Train to Kolkata

I have barely introduced myself to my companion in our large and spacious cabin when the train rises out of its stupor with its characteristic jolt indicating departure. Outside, the triangular signs saying “New Delhi” in Hindi, Urdu and English start to pass us by, a thin crowd of bored porters, emotional relatives, and vendors staring from behind a pile of newspapers, water bottles and Glaxo biscuits look on. As we leave the canopy of Platform No. 9, the dull brown and gray exterior of the Minars and Minarets of Delhi start to come alive with the infectious infusion of a winter twilight that has started to soak the city in its orange glow. The reverberation of the train is becoming regular and faster—Chu Chu Chuk, Chu Chu Chuk. As I am peering through the windows, Ustad Bismillah Khan emerges through the compartment’s unconcealed speakers and gently starts to stroke my senses. The drama of the moment is beginning to intoxicate me—the twilight’s orangeness, the Mughal domes, the ever-changing view, the sounds of the train and yes the Ustad’s delicate hold on his Shehnai. The journey has begun! I am leaving Dilli—the Rajdhani, for its predecessor—Kolkata.

The Rajdhani Express connects Mumbai in one direction and the other route that it takes is to Kolkata. It has always had an aura about it and thus popularly considered the Queen of the Indian Railways. Its imposing presence can be best felt when it comes to one of its scheduled stops—literally few and far between—since it is not any other mere train—it is after all the Rajdhani and stops hesitatingly only at stations considered important.

Within a half hour of the train’s departure, there is a knock on the door of our cabin. An elderly gentleman with a railway badge on his coat packet comes in with a sullen look and lays out tables in front of us. He returns with a flask, a “thermos” as we call it in India. A pot of hot tea, biscuits, a cheese sandwich and a Paneer Pakora are calling out. I had been briefly inhibited a couple days ago in my gastronomical indulges due to a Delhi Belly. While having lunch earlier in the day in Gurgaon with a friend from the past, I had picked on little food. Now, with the array in front of me, I convince myself that everything in the Rajdhani is benign and decide to jump in.

Almost 20 years ago, I used to take the train from Mumbai to my hometown in eastern UP. We would arrive late in the evening in Allahabad and used to wait for an early morning train that would bring us home. At just before midnight, the whole Allahabad station would start preparing for her to arrive—the Rajdhani. The vendors would pull up nice and parallel to the expectant train. The Coolies would comb their moustache, tighten their turbans and anticipation would be in the air. We knew the Rajdhani as the fastest train in India and expected her to show its speed as it approached the station—which of course she never did. As the train would pull up, the Coolies would go after the disembarking passengers and inflate the price of their services—logic being if you can afford to travel in the Rajdhani, you can afford to pay a few more rupees for your bags to be carried. The passengers getting off would not be “weathered” like us, but would look fresh and clean. We seventeen somethings would watch with respect and curiosity. But alas, the train would bless the station for only a few minutes and depart in a hurry.

As I polish off the tray in front of me, I make another attempt to converse with my cabin companion. He is unusually reserved as he buries his head in the India Today and answers in monosyllables. My attempt once again proves futile as I ask him about his occupation and he answers back with a terse response “Railways,” and resumes back at the paragraph he must have left before my intrusion. Somewhat frustrated, I decide to take a walk. As I cross over from my carriage to the next one through the insulated vestibule, I come upon a sign saying “Generator Cabin.” I nod to the gentleman seated outside. He is dressed in blue indicating authority. I try to make conversation with him, to which he responds politely and then continues looking at me as if saying “what are you doing here?” I retreat and decide to walk in the other direction hoping to find some people—people one typically finds in an Indian train journey—people who could navigate through all aspects of one’s existence including politics, arts, film and business—people who show familiarity as soon as they see you and next thing you know you are talking about those who you know in common—ohh yes, the Misraji from Daltonganj or the Mr. Shah from Captain’s Guest House in Vile Parle.

A week ago, the decision to take the train was thrust upon me and with pleasure I had accepted it. I was supposed to be at my appointment at 2.00 pm on Friday. I had decided to take the Thursday evening flight, thus building in a buffer for flight delays—typical of Delhi in the winter months due to fog. Prodded by people who suggested that trains could be a tad bit more reliable and seeing the hopeless waiting list for the flight, I headed to railway reservations. I picked the counter with the shortest line, although the place did not seem crowded. As I took my rightful spot, I realized that everyone had reservation forms in their hands, I looked back and there were already two people behind me. Now, with three people ahead of me and two behind me, I was at no cost willing to walk away to the stack of forms kept away from us. I smiled at the gentleman behind me and he responded back. I asked him if he had an extra form, loudly enough, and that generated the response that I was hoping for. A kind person from the other line handed me an “extra” form that he had. I smiled back and said, pen? Those around me looked disgusted, but a good lady came through. Standing in the line, I converted my left hand in to a clipboard and soon I was on my way to become a major contender for a train ticket.

I walk through the fast moving train holding on to the walls of the carriage, swaying by the gyrations of the train and at times being treated by a blast of cool air sneaking in through a mischevious crevice in the windows. On the left are cabin doors shut by the occupants and on the right dim lights shine from behind the windows, from towns afar. I come upon some semi open cabin doors. I attempt to walk slowly giving a nod and a weak smile hoping to get a response or even better expecting someone to say “Ap kahan ja rahe hain,” (where are you headed to?) and that would have been enough for me to build on a conversation, may be even have a mutual body language that would suggest “come on, sit down, let’s get to know each other….ap kahan se hain” (where are you from?). But, this aspiration is in vain. The stiff upper lip passengers of the Rajdhani give blank unfriendly stares back. I walk through another conjoined carriage and come upon a sign that says “Pantry Car.”

The person ahead of me after concluding a heated dialogue with the lady behind the barricaded window walked away in anger making way for me. Finding her frazzled, I handed her my application form in reverence through the small semi circular hole of a window in a gesture similar to how one would offer flowers at the feet of Goddess Kali. People behind me were not going to follow the etiquette as demonstrated by me earlier—they pressed their bodies on my rear as I tried to unwiggle while staring at them with a polite rudeness. “You want to travel by First A/C?” the incarnation of Goddess Kali shrieks from behind the counter. I nod apologetically, embarrassed as others around me including the other reservation agents give me glares. I uttered some words barely even legible to me and when asked to repeat I said in a meek voice, “Ok, Madam how about second AC?” After going back and forth, I gathered some more courage and in barely audible tones uttered “yes, First AC.” After handing her a wad of notes, I was handed the 5x7 tickets that said I had secured a to and fro on the Rajdhani. Excited I walked away dislodging myself from the milieu of a small crowd now preying on the rear of a new candidate at the reservation window. In the background, I heard the Goddess scream “Next.”

There are about 6-8 people in the pantry car and they look at me. The place is busy and I am surprised to see that the cooking paraphernalia was built in to a regular compartment with sleeping berths. I was expecting to see a place that looked more like a kitchen. The place has the seductive aroma of fresh spices. The gentleman who had served us tea and snacks approaches me. He asks if I need something and I say no, I am just visiting. He smiles appreciatively and asks me to sit down. Internalizing a sigh, I think finally! We introduce ourselves and his name is Raju. Raju introduces me around with the rest of the pantry car staff, some handshakes and some Namstes. It is obvious with the deference being offered who the chef is. He is busy around the cooking stove(s) and had a style about him that emitted authority. A couple of his team members come and sit and we start to talk about the train journey, our backgrounds, et al. They tell me the different places they come from, how the whole crew works as a team and “railgadi” has become home to an extent that when they are back at their real homes, it becomes difficult to sleep without the movement of the train. Raju had relocated from Bihar to Kolkata in 1952 and was about to retire in a couple years. On my left, a tape-recorder close to the windowsill is playing a familiar Hindi song—“Bareilly ke Bazaar mein” (In the bazaars of Bareilly). My sight wavers over to a chessboard, and in a cardboard box rest its brave warriors, nobles and the royals in red and black—piled on top of each other. As I am amused to find “chess” in the pantry of a train, Raju asks me if I wished to play “Shatranj.” That brings back memories of being conquered by Russians on the cobblestone paths of Cambridge (Boston) almost 12 years ago when I had agreed to a similar proposal. The memory and politeness prompts me to say no. The classic Indian prodding makes me relent. A folding table, of the same type that I had my evening snack on, is laid. The Shatranj board is spread and its characters toppled on top of it. As the cooking staff is busy preparing dinner, one of the server attendants volunteers for the first game. He sits across from me and asks me to pick a color. I choose black and that’s a start to a string of games, a few that I win, many that I loose. The pantry crew, in their hospitable best, insists to waive the rule of “losers swap for a new player” and I continue playing to what must be at least 15 games. Cups of tea are circulating. Loud laughter prompted by talk and jokes fills our side of the pantry car, there is frenzy around the cooking pit, the fast speed of the train is making the warriors on the chess board shiver, the songs have turned to Qawwali, and I am in heaven! As I look out of the windows, opaque in the night, I see dim lights on the dark horizon; I smile to myself sizing the simplicity and the uniqueness of the moment. Here I am hurtling through the Gangetic prairies east of New Delhi, sitting in the pantry, and playing chess with the cooking staff, with Bollywood songs for a backdrop. I guess, only in India!

There was boyish excitement in me thinking about my impending journey on the Rajdhani to Kolkata. The Bengali city had evaded me all these years and I was longing to walk down Chowrangee Lane and Park Street, visit the Victoria Memorial and yes savor the Mishti Doi and the pastries from Fluries in one go. The preceding days in Delhi were busy as I went about what I had come to the city for as well as meeting friends who I had not seen for ages. So, I planned the trip to Kolkata in good detail. I kept my kurta, pyjama, chappals and Khilnani’s “The Idea of India,” and Tagore’s “Gitanjali” in the carry-on bag while the rest got embedded in the bulging confines of my larger bag.

The dinner preparation is coming to a conclusion and the chef is beginning to relax and unwind. He comes and sits with us. After some conversation, he gets up and asks Raju if he wants a smoke. Raju agrees and both of them walk out of the compartment towards the doorway. I conclude my game and follow them. The door of the train is open and both the Chef and Raju were smoking Bidis. They ask me if I smoke and I said no but would not mind trying a Bidi. I am offered one, I take it and go on to the vestibule, away from the path of blowing air and after several attempts manage to make the tip of the Bidi glow. I go and join the other two at the door and we stand puffing, looking outside at the darkness and the passing of the trees and the occasional, deserted railway crossings. The train is at great speed and I hold on tightly as it swerves and sways, the distant sound of the horn emanating from far away, the darkness outside adding its own mystery. Raju suggests that I head back to my cabin as dinner would be served. Once again the table is laid and the first course consists of hot tomato soup and bread, followed by fish sticks and then the main course of chicken curry, lentils, vegetable, warm rotis and yogurt. I am offered ice cream for dessert, which I refuse. After dinner, another attendant comes in with a neat pile of blankets and pillows. He politely requests that we stand-up and then he goes about neatly laying out our bed. That’s when, my cabin mate attempts to start a conversation. I learn that he is a senior engineer with the Railways and has been transferred to Kolkata. He graduated from Roorkee many years ago and loves the Railways. He talks with pride about the vastness of the railways. As I am getting ready for bed somewhat tired, his talking is on the upswing. I learn that the Indian railways have 15 lakh employees, covers 60,000 kms of tracks and has 7,000 railway stations. He complains how in the past a 100 kms were cleared ahead of the Rajdhani and now only 5kms is mandated. The speed of the train is an impressive 130 km/hr. and it stops only at Kanpur, Allahabad, Mughal Sarai, Gaya, Dhanbad and eventually making it in to Howrah (Kolkata). Reading a book, swaying in the movement of the train, I am wanting of sleep. I put down the protruding shutter of the bed light on the berth wall, stick my book in the wall pocket and shut my eyes.

In anticipation of the journey ahead, I left my hotel at 3.45 pm for New Delhi station for a train departure scheduled at 5.00 pm. I was told the station was only 15 minutes away and when I arrived, I decided to hire a Coolie. As soon as I told him that I was traveling by Rajdhani, out came the response “it will be 150 rupees.” As we arrived on Platform Number 9, I went and got a cup of chai and watched the arrival of the Rajdhani at 4.30 pm.

I am barely awake and looking at the early morning light opening up the countryside, somewhere I am guessing in Bihar, when there is a knock on the door. I spring up to open it. Raju comes with a fresh pile of newspapers, wishing me goodmorning. He asks me if I would like to have tea or coffee and took the order for breakfast. My cabin companion had the blanket over his head and was unbothered with the commotion. As I sipped chai, it was about 7.30 am and the All India Road started providing the latest update on the Tsunami, the evolving alliances for the scheduled Bihar elections and of course the latest on Sachin Tendukar’s knee. While reading the newspaper, I savor my breakfast of boiled eggs, toast and vegetable cutlets. I peruse through the Indian Express and the Hindustan Times and leave the Times of India untouched in protest. To my dismay the Times, one time my favorite newspaper, has become a tabloid carrying nothing of substance anymore. Raju comes back in and asks me if I want to have some last few games of Shatranj before we disembark in a couple hours. I agree willingly and head to the pantry. There I meet all my friends from the evening before and they welcome me warmly. At the completion of the on-going game, a seat is made available and once again I immerse in battling it out with the grandmasters of the Rajdhani’s pantry car. Once again, I won a few and loose a few. The sight outside the window is getting increasingly urban, away from the water submerged fields of early morning. At about a half hour before arrival at Howrah, I begin the difficult task of thanking my friends in the pantry; Raju shakes my hand with both of his. I start making my way back to the cabin. I had never been to Kolkata and I was looking forward to spending the weekend there.

At 4.30 pm sharp, the Rajdhani arrived on Platform No. 9 of New Delhi station. The first AC compartment was parked right smack in front of me. I walked over to see the reservation chart and was relieved to see my name across “Cabin A.” I went back, lifted my bags and carried them in to the train. At the entrance to the cabins, stood an elderly gentleman with a railway badge on his coat pocket, neatly attired, and welcoming me. My compartment had a red carpet, the sleeping berth was wide with a red cloth topping and emblems of the Indian railways. Next to my bed was a bouquet of flowers. As I settled in, the polite gentleman who received me earlier came in and handed me a sealed carton of juice with a straw attached to it. He said that he will be attending to me and wished me a pleasant journey. I sat down and started to gaze at the activity outside. A knock on the door and a person walked in with a smallish bag, and an India Today magazine, looked at me nervously and headed to his side of the cabin. I decided that I needed to introduce myself considering it will be a long journey and it will be good to have someone to talk to. As he settles in, I reach out to introduce myself and shake his hands.

The train had left Sealdah and we were moving through the neighborhoods of the busy eastern metropolis. Soon, the train pulls up to Howrah station. I bid goodbye to my companion and step out of the train. A man approaches me with a sign that has my name on it. He has come to pick me up. He has a big red smile filled with the contents of several betel leaves. He picks up my bag and with says “Good morning saar, belcome to Kolkata.”