The train journey

 The “Teen bajiya”, 3 PM passenger train never arrived on time.

The countdown began several weeks ago, striking off the dates on the dangling calendar, counting and then again tallying the remaining days; the day finally arrived for the journey after a painful slowness.

Summer vacation meant visiting our native place and this 3 PM passenger train took us till the mid way. The other part of the journey was done by another train during the night which was not enjoyable. Weariness and heavy with sleep our enthusiasm would evaporate by the time we boarded the other train.

People mostly walked from home to the railway station those days; there were no organised public convenience available. So, we with our assigned luggage walked sprightly towards the station. As a practice my father ensured that we reach the station early, but arriving at the station more than an hour before was ‘too soon’ especially when we knew the train would be fashionably late.

It was a small and sleepy station, just a few trains crossed during the day and the Station Master doubled as the counter clerk for issuing tickets. He also emerged out of his tiny office to ring a bell, one bell for calling attention, two bells for train arrival and something like that. The codes could never register in my mind though painstakingly explained by my father during every visit; I was only keen to know if the train was arriving anytime soon. Pacing up the scantily filled platform and at times making a round of the station office to inquire about the arrival was all that we did. Soon the haggard Station Master would stop responding to our repeat query creating doubt in mind- What if the train did not arrive at all?

At last when hope was giving way to despair and patience to anger, the train could be seen at a faraway distance. Thick smoke emitting out of its head and the whistle fell in our ears as music. As the train chugged in the platform we readied ourselves to grab the window seat. Once in the train, amidst commotion we expeditiously grabbed the seats. The wooden plank seats, groundnut shells awfully scattered on the floor, the smell of co passenger’s muck sweat, soiled slippers rested above the ceiling fans, wailing children and the sultry summer weather, nothing distracted us from relishing the view outside the window. The electric wires running along with the train sometimes appeared to touch the ground and at times went above the mountains; I wondered I could have touched the wires had I been on the ground. Rumbling through miles and miles of variety it stopped in every station, even in the nondescript ones with “Halt” as the suffix. “Jhal Muri”, “Chola”, “Cola”, “Mungfalli” and what not, we eyed greedily at every item and brightened up further when father smiled his consent.

I kept a record of the number of stations the train crossed, though someone suggested to note the station names. The counting would soon get muddled up more due to the disturbing trick played by someone saying that the train was returning. At junctions the engine would detach and pull the train in the opposite direction. It appeared true turning us to glum from glee.

Once a middle aged co passenger asked us casually “Tell me which is heavier, one kilo cotton or one kilo iron”. We answered with lightening speed “One kilo iron”. The guy looked cryptically and smiled. We felt proud of our intelligence and rapidity. It was only few years later that we realised about our deficient knowledge but also learned a valuable aspect of human behaviour.

Not all smiles mean appreciation and happiness.

The stream engines no more run on the tracks but the memories still do!