The Reality Check

The Reality Check

By Kris Tee

On impulse, I decided to take a train. Tickets were available and although it was several years since I had taken an overnight train, I thought it would be fun. The others were all going by air. Perhaps it was the steep cost of the air tickets that was the decider.

I was not familiar with Bandra East, much less Bandra Terminus, having last boarded a train from there nearly ten years ago. It was therefore a shock to see the area around the station – narrow bumpy roads crowded with all manner of vehicles, which is true of most of Mumbai. However, this place seemed to have been bypassed by the BMC when beautification was being done. Could they not have chosen a better locale for the station?

Why do the railway lines pass through some of the most squalid areas of the city? Or putting it in another way, why do we subject our train travellers to some of the filthiest visuals of the city, when we go to great lengths to beautify the area around the airports? Why do we believe that railway passengers deserve to see the reality of the city’s dirty underbelly while air passengers should see waving palms when they exit the cool of a plush, modern airport? In Switzerland, as in other parts of Europe, pretty houses adorn the area adjoining the railway tracks and some of the most stunning scenery can be seen while travelling by train.

I entered the station, dodging the urchins, beggars and touts that seem to inhabit every station in India. There were less coolies than earlier, but very much there, nevertheless with their distinctive red shirts, carrying luggage on their heads as they have traditionally done. I looked for the typical railway over-bridge to cross the tracks to platform 5, but could see none. Then I noticed the signboard for the subway – now that was a first – a subway to cross railway tracks. As I entered the rush of bodies moving along slowly, I noted the variety of luggage - wheeled suitcases, canvas and nylon hold-alls perched on shoulders and heads of their owners, baskets filled with food, plastic shopping bags with names of quaint shops prominently displayed – Dulhan Sari Emporium Kanpur, Lovely Garments, Dadar (TT), Specialists in all Ladeez Wear, stuffed with the outcome of the last shopping expedition.

Just as I began to assume that all life at the station was slow paced, I was treated to the sight of a short, bow-legged plump woman, clutching a bag, running past with anxiety writ on her face accompanied by two children trotting along behind her.

It certainly was a reality check, reminding me that all journeys were not restricted to the Mumbai – Delhi flight, that there existed a world beyond Terminals 1 and 2 of the airport, replete with its unique sights, sounds and smells, blinking tube-lights covered with soot, and overflowing drains over which passengers stoically stepped and which station staff seemed not to notice at all.

The railway station is certainly a great leveler, whether you are travelling unreserved 2^nd class or AC 1^st Class, you must endure the station and its in-your-face accompaniments. That goes with the territory and you can’t avoid them, till your train arrives, that is. Then you can see agility on display as those without reserved seats scramble and struggle their way into the designated coach. I wonder if Shashi Tharoor had ever seen the inside of such a railway coach, when he made that infamous “cattle class” wisecrack.

I entered my AC 2 tier coach, only to find it hot and stuffy. The a/c hadn’t been turned on yet. I promptly exited the coach leaving my things in the care of the person occupying the upper berth. Only in a railway compartment in India, can you leave your luggage in the care of a complete stranger who will cheerfully accept its temporary charge. I picked up a bottle of water, some biscuits, a cup of tea and one for my new-found friend. Meanwhile the compartment began to fill. A woman seated nearby looked at me and said something in Gujarati, which I understood to be an enquiry of my destination.

As the train began to move, khakras and theplas emerged. They generously shared their food with me. I had nothing to offer except my biscuits, which they politely declined. At Borivili, an elderly lady joined the compartment. Introductions were made, she was travelling to Rajkot, as were the other couple. She explained that she had gone to Pune to visit her son and was now returning home. The couple was returning after attending a wedding in Mumbai. For a while they discussed how awful life in Mumbai was, and how glad they were to be going home. They discovered common friends and the elderly lady described her home in Rajkot and the area that she lived, while the man addressing her as Kaki, told her he was in the transport business and that she could call him whenever she needed a car.

They wanted to know why I, clearly not the regular train-traveller, was going to Jamnagar. It sufficed that I was working in a private company and was going for a meeting. I wasn’t sure that I would be able to explain that as a former Commodore, I was travelling for a reunion at a Naval base.

They had their dinner before me, while I waited for the train to reach Surat for my dinner. Once again they courteously offered me their food. Dinner over, the man bought a bottle of milk each for his wife, the elderly lady and himself. The elderly lady declined, but he prevailed over her protests, taking off his cap and bowing his head for her to bless, saying that she was like his mother and as she had blessed him, she ought to accept the milk.

I saw the reality of middle-class India at its finest. Perhaps nowhere else in the world can one witness the trust, affection and camaraderie among people who, till a few minutes before were complete strangers.

Despite the fast pace of our busy lives, the cacophonic traffic, the surging crowds and the lack of privacy in the major cities, thankfully the spirit of India thrives in the myriad smaller towns and villages. The railway journeys bring out the best.