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 2nd class or AC 1st 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.
