Mail would invariably be listed as: Platform 1 – RT . It was our favourite train as it had a diesel engine.

We would peep into the Assistant Station Masters’ room. The be-spectacled man would always be engrossed making entries in ledgers and registers diligently filling up some form or the other. Suddenly the phone would go off with a shrill trring-trring, breaking the monotony of the proceedings. In the ensuing conversation there would be more shouts of hello-hello-hello than actual talk. In between he would rotate a handle jutting out of the telephone body as if it were a sewing machine!

The conversation over, the ASM would then nod his head towards an old man sitting in a stool who spent most of his duty hours staring vacantly up and down the platform. On getting his cue, this man would suddenly don a very self-important look on his face and walk over to a piece of rail that dangled from a wire. He would then take out a big bolt and rhythmically clang it tan-tan-tan-tan-tan pausing for a few dramatic seconds before finishing his ritual with a loud Taaanggg a pause and then another Taaanggg. That was the second bell- line clear in railway lingo. One more to go!!

Having done this the old man would then ‘dutifully’ go back, deposit himself on the stool and continue wearing that blank, detached near-philosophical look: a Buddha without a cause.

The platform would suddenly spring to life. The startled stray dog would get up and search for solace in the quieter corners of the platform. The kerosene stoves would be pumped to full blast by the tea vendors. The warmth of the dosa tawa would be tested by sprinkling drops of water making an angry hissing sound. The fruit vendor with his basket of bananas would make a strategic move forward. He clearly knew a thing or two about marketing long before fancy Management Institutes had sprouted. A Ticket Checker would walk out with scrolls of paper in his hand, invariably followed by a bunch of people with wait-listed tickets. The cigarette vendor would clear his throat in preparation of his life line: “Paaaan-bidi-cigarette.” The beggars too would slip back to wearing their hang-dog expressions and look morose. The platform had surely stirred up.

We would rush to our vantage point- the overhead bridge. Our eyes would be glued to the distant hills in the southern horizon looking for the tell-tale signs of the approaching train. The closing of the level crossing barrier and a whiff of smoke in the distance were our cues. And then the train would come - like a huge snake slithering and winding its way towards us. It was an awesome sight, growing bigger and bigger as it approached us. Watching it come was a Zen moment in our lives. At times we would wait till the engine had passed below us and we had a glimpse of the huge fans rotating at the top. At times we would rush down the stairs- two at a time to watch another railway ritual- the exchange of wooden rings with a message in the metallic ball that the pointsman would throw expertly while the train was still in motion.

The sleepy platform was now in a state of near pandemonium. Concerned parents clutching their children, the mad melee of incoming and outgoing passengers jostling at the doors, coolies popping in and out of compartments haggling their fare, the mad rush in the unreserved compartment and amidst shouts of berth numbers and coach numbers flying around the wave of cacophonous rickshaw pullers would almost threaten to flood the platform. Punctuating the hullabaloo and rising above the din would be the chai walas’ sing-song voice announcing, “Chai-chai-chai-coffeeeeee”. The metamorphosis that a sleepy platform had gone through in just a few minutes was unbelievable. But we were oblivious to all this as we wove our way in top speed towards the other end of the platform. After all we had our own date with the engine driver.

We were friendly with two of them. One was E.M. Karunakarn and other was a tall Khurda based Anglo-Indian, whose name I forget but whose English accent we would try to imitate. He would refer to the diesel engine as she- as in “She is hot”, “She is fast-real fast”, “She needs to be overhauled”. We would shake hands and ask them childish questions. Did they drive at speeds above 100 kms? Did they have a fourth gear in the engine? Did they not feel sleepy at night? Their polite answers would thrill us. We were truly in awe of them. Time would fly and the signal would bow, a shrill whistle would follow, a green flag would be waved and the train would slowly slip out and we would wave all and sundry goodbye. The platform would once again slip back to sleep mode.

One evening we (Shankar, Joydeep, Debasish and me) decided to be more adventurous and walk along the tracks towards those distant hills. I remember walking miles along the tracks. We trudged over a small bridge with lush green foliage all around, munching biscuits and talking excitedly. Behind us Berhampur station was reduced to a small speck before finally disappearing from sight as the tracks meandered away.

Then suddenly a coal engine puffed and panted our way. All four of us put our ears on the tracks to hear the vibrations on it. The engine driver panicked! Four children were trying to commit suicide? He repeatedly blew the horn and the more he did the more we enjoyed and the longer we crouched on the tracks! Twoot twoot twoooooot….By now the horn blowing was almost desperate and distressful. The engine driver was frantically waving his hands as if imploring us not to commit suicide. When the engine was about fifty feet away we left the tracks and began waving, jumping and shouting. We were greeted with a barrage of coal missiles hurled at us by the angry driver and his assistant. Thirty six years later I would still say- Phew! that was close!!

That night we took a lengthy detour back to Berhampur, afraid that the driver would lodge a complaint against us at the station. Deep in our hearts we felt thrilled and promised to come again and again to the station and continue our affair with Indian Railways. A romance that continues till date.

After all, sixties was the era of true love, not one-night stands.