My favorite poem is Robert Louis Stevenson’s From a Railway Carriage. When I read or listen to it, I’m on a train again, whizzing through the countryside to the tune of rhythmically clacking wheels, lost in the ever-changing scenery, vaguely aware of the people around me. Train journeys filled with nights spent on top berths of sleeper cars; sunny days spent waving madly to random farmers tending green fields or watching massive pipes gush fresh supplies of water into tanks; faces pressed to windows, peering around bends in the track; rumbling through long, dark tunnels; raucous cries of station vendors; getting to know other families on their vacations; delicious lunches and dinners served in gleaming stainless steel trays; leaf baskets of crisp medu vadas and coconut chutney; steaming steel cups of filter coffee; kulhads of chai with crisp singharas. When we leave, Dad always gets us to the station way too early. We sit on suitcases watching as other people board other trains before ours pulls in. We run to check lists pasted on carriage doors telling us where our seats are, then place our luggage under the seats and jostle each other to sit at windows.
Growing up, summer and October family vacations meant train journeys, short trips on the Deccan Express from Bombay to Poona and long-distance trips, crisscrossing India - Bombay to Madras or Bangalore via Guntakal, Delhi on the Paschim Express or Rajdhani, Calcutta on the Gitanjali or the slower Calcutta Mail in those days before the cities assumed new identities.
There are other journeys with friends and classmates, to the same cities and beyond, seeing the world through slightly more mature eyes. There are journeys on narrow gauge toy trains to Matheran, Shimla and Darjeeling.
Here in the US, train travel isn’t always the cheapest and quickest option but I enjoy trips from Washington DC to New York City on the Northeast Regional and from Princeton or Metropark to Boston on the Regional or Acela.
On a recent trip to Spain, we enjoy train rides from Madrid to Toledo and Barcelona. Each trip is distinct from the other, each with its own charm.
A few months ago, YauMei reminds me of a trip we took when we were in college, then another, long after we graduate. Here is the first of those adventures.
Way back during our undergraduate years, we join the Adventurers’ and Mountaineers’ Club. This is Hoshang Master’s pet project, taking motley groups of students on hikes in and around Bombay. Hoshang enlists the aid of other chemistry professors, Rajkumar Rao and Tony Monteiro (Monty) to organize trips further afield. The trips are conducted by Lala’s. I don’t think that company exists any longer, although there are other groups with the same name. They probably had tours for adults, but my memories are of low-budget trips for school and college students, everyone bundled into one railway carriage with a few hapless chaperones, some cooks and maybe a guide or two. Usually, the railway carriage is attached to a train going to one destination, then to the next, and so on. One year, Hoshang, Raj and Monty are brave enough to take a group of 70-odd (in every sense of the word) college students on a trip to Delhi, Agra, Punjab, Jammu and Kashmir. Andy, YauMei and I sign up.
We start out with a train ride from Bombay to New Delhi. On the first afternoon in Delhi, we are left to wander around. We decide to visit Connaught Place. We bump into a fellow student from St Xavier’s. He’s handsome and a little vain because his smile is in the Close-Up ad. He kindly shows us around.
We probably see all the local sights - short bus journeys to Humayun’s tomb, Jantar Mantar and the Qutb Minar and longer ones to Fatehpur Sikri and Agra on hot, dusty roads, guides painting pictures of life under Mughal rule, marveling at ancient architecture, engineering, and art, weaving tales of wars, colonial plunder and royal caprice. Stupendous as these places are, I don’t recall details, memories blending with previous family trips.
We travel on to Jammu by train, then switch to a bus to our hotel in Srinagar. The hotel isn’t far from the beautiful Dal Lake, with its ornate houseboats, and shikaras. We take a shikara ride, weaving around islands of water lilies, and past floating markets. A small boat glides past us, skillfully maneuvered by a very young boatman. His grubby, pink-cheeked sister tilts her head shyly and offers us a lotus. “How much?” we ask. “Aap ki marzi,” she responds and each of us pushes money into her hands as she hands out the flowers, spurred into generosity by her quiet charm.
We visit the local bazaar and a store that is certified to sell authentic Kashmiri saffron. The vendor lets us smell the wonderful aroma and shows us how a pinch of it can impart a rich, golden color to water or milk. A group crowds into a stall to have their pictures taken wearing traditional embroidered pheran and jewel-studded kasaba.
Walking on the lake shore, we pass by a karakul-clad man perched on the stone wall, a line cast into the water. He shows off a beautiful new rod and reel donated by an exasperated tourist at the end of a fruitless fishing trip. His expression tells us the rod works just fine for him. Locals walk by carrying kangri under their pherans to keep their hands warm.
Aubrey talks Elroy, me and a couple of others into a boat ride. I have never rowed a boat before but Aubrey assures me we’ll be fine. We row distance from the shore. That’s when we realize Aubrey doesn’t know how to steer the boat. Niloufer starts to panic and tells us she can’t swim. My own swimming skills are limited to dog-paddling in the Shivaji Park pool. Elroy and I grab hold of the tiller and maneuver as best we can. The boat falters a bit, then we get the hang of it. We carefully get ourselves back to the jetty, knowing that one wrong move could have us tangled up in waterlily stems.
Another bus ride gets us to lovely Pahalgam and green hillsides dotted with dandelions. A portion of the group peels off for a pony ride. The rest of us walk along the Lidder river, testing our balancing skills on a rustic bridge that spans it.
Motion sickness and a travel bug keep me from taking the trip to Sonmarg and Gulmarg. After the trip, friends share pictures and stories of the sights I missed.
We travel back south to Amritsar. A guide shows us around the site of the Jallianwalla Bagh massacre, pointing out the bullet holes in the walls. We shiver at the cruelty of the man who commanded his troops to fire on unarmed people, imagining their horror, trapped in this confined space with no cover. We visit the Golden Temple, heads covered with scarves and hats to honor the Guru Granth Sahib, and learn about generations of Sikh gurus and the hardships they endured to protect citizens from invaders.
Onward we wend, to Le Corbusier’s planned city of Chandigarh. I cringe a little hearing about the strictures laid on the residents maintain uniformity. We visit Nek Chand’s Rock Garden with its modern sculptures made from construction scraps and discarded household objects. We walk through the Moghul Gardens in Pinjore, then spend an evening drinking iced coffee with scoops of coffee ice cream.
At some point, we visit Jalandhar. I don’t remember any of the places we see there, but I recall playing dodgeball one evening on a remote platform, the locals slightly more fascinated by our antics than we liked. Nor do I recall the trip back to Bombay. It was a very long time ago and I only have a few pictures to remind me of the fun we had. A brief account of the Darjeeling and Sikkim adventures is published here.
Your perspective is refreshing and adds so much to the conversation.
Good article