Homewards Journey

The low cost carrier boom in the country has deprived us of yet another simple pleasure of life – a train journey. However, being an orthodox old-timer (!), I prefer a train journey over flying. I usually travel from New Delhi to my parents’ place in Jharkhand.
Even before you board the train, the platform itself is an interesting place to be. A complete palate of pandemonium and mismanagement, and yet capable of holding within itself passengers, with unlimited luggage, their relatives (to see them off and add to the pre-existing confusion), hawkers haggling their way out, porters who can easily win any balancing act contest and above all the beggars, the residents of the railway platforms, who routinely earn commissions for letting us be on their residential premises.
Well, the train finally arrives at the platform. Even though New Delhi is the starting station and the train is supposed to depart full 45 minutes later and everyone has their reservations (is it?), you witness feats that are capable of putting to shame Olympics athletics. Passengers, their relatives, porters and heaps of luggage sprint towards the train compartments. Certain enterprising people board the train even before it halts completely. Amidst all this you never realize when you were pushed by the crowd (or you too behaved exactly like rest of the crowd?) and you are in your compartment. Once inside the compartment, a new battle ensues. The heaps of luggage mentioned earlier need to be fitted under the seats, on the overhead shelves and wherever possible. Fifteen minutes of all that and you are sitting at one little corner of your reserved seat; the rest has been duly occupied by ‘uncle Calcutta’ and family. This not to mention that the air conditioner is barely working and you’re suffocated to your wit’s ends.
Soon it’s time for the train to move on and the wheels creek to revolution. The relatives still do not realize it’s time to say the final goodbyes and finally when the train starts picking up motion that one finds hurried exoduses, followed by fanatic cries in Bengali and Hindi (in 3-4 versions of Purvai dialects). Once all that gets over, the cabin mates for the next 15-20 hours start acquainting with each other. The crowd is mostly predictable. People of Eastern UP, Bihar and Bengal on annual vacations, North Indian businessmen on usual business trips and an occasional foreigner on a journey to Varanasi or Kolkata. The people on annual vacations have a common topic: Delhi bashing and Kolkata campaigns. Parallels get drawn between the cities and soon the entire compartment is split into two and a debate is on full swings. The odd back packer from a foreign land gets his dose of Nirvana even before he reaches Varanasi.
You start wondering if there can be any parallels between the two cities at all. One that was your own, the other that has made you its own. There – even you’re contributing to the debate!!! The journey continues. You leave the cityscape and the horizon is filled with a clear evening sun. As the train leaves the last traces of the NCR and acres of wheat fields give you familiar looks, you feel a sweet feeling engulfing you – soon it’ll be home. The moderate pace of the train puts you in a daze. With screeching halt, the train stops, you’re woken up and there is another rush of passengers. It’s Aligarh. This place offers you some of the most scrumptious kebabs and meat balls (lock &keys also) that are so typical of a Nawabi place. Vendors with wicker baskets barge into the compartment and Eastern India savors the stuff and yet sneering (is this pig/cow meat!!!). The atmosphere inside the train now quite at ease and you are asked friendly questions by doting Bengali aunties who offer to share their poori-sabji dinner with you and caution you not to partake the ‘dangerous’ train pantry dinner.
Soon it’s bedtime and middle berths are opened up. The luggage is re-arranged once more as everyone complains about the quality of the railway bedding set. You are precariously hanging in the middle berth coz the aunty (of the poori sabji fame) has arthritis and cannot go ‘upstairs’. Although supremely uncomfortable, you somehow succumb to the day’s exertion and fall asleep. Suddenly you’re risen from you slumber with a very familiar call – ‘Rampiyari Chai’. It’s somewhere past four in the morning and the train has arrived on the Mughalsarai station. The jaggery and cardamom flavored milky tea is just one of the few specialties of this place. Mostly all trains stop for well over half an hour in this station, which is as much famous as the main city Varanasi. For some trains this is a necessity as the engine is changed here. For other trains on the Delhi-Kolkata route, the stoppage is just a reminder of the bygone days of elaborately spaced train journeys. Most passengers make the most and people in shorts, pajamas and tees stroll the platform for a range of requirements, to find the authentic Banarasi rabri, to buy an odd glass of fountain coke or to simply feel the thrill of getting down at a station. Although the time by no means is a meal time, yet sellers of rabri and khasta kachouris do brisk business. The train has been static for such long that you forget that you’re on a journey. The halt seems eternal and everytime Mughalsarai seems to be an intermittent destination. Well, all good things come to an end and the departure announcement finally hits you. Even once inside the compartment, you can still see the illuminated Ganges before all traces of the temple town blur. The Ganges at this hour becomes mesmerisingly beautiful. There is still little darkness around and morning devotees of the river (that is worshipped across the country) float a thousand lamps on the dark waters. You go back to sleep with a fulfilled heart.
The next morning is eventful. On one side you are desperate to reach your destination by the scheduled time, and on the other hand the train delays indefinitely, stopping at all irrelevant un-scheduled places. The train by now is left only with passengers heading towards Jharkhand and West Bengal. There is ample space and you finally decide to stretch out and ease last night’s discomfort. Sorry sir, very soon the train is filled with daily passengers who forcefully occupy reserved seats even in AC compartments and are ready to size up anyone who comes their way. You are again left in the same situation. One little corner of the seat, with your airbag on your lap.
The scenes beyond the tinted windows have changed overnight. The golden wheat fields and the brick houses of the North have been replaced by the silver paddy fields and the clay huts of the east. To have some respite from the compartment chaos, you stand near the compartment door. Wind gushes at you and balancing yourself on the edge, you smell the soil. The rustic fragrance sinks in you the feeling that you’re about to reach home. Your philosophical thoughts are interrupted by a broken male voice. It’s Ara station and eunuchs have barged into the train. They invade the AC compartments these days as well and leverage your middle class decency for some quick bucks.
The train by now has entered Jharkhand. The hillocks of Parasnath marking the horizon, the station names written now written in Bengali and Olickchi (the state’s tribal script) along with English and Hindi. In a matter of few hours you reach your station. Dad is there, waiting for me. I step get down from the train with a part of my mind reminding myself that few days and I would need to go back.