The Broad Gauge is coming

The indigo sky is tainted by the first strokes of orange as the Satpura Express leaves the ugly sprawl of Jabalpur behind. The clatter of the track gives way to a dull roar as it steps on to the mighty bridge that spans the Narmada. A bridge made of steel and stone masonry, blood, guts and ingenuity. The sound it makes is enough to wake everyone in the carriage. The chap on the opposite seat murmurs 'Jai Narmada Maiyya' in his slumber. The orange in the sky is blacked out the by silhouette of a monster. A new bridge is being built - from concrete and modern technology. The sorts that make no noise. Soon, no one will know they're crossing their revered Narmada. 

The morning sun lights up the forests of the Satpura. The green and gold landscape is a joy to watch. We pass through tiny hamlets with exotic names like Sukri Mangela, Shikara, Gudru, Lamta. Children run out of their thatched huts to wave at the train - some of them stop their frolicking in the streams as we rumble over them. Wherever the train stops - the town comes alive and goes back to sleep when it leaves. Life here is idyllic, life here is beautiful. This place moved Bhavani Prasad Mishra, Kipling and countless other poets and writers to create some of their finest works.

Not for long though - on either side, the forest has been dug up. Miles upon miles of steel rails and concrete sleepers are being brought in. Towering mounds of dug up earth block the view of the rolling hills. Progress is coming. The Broad Gauge is coming. The tiny narrow gauge train that wheezes at 30-40kmph will be replaced by its big blue cousin that will thunder past at 100 kmph. 

'Jobs will come, mobile networks will come. We won't have to go to Jabalpur or Balaghat for everything' - says Ashutosh who boarded at Pindrai. He runs a knick knack shop there and is going to Balaghat to take delivery of fresh stock. 'My travel time will reduce by 4 hours. Nothing better can happen!', he beams.

Pindrai will grow, so will Nidhani and Titwa. Huts will be replaced by brick and mortar houses. The labour needed for that will build shanties along the new broad gauge and line up in the morning, mooning the passing trains with a bottle in hand. Everyone will drive around on their motorcycles with their heads wrapped around their mobile phones. The forest will be something that lies in the distance. The streams where kids used to bathe will be clogged with plastic.

I seem to be only one who is not happy about the broad gauge. I am the only one who wishes Pindrai is not overrun by property dealers and mobile phone billboards. I am the only one who wishes that forests of Mishra's poems and Kipling's books stay the way they are. But I am a just silly romantic who takes a week off from work to travel in a tiny narrow gauge train rumbling through the forest for amusement. Why should anyone bother about what I want? After all, I will catch the air-conditioned Duronto Express in the evening and be back in the morning in my 14th floor office overlooking mankind's towering achievements with a cup of coffee in hand. 

Why should anyone bother?

A Happy Birthday Post

When I was young, the biggest joy in my life was the evening walk with my grandfather and cousins to the railway bridge near our house. We would spend the evening watch trains go by and then he would buy us all the best ice cream in the world.

The two thousand kilometer journeys to my grandfather's place would go by in a blur of amazing sights, sounds and acronyms like W/L, WDM, WAG and T/P which gave birth to a thousand questions. The answers to which were searched while munching Parathas and Paneer Subzi from Delhi and Pulihora from Nellore along with coffee and Pongal Vada from the pantry.

When I was a teenager, I rebelled and ran away from home. The train was the chosen getaway vehicle, as it was the vehicle which hauled me back home.

The train is where I romanced my wife, travelling 48 hours in three trains just to spend six hours with her aboard another train.

The train is where I saw life from close quarters - I saw wealth and poverty, hunger and gluttony, beauty and despair like two sides of the same coin. I saw also death from very close quarters in a train.

I learnt about the lives of thousands of nameless men and women who toil daily in weather that can kill others in hours. I also learnt about a few hundred names who sit in towel covered chairs and steal millions without batting an eyelid.

As a grown man the train became my window to the world and my escape from it. It was where I could be alone among thousands and yet be one among them.

The train has perhaps been the most central character in my life. That train turns 160 today. 

Shaadi Ke Laddoo - Redux

0345 hrs and Nizamuddin Railway station resembles a zombie movie set. It is mostly dark, a few sputtering streetlights barely illuminate the car park. People are everywhere on the pavement, scattered like dead bodies. The odd person walking about, does so in a slow stagger. I am looking for a porter but there are none in sight. I am resigned to heft my heavy luggage single handedly  At the entrance the metal detector looks forlorn and the X-ray machine is catching forty winks, as is the policeman manning it. A bright blue sign tells me that I am under the watchful eye of the camera but I don't suppose that it is awake either. As I gingerly step through the metal detector, it squawks. So loudly that my bones jump out of my skin. Not a soul stirs, not even the on duty policeman's.

I finally reach the platform and shake the chaiwallah out of his stupor and ask him to rustle up a Kadak. As the tea leaves boil in anger, so do I - Trainenquiry informs me that the Chattisgarh Exp has magically lost 45 min between Ghaziabad and Nizamuddin. Resigned to my fate, I sip my cuppa and wait... and look for a porter but there are none in sight, still. But then the PA System springs to life with Tada.wav and so does the station. The first of the morning's arrivals - the Dakshin is about to turn up. The train soon makes a dignified entry. Nothing is dignified in the manner the passengers get off the train though. But at 4AM in Delhi winter, not many people are. Much later comes the announcement that the Chattisgarh is expected any minute.

A porter is still not in sight and to confound matters the damned train is coming on PF2, leaving me to heft more than 40kg across before the train turns up. Chuffed at managing the herculean task without mishap, I wait under the HA1 coach indicator and watch the train pull in. Three coaches later the Punjabi equivalents of Blistering Barnacles and Thundering Typhoons are being let loose. The bloody indicators are reversed and a 20 coach walk with the confounded 40 kgs of wedding presents lies ahead. And just when I am about to load them in my coach - a smart alec cop sniffs an opportunity to make a quick buck and demands to know what is in them. That gets my goat and I throw the rulebook in his face with such fury that he is later seen buying me a cup of chai in an attempt to control my blood pressure! 

My bay in the 2A portion is empty - no one is due to board before Bhopal. I make my bed as we pull out but I am snoring before we manage to touch Faridabad. Before long I am up. We are thundering through the fields of Southern Haryana as a hint of Orange colours the morning sky. Low White mist hangs like a curtain above the Green fields and for a moment I wonder if this was the sight that inspired someone many years ago to think up the colours for the Indian flag. Palwal, Kosi Kalan, Chhata are left behind and on the approach to Mathura. 

Cries of "Chai, Masala Chai..." ring through the coach and the pantry service for the day has started. Having heard many stories about the train's pantry I am eager to try it for myself. If the quality of the brew is any indication, then the start has been on the right note. The chai is exactly what was needed to clear the cobwebs between my ears and a second cup is ordered just make sure of it. Mathura is despatched, along with Raja Ki Mandi, Agra and Dhaulpur and I am back on the door to watch the train toot its way into the curve before the massive bridge over the Chambal. A hobbit sized breakfast of Aloo Parahthas and Bread Cutlet has been ordered. That finished, I seek the steward to send to my compliments back to chef. After all, I couldn't think of the last time when I had spicy paranthas laced with fresh coriander at 110kmph.

The steward comes back to ask my lunch preference. It seems that apart from the regular menu, I can order anything I like - the deal is settled at Paneer Bhurji, Dal Tadka, Jeera Rice and Fresh Paranthas. At Gwalior, I actually step outside to check the train's name in case I had mistakenly stepped aboard the Palace on Wheels. But it is indeed the Chattisgarh, among the most hated trains on this sector for reasons beyond my comprehension. At Dabra we are pulled into the loop again. I am on the left hand door watching fresh sleepers being lifted off a flatcar when a soft voice hails me. I turn stare into deep kohl rimmed eyes requesting me to step away from the door. I am dumbfounded for a moment before I move away. She takes over the door and starts recording the crane that is lifting the sleepers with her camera.

A distant horn prompts me to step out on to the platform. The Punjab Mail screams past, then the Sampark Kranti followed by the Swarna Jayanti. I'm so busy recording them on my phone that I don't notice her standing right behind me and I almost bump into her. Apologies are muttered as we walk back and weirdly I am feeling like 14 year old! I am too flustered so to calm my nerves so I stick at the door to watch the lovely countryside between Sonagir and Datia. And then I find her in the doorway looking at me intently. She introduces herself and immediately wants to know what I do for a living. The moment I utter 'photographer' all hell breaks loose. A barrage of questions is let loose about my work, my travels and the places I have been to. I try and answer as calmly as I can, but can't help my ears turn red.

I try and escape to my seat but she follows me there with her questions. I resign myself to my fate but it is getting increasingly difficult to look into those pretty eyes and answer questions about my travels in the jungles of Orissa with a straight face. Finally, the arrival of lunch rescues me - she gets up and leaves saying that she has to attend to 'her children!' Heartbroken, I dig into my lunch but not before paying obeisance to Major Dhyanchand watching over the approach into Jhansi. We are behind schedule now but I can't care less. The lunch quite simply is the best ever I have eaten in a train or for that matter better than many high priced restaurants. Naturally, the soporific effects of such a meal take over and I wake up as we approach Mandi Bamora. The train having is now on time, courtesy the black art of timetable slack.

Tea is on my mind and before I can think of anything, she walks in with a flask and two cups! Among her next set of questions is the purpose of my current trip. As I tell her about the family wedding I am off to, the famous Hindi adage springs to mind - 'Shaadi ka Laddoo, jo khaye vo pachtaye. Jo na khaye, vo bhi pachtaye.' Having spent my entire bachlerhood dreaming of such a companion, it comes true 5 years after I gave it up! I decide to turn the tables and ask her about her children. Turns out that she is taking a group of children from Kashmir across India on what was their first train ride. A few of them turn up in our coach with a question about Madhya Pradesh which is promptly directed towards me. The next few hours are spent in their fascinating and inquisitive company. It reaffirmed my belief that a 44 hour train ride could teach more than a lifetime of books and television. She leaves to escort them back to their coach and I am left with my thoughts which are replaced by a text from the wife. It is dark outside, but I can feel the train climb the Malwa plateau via the gap at Bhadbhadaghat. 

Dinner is served as we descend the plateau in to Narmada's vale and it is fit to be served at a king's table. Matar Pulao, Rajmah, Paneer Masala, Paranthas and Raita. I feel the urge to go kiss the chef but then the steward arrives with the bill. The special service comes with its own price tag and I am supposed to pay 450 rupees including the next morning's breakfast - not that I am complaining in any way.The country's navel - Itarsi fades in to the darkness as we accelerates hard toward the forests. 

The lights are out, only the reading light is on. My wandering thoughts are scrambled further as she walks in again. The dim warm light, her hair let loose and her hushed tones threaten to turn my brain into jelly. I've no idea what she is saying and then she gets up, smiles and leaves me with a good night. We do not stop at Dharakhoh, but I am at the door. The icy cold wind, the roar of the wheels over the viaducts, the damp warmth of the tunnels and the twinkling of fireflies in my favourite corner of the world, help restore sanity. 

The rising sun reveals shows that we are climbing another set of hills. This time it is the Lamti Dongri range between Salekasa and Darekasa. An endless stream of freights carrying coal, minerals and Iron & Steel products is headed in the opposite direction. More are standing in loops at every station. We draw closer to Durg but our progress is increasingly slowed, most likely due to freights ahead of us. We finally pull in to Durg and mercifully porters abound to help me with the luggage. I negotiate with one and start walking when I hear my name. She is at the door smiling, waving me goodbye....

Rajdhani

What a jerk! The invective directed towards the idiot who has piled a mountain of luggage in the aisle. And towards the collective force of the train’s weight acting on the coupler as it starts. The owner of the luggage appears, rushing in from the door waving goodbyes to the hordes that have come to see him off. Barging his way past me, he spends five more minutes arranging his stuff underneath the seats and I finally get the chance to reclaim my prized territory - the side lower and the accompanying view of filthy suburbia as the Rajdhani sets off for its daily sprint from the nation’s political capital to the financial.

When I left home for the station, the late afternoon temperature was in 40s. By the time I get off the Metro at New Delhi, it is drizzling. The ten minute walk to my coach has me drenched, not in rainwater but in my own sweat. But half an inch of tinted glass and the powerful air conditioning of the German design coaches are just what the doctor ordered.

As the open fields of Haryana come into view, the Pantry steward turns up with the evening snack - a sandwich, a samosa, sweets and a pack of juice. A menu that hasn’t changed from the time when Harish Bhimani claimed to be Father Time each Sunday morning on national television. 

“Tussi Bambe jaana?” A loud voice from the right enquires if I am travelling up to Bombay? My co-passengers are a bunch of Punjabi gentlefolk, already sprawled on their berths like good government servants having a post-lunch nap in the sunny lawns of Delhi’s winter. “Aaho!”, I replied in the affirmative, thus opening a floodgate of queries from fertilizer men from Bathinda, on their way to Hazira near Surat for some training.

Their queries chiefly concern the availability of alcohol or the lack of it in India’s only dry state. They are going to spend two weeks there and the question of not drinking simply does not arise. Yet the prospect of breaking the law in a government campus doesn’t appeal much, hence the fervent enquiries for legal ways to drink.

I simply point out that the Union Territory of Daman, where booze is legal is a few hours drive away. That lights up their faces and out comes a bottle of Blender's Pride and a few cut glasses (Note aforementioned remark on breaking the law). The first peg is generously offered, but politely refused causing a few faux frowns.

As their conversation drifts to the bust size of Mrs. Behl and the enormous backside of the yet unmarried Ms. Gandotra, I resume my lookout from the window. It is nearly seven, and the first of the birds and the farmers are returning home. The orange sun and the dust kicked up by the cattle have set up that magic hour which the Hindi language beautifully describes as ‘Godhuli’.

Looking at the sparse thatchments and curling wood fires, I can’t help but marvel at the tenacity of the farmer, braving it day in and out in weather that would knock us city dwellers out in ten minutes. There, behind the half an inch of tinted glass and the powerful air conditioning - it is easy to conjure such evocative images.

We are now thundering through Rajasthan, covering more than 2 km in a minute when soup followed by a tasty dinner is served. The bootleggers of Bathinda are still going great guns when I decide to draw my curtains and pump up the volume in my headphones. A full moon is out and Nusrat’s Night Song is the perfect accompaniment for the stunning views of the Dara Pass rolling past me.

I am gently woken by the Pantry steward, armed with a flask of hot water and all the essentials for the morning cuppa. We are fast closing in on Bombay and my bay is eerily quiet. The Bathinda gang had gotten off at Surat in the wee hours and I have the whole bay to myself.

I pull back the curtains on both windows and bright sunshine from the rising sun streams in. The PA system squawks the morning news bulletin, via hastily recorded tapes picked up at Surat. Another ritual that steadfastly refuses to die, even in an era where people know about incidents even before they happen!

By the time the breakfast tray of omlette, toast (special service for yours truly), cutlets and coffee is cleared, the first of Bombay’s famed local trains were running alongside. Bleary eyed commuters hang on for dear life from every hand and foot hold possible.

The Bombay wallas on my train don’t give them a second look, while first timers from the North restart a conversation heard each morning on the Rajdhani, if you listen carefully. “Pata nahi kya rakha hai Bombay mein? Public ko dekho, na ghar mein jagah, na train mein - fir bhi marte hain yahan aane ko!” - God knows what’s there in Bombay, there’s neither space in their homes, nor on the trains - yet people would give anything to come here!

The Bombay wallah seated across them replies - “Kam se kam yahan chor to nahin hai! Dilli mein to Auto aur taxi mein loot hai!” - At least people are honest here, all your auto and taxi drivers in Delhi want to loot you.

I am not interested in the rest of the argument, having heard it many times now. Another local train runs along side, almost every one hanging from its door turns to admire the Rajdhani. Perhaps reflecting on their lives as it bounces back at them from the half inch thick glass - wondering how nice it would be to enjoy some of that powerful air conditioning?

The Coin Hunters of Ramganga

India has had a special affinity for rivers. For they are life givers to its largely agrarian society. Rivers are revered as mother goddesses and a dip in their waters during festivals is almost mandatory. And every they travel and cross a river, many Indians would throw a coin or two off the bridge and make wish.

Retrieving the coins from the murky waters is supplements the income for numerous poor families that dwell along the banks. These boys, living along the banks of the Ramganga in Bareilly are specialists in that art dipped lashed up magnets in the water, just after a train passes to retrieve some of the offered coins. Necessity truly, is the mother of invention.

The one eyed boy

As my train left the dusty, fly infested town of Churu behind I settled into my hard fought window seat and watched the sand dunes of the Thar roll by. Exotically named stations like Bissau, Mahansar, Kayamsar went by and we rumbled into Fathehpur Shekhawati. A nondescript town which had its 15 minutes of fame in the film Ghulami. My reverie was broken by the sharp sounds of two stones being clattered together to the tune of some long forgotten song.

Turning, I saw this boy perhaps 7 or 8 years in age - one of thousands such children that you come across in Indian trains. Travelling from station to station singing improvised versions of film or devotional songs while clattering a unique musical instrument made of two flat pieces of stone or tile and hoping to make some money out of the largesse of passengers. Most of them are homeless and this one was no exception. Most of them have a twinkle in their eyes as well. A hard life does not always win over mischief and innocence that comes with this age.

This one was different though, he had only one eye. It was full of sadness and melancholy. I tried talking to him, he didn't even tell me his name. I tried giving him 20 rupees -  he took only ten, grudgingly. He then turned away and started singing. In a voice that could shatter a diamond and sadness that could melt gold.

India in 52 frames - 17

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A little bit of vanity in an otherwise hard life. 

He is a coal miner, returning home after a hard days work underneath the bowels of the earth. He was aboard the evening commuter train from Bhojudih, a sleepy mining town in Jharkhand.

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Image Details:
Camera : Canon EOS 350D Digital
Aperture : f/5.0
Shutter Speed : 1/1600 sec
Focal Length : 200mm
ISO Speed : 400

India in 52 frames - 11

Getting Ready


Full moons are considered auspicious among Hindus and on one such day, hundreds of pilgrims line up expectantly as a local passenger train pulls into Kachhwa Road station. The pilgrims are headed towards Allahabad to take a dip in the holy Ganga - and cleanse them of their sins.

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Image Details
Camera : Canon EOS 350D Digital
Aperture: f/7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/80 sec
Focal Length: 55mm
ISO Speed: 200

India in 52 frames - 7

Meals Ready


As my train pulls into Villupuram, an important junction in Tamil Nadu, vendors get ready to dish out fresh grub to the hungry passengers.

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Image Details

Camera: Canon EOS 50D Digital

Aperture: f/9

Shutter Speed: 1/320 sec

Focal Length : 200mm

ISO Speed: 320

Exposure Program: Aperture Priority

A Journey In the Dark

Apart from the title, this post has little to do with the Fellowship of the Ring's progress through the Mines of Moria. My tale is in fact not even from Middle Earth, but from the 90s.

I was visiting my relatives settled along the Andhra coast. From Vishakhapatnam I was to go to Nellore and as is the gricer's wont - I chose the train that was the slowest, took the longest route and got overtook the most. So I was to take the now defunct Howrah - Tirupati Express - a slow coach that was said to have so much slack, that it could reach on time even if 24 hrs late!

The sky was an angry purple even at that late hour. Thick clouds were ready to disgorge their contents at a moment's notice, thunderbolts screamed across the sky like school kids in their afternoon recess. The train pulled into the platform and the ritualistic pandemonium to locate coaches and seats broke loose. An oasis of calm however prevailed around the little party that had come to see me off. Being a family where one member or the other is on a train at any given moment in time, we knew exactly where my coach would be.

The coach was the second from the loco, and my berth side lower, trackside. In short everything was perfect - until the rain started. It fell in thick gobs, spraying my face as it bounced off the window sill. Both the windows was jammed rock solid, not just the glass pane, the metal shutter as well. To make matters worse, the lamps in the coach weren't working either - only those in the toilets worked miraculously. Since the train was full and without vestibules, a change of seat was impossible. Hence, I had no option, but to brave it out.

It was a moonless night, so hardly anything could be seen. The only illumination was from the toilet windows forming a perfect square on the ballast of the adjacent track. Our train rumbled through the night stopping as usual at Duvvada, Anakapalle, Ellamanchi and the host of small towns. I kept dozing off, but was frequently woken up the spray of water. After a while, I just gave up. Rajahmundry was at hand, and the prospect of the Godavari crossing was enough to keep me awake.

Even as we were halted at Rajahmundry station, all went dark. Apparently it was a major power failure and that detained the train in the station for quite some time. I dozed off again but woke up as the train started with a jerk. As it pulled out, the entire town was shrouded in darkness - the power outage seemed total. We rolled past Godavari station, a fact ascertained by the lone lamp held by the station master as he led us through.

A rumble began all of a sudden, and soon turned into a roar. We were on the Havelock bridge! A sudden burst of lightening lit up the river for a few seconds - it was in full spate. Another flash, scared the daylights (no I don't think that's the right idiom given the late hour, but what the heck - you got my point, didn't you?) out of me! Now, fully exposed to the elements, out train crawled its way across the 3 km expanse. The odd bolt revealed the menacing stretch of water that was spread out as far as one could make out. The wind was howling; driving the rain through the windows - stinging my face.

They say that when the end is near, your life flashes past you in an instant. Here, it happened in slow motion - each jerk, each creak, each lurch seemed to be the last. Visions of a watery grave churned my stomach. I just held on to the window bars and perhaps for the first time in my life, I wished I was a theist.

And then it was over, the metallic rumble gave way to the reassuring clickety clack of rails on solid ground. The old geezer ahead notched up, filling the coach with thick brumes of unadulterated ALCO smoke. Kovvur station's platform canopy brought some respite from the rain, which trickled into a drizzle as we started up. Nidadavole came and we split towards the branch lines spread between the twin deltas of the Godavari and Krishna.

I think it was at Attili, that we were held up for a long time for a crossing. It was nearing dawn and the urge for a chai or a coffee grew strong. Given the small size of the station, I wasn't expecting much, but was surprised to find a young girl huddled under an umbrella with a steaming kettle on the boil. Drenched and cold, that cup of chai was one of the most refreshing that I have ever had in my life.

Past Bhimavaram, Akividu, Gudivada we sped on towards Vijaywada as the sun finally managed break the clouds' stranglehold and shone brightly. This helped me dry quickly, but the heat and the humidity meant that my shirt was wet and sticky again! It was at Vijaywada station, where I was standing next to my window munching on steaming Idlis, that I noticed that the panes weren't jammed at all. It was just the old fashioned lift and release locks that I failed to notice in the dark!

Split Seconds

On a recent trip to South East and East India, I went mad with the drive mode on my camera. Compiled in a series... it made interesting viewing... have a look