I had reached Madras, and travels in the sub-Continent had so far been largely by bus and by boat. I was determined to change that, and lined myself up to take on one of the greatest journeys of Indian Railways.
Stories abounded of a romantic railway in india, but word on the street did not always align with that. First hand travellers’ tales suggested it was perhaps less than Utopian. I felt compelled to find out for myself.
Filled with excitement on this day, I was set to board the Grand Trunk Express from Madras to Delhi, a 40-hour journey of 2,188 km.
My excitement was tempered because I did not have a firm reservation. I was a low number on the waiting list for a berth in a second class (sleeper) carriage. I hoped with all my might that my name would be on the final passenger list come 17.40, when the train was due to depart.
I packed my bags and took tea on the first-floor verandah, overlooking the verdant courtyard of my well-worn, colonial guest house in Egremont. I was in the bustling heart of Madras, although you wouldn’t have thought it. With that nagging doubt of the reservation needling my otherwise contented state, I set off towards Madras Central station.
‘It is only two furlongs, sir’, said the guest house manager. I set off dredging my memory of primary school maths, trying to recall the length of a furlong. India was full of titbits of such wistful reminders of a colonial past, it was a new country with its new beginning held in abeyance; a land of Seven o’clock razor blades and Bird’s custard powder, Will’s cigarettes and Horlicks, pink calamine lotion and carbolic soap. It was an antique shop, reluctant to let go of its stock. I hoped the railways might have some of the same.
I walked the two furlongs, enjoying the prelude to such a long journey. My nerve ends tingled like live wires in anticipation, and in response to the sheer volume of activity and sounds. The areas around large stations are very much a part of the institution that is Indian railways, and I allowed myself a generous amount of time to lap it up. It intensifies the closer you get to the station, and as the crowd thickened, my steady pace stuttered.
Nearing the station concourse, I approached an incident that was to dramatically change my mood. Something so emotionally powerful that it would remain with me for the rest of my life.
I heard a noise that rose above all the others. I sought it out, not because of its volume, but because of its fervently soulful nature. Kneeling on the ground, a dark-skinned man in a white singlet and lunghi was waving his arms in the air; he held a garland of marigolds, and was singing and wailing in Tamil. It sounded religious, perhaps it was a puja, but it was so vehement that another high voltage shot through my already pulsating nervous system. Even before I saw the body of a thin old man in a loin cloth, lying prostrate on the pavement next to the wailer, I felt the tears in my eyes. The face of the emaciated corpse was covered in rags, and there were rose petals on his chest. I could hardly cope with the overabundance of emotion, and like hundreds of other commuters and travellers, I passed him by. I felt sick as I entered the station concourse, and took a breath to gather myself.
I could not process such a rapid succession of extreme emotions and counter-emotions, and as I had arrived a full hour before my train was scheduled to depart, I sat myself down on a parcel trolley.
I was lost in a daze. My head was spinning. My temperature was high. From my water bottle I quaffed like a camel at the water-hole, and reminded myself why I was at the station. I had been so distanced from the job in hand that I had not realised that the Grand Trunk Express was already lying stationary at the platform, snaking its way into the distance. Handfuls of people were beginning to board. The waiting-list! I thought. Am I on this train or not?
I could hardly bear to back-track through that world of Hieronymus Bosch intensity, to spend another night in Madras. Please God, let me be on that train! I made my way to the train’s Second Class (Sleeper) section.
Each reserved carriage on the train had a printed final passenger-list, pasted at the side of the door. Every traveller eagerly scans it to check that their reservation had been awarded and acknowledged. If you had been initially classified as WL, that is a waiting list passenger, anxieties are multiplied. So, I approached the carriages of the relevant class with the same level of angst as when I closed-in on my A-level exam results, posted on the school notice board.
The lists on the first two bogeys displayed Indian names only; mostly Tamil. It was the third that presented one European name, which could not have been more conspicuous to me had it been in flashing lights, and on springs. It was mine. I quietly stepped inside and found my place. I wanted nobody to talk to me, and I hoped nothing else would happen to me; at least until morning.
This class on Indian trains has three tiers of beds. In the daytime, the middle bunk folds down to become the back-rest to the bottom bunk, which reverts to being a seat. The top bunk doubles-up as an extra luggage rack. The reservation clerk had granted me a top bunk, and in acknowledgement, I kissed my ticket. It meant that I did not have to wait until 8pm to lie down. I tied and padlocked my rucksack under the bottom seat, climbed up into the luggage rack and gave thanks to whichever God had been looking out for me that day. Taking out my diary, I crossed my legs and began thinking about life and death on the streets of Madras. I didn’t know how or where to start writing. I took out a comforting beedi, even though I wasn’t an habitual smoker, and isolated myself from the other boarding passengers. I waited for the blow of the hooter as my journey prepared to enter another phase.
Lights were extinguished, leaving only the small, dim indigo bulbs emitting a soothing glow,
and the train sped through the night; its sounds and rhythms, amidst my own emotional exhaustion, soon sent me to sleep.
There was a metal grille between my berth and the bunk on the other side of the compartment wall. I woke up as it began to vibrate. My neighbour on the other side, a heavy, unshaven man, was snoring, and he was racking up the volume. I tapped on the wire grille to no avail, so I tried banging with the flat of my hand – still no response. I tried thumping even harder, and the rumbling subsided, only to start again. After repeating the cycle several times, I was getting fed up and began losing my patience. He seemed immune to the thunder I was directing towards his left ear. Now wide awake, and with a purpose, I managed to squeeze my fingers through the grille. He was close enough for me to flick his left earlobe, which I did, but I was a little heavy-handed. He jumped, banging his head against the wire cage. This induced a speedy remorse on my part. I curled up and breathed heavily to feign deep sleep. That put a stop to the snoring, but alas, he started up again. Now I was losing my temper, so I attempted the same solution, but this time he sussed my attempts to silence him; he roused and shamed me with a sharp reprimand. He roused further, and very publicly announced a thief on the train, accusing me of trying to rob him of his closely guarded valuables. I felt unjustly accused, but I hadn’t a leg to stand on. Matters calmed down, and the train continued northwards, unaware of our misunderstanding.
In the dead of night, the train halted. Wondering where I was, I peered downwards from my lofty perch, through the bars of the window to see an illuminated yellow sign on the platform. Its bold black letters told me that we were at Vijayawada Junction. On the platform, vendors carrying large kettles chanted, ‘Chai, chai, chai’ rapidly but melodically, in penetrating voices. I desperately wanted the comfort of its hot, sweet milk and its suggestion of cardamom, but I struggled to move a muscle; I was too tired to call out, or perhaps I did not want to draw attention to myself, after being so damningly chastened.
After daybreak the two lower bunks reverted to being seats, resulting in new passengers placing bags in what had been my bunk. Overnight we had crossed into the state of Andra Pradesh. It was a new day, and there was a queue for the toilet. Ah! The toilet!
I took out my washbag and stood in line, amid the stench of stale urine and excrement. Even though it had all been emitted directly onto the track below, the residual smell was overpowering.
It was my turn to go inside. I stepped up to the gallows, pinching my nostrils and I took a deep breath. I secured the catch on the inside of the door of the spacious latrine, then squeezed the toothpaste tube with my left hand, and held the brush with my right. I needed to take another breath, but there was nowhere I would have liked to put my toothbrush down. Threading it into my waistband, I pinched my nostrils once more, took the breath, then retrieved my tooth brush. As I held it to my mouth, the train crossed a set of points, thrusting the plastic head of the brush hard into my gum, stripping it of a layer of skin. I continued my ablutions in this vein. Squatting above the hole in the floor, a blur of railway track flashed by, whilst I hung onto the downpipe from the cistern. Thrust from side to side, I continually bounced off the walls of the latrine, hitching up my trouser cuffs to protect them from the wet floor, and trying not to breathe. I returned to my berth in a highly stressed state, wondering if I could manage the rest of the trip without needing to use it. I was careful of my intake for the next twenty-odd hours.
My fellow passengers in this compartment were unusually passive. They seemed to be busying themselves only with the concerns within their extended family, and they showed little interest in me. I was possibly transmitting my own introversion, induced by the previous evening’s events near the station concourse, not to mention the likely suspicion of my being a violent opportunist thief, so I welcomed the opportunity to look out of the window and observe the changing characteristics of the landscape.
Andra Pradesh was flat and dry, much like my neighbouring passengers. I was enjoying its vast, crusty spaces and the tranquillity that only we were disturbing. An unrelenting sun bleached its colour and silenced its animals.
The heat of the day sent me into a stupor. Crossing an enormous river of sand, I did not know where we were, it was dotted with buffalo carts at the edge of a relative trickle of water that coursed its way through. Our engine and 22 coaches crossed it on a bridge with walls of girders on either side, rapidly casting shadow and flickering light into the carriage.
I peered through eyes that were thickening with sleep. A few miles on, the scene had changed. I found myself surreally in an early industrial revolution cauldron of smoke and steam. The Grand Trunk Express slowed as it dissected marshalling yards on either side. We were engulfed by industries; cement works, steelworks and railway sheds, all connected by a fleet of busy, blackened steam trains, shunting like stocky ants with clearly defined roles.
They churned out smoke and steam forming a haze of ambiguity in the hard light. Each time I turned my head towards a new image, I felt imprisoned by the carriage, unable to explore these melancholic compositions that were the antithesis to those preceding the crossing of the bridge.
I was enjoying myself enormously.
Progressing into Maharashtra state, I was sustained by a tasty cauliflower and potato curry, steamed rice and plain roti, of good quality considering the logistics involved, and easy on the pocket. It was pre-ordered and I enjoyed the luxury of it being brought to my seat on a stainless-steel thali. Then, the entertainment entered the carriage.
Two young, bare-footed boys of about ten years of age, dressed in stained, ragged shorts and vests, made their way down the second class (sleeper) bogey, pausing at each open compartment, to perform. Their hair was matted, and it had been some days since their faces felt the surface of a bar of soap. One played a home-made stringed instrument crafted from a yellow tin can attached to a piece of wood, upon which had been metered the frets. It had two strings and two pegs. The smaller boy held two pieces of slate, which he played much like a pair of spoons. They played out a simple rhythm, but the strength of their performance was in their harmonious voices. They sang so sweetly, to be occasionally rewarded with the odd coin thrown into their tin. I admired these talented and spirited boys born the wrong side of the tracks. What had I done to deserve their music, and their lesson in survival?
The train pulled into a busy Nagpur, where the reserved carriages underwent considerable change in personnel, passing the baton to a fresh crop of comrades.
This helped bring a restored energy to the compartment.
As the vortex created by the change-over stilled, I returned to the book I had been able to read in the hour approaching Nagpur.
Three men, clearly good friends, were now sat opposite me. They had kind faces, and exuded goodwill. Through my peripheral vision I noted their interest in me. Prakesh was the most jovial of the three, and after a few minutes he could no longer bear my lack of attention. His hand came over the top of my book, gently lowering it to reveal a smiling face, which asked the question, ‘Where do you come from?’ He must have been considering me either dull, or rude, but he indicated no judgement.
The three men were very different characters, complimenting each other beautifully. Prakesh’s bright eyes and infectious smile stood out amongst his otherwise average features. There was an air of mischievousness about him. Sanjiv was built solidly, with square shoulders and jaw, he was as constant as an oak, thoughtful but not humourless. Between them sat the bespectacled Mohan, who was of a slight build and carried a serious expression. I would suggest that he appeared to be the nerdy one of the three, which belied his dry and poignant humour.
All three of them revived me. I came climbing out of my shell, reciprocating the benevolence they bestowed upon me.
The carriage no longer contained anyone who might suspect me of being the violent thief of the hard-earned belongings of decent fellow-travellers. I felt good once again.
After revealing my country of origin to Prakash, he returned to his comfortable sitting position.
His eyes shining brightly, he said ‘Ah you Britishers, you are a fine cricketing nation’.
I found this magnanimity to be typical in India, it was often followed by self-deprecation, which I was keen to redress, so I deliberately retorted with, ‘You’re not so bad yourselves, you have some fine players.’ The lively interest all three of them were now displaying was obvious.
‘But you are having the Iron Bottom’, he replied. This silenced me.
‘Iron bottom?’ I eventually questioned.
‘Yes, the Iron Bottom’, he repeated emphatically. This was proving more difficult than the Guardian cryptic crossword.
‘What is the iron bottom?’ I asked again.
‘You know the Iron Bottom, he is really great!’ he said, rolling the ‘r’, and coming down on the ‘t’ with such force that it turned into a full-stop. This continued until it transpired that he had been referring to the England all-rounder, Ian Botham. Taking care not to burst into laughter, I quietly conceded that he was indeed a fine player.
Ranjit continued to reel off Mike Gatting, David Gower and Bob Willis, before Sanjiv chipped in with Alan Lamb and Phil Edmonds. I feared this was going to go on forever, so I interrupted with, ‘What about your Kapil Dev, Sunil Gavaskar and Vishwanath? They’re all good players too’. We were strangely arguing in favour of each other’s team, in an effort to be gentlemanly.
Sanjiv’s natural demeanour was quite commanding. He broadened his shoulders even further, and like an umpire, he raised his finger to the sky, and played his trump card. ‘Derek Underwood!’ He exclaimed. ‘Super player! Greatest of all!’
I agreed that Derek Underwood had been an excellent bowler, but that was some time ago, and he was now part of cricket history.
‘He was deadly, yes deadly I tell you!’, said Sanjiv, with some authority and a nod of finality. He had won the argument – my team was better than his.
Rather like the dormouse at the Mad Hatter’s tea party, Mohan weighed in with his admiration of Derek Underwood. With a still-stolid, serious face, he continued, claiming that the fabled bowler was especially deadly on a damp wicket, after overnight rain. ‘In fact!’ (It was now his turn to raise the finger), ‘We have a saying in India, “don’t spit on the wicket, Underwood will exploit it!”.’ This endeared me to the trio who were all furiously nodding in agreement.
Seven and a half hours passed quickly in their innocent company. We had become four good friends, and when I see the crowds of Indian supporters at Headingly or Edgbaston, I think of them and their appreciation of the opposition.
They alighted together at Bhopal. It was time to retire to my bunk feeling bereft of their company.
There was only one more sleep before Delhi, and with a sense of deja-vu, the dim indigo lights came on again.
In the absence of snoring that night, I slept well to the rhythm of the track. The train was nearly four hours late, so I got up early preparing to get down at New Delhi station – or so I thought.
I felt very stale on account of avoiding the deteriorating toilet, and suffered the inertia that stems from reaching the end of a very long journey. The closer I got to my destination, the slower the progress, or so it seemed.
The Grand Trunk was less than express, slowing down as we gently progressed through an urban conurbation, in a thick and chilly smog. The train screeched and the brakes burned; for the umpteenth time. It came to a halt. Was this the final halt? I was unsure. It did not feel like the approach to the terminus of a major capital city.
All of the passengers had prepared themselves to leave the train. Bags were dragged from underneath seats, and overhead racks, and piled up in the middle of a littered floor. Hair was combed and creases were smoothed out of trousers. Saris were adjusted and breath-fresheners popped into mouths.
Looking out of the window, circles of men wearing blankets over their heads and shoulders, huddled over small fires on the platform. Convinced this was not New Delhi, I was utterly confused. Through the mist I could make out the name of the station – Nizzamuddin, so I stayed put. The carriage emptied, the whole train emptied. Feeling there was something not quite right here, I hurriedly fumbled to unpadlock my rucksack, and dragged it from under the seat. Forlornly, I stepped outside.
This institution, Indian Railways, was the world’s greatest employer of staff, but I couldn’t find one of them to let me know what was going on. Through the platform mist I found a middle-aged passenger, and I asked if this was New Delhi. Somehow, he managed to condense four syllables into one, in his single-word reply of Nizzamuddin. This grunt made me no wiser, and through the commuters, I sought out an auto-rickshaw to get me out of this mess.
The train had indeed terminated. It was an anti-climax not to complete the last 8km of a 2,188km journey, to end up five miles short and not know where I was.
After a short spell of respite, I sought the answer to my question, ‘Was Indian Railways romantic?’
It was not a fairy tale, but yes, it was undoubtedly possible to fall in love. Then I thought back to my confusing departure at Nizzamuddin, with its tracks littered with turds, flies and rats. Like all romances, it had its ups and downs.