Humour: Train of thought

It’s now been long enough for even the rail clichés to be missed

Exactly one year ago, I had the best train ride of my life. U2’s maiden Mumbai concert was Sweetest Thing, but the train ride that transported thousands of pre-millennial fans to and from the venue was Even Better Than the Real Thing. With lockdown restrictions lifting and frequent testing taking the sting out of the pandemic for the lucky few, travel is back on the horizon. But train rides still aren’t, and more’s the pity.

The prospect of a long-distance train ride in a mask is less than attractive, but the promise of a vaccine gives some hope (Parth Garg)

Meals on wheels

Rewinding to November 2019, I see another memory running along a track. High on a spate of tiger sightings in Ranthambore, I was due to catch a train from Jaipur to Delhi. Hunger struck somewhere close to the station, and I walked into a restaurant called ‘Vegetrainian’; how to resist the charms of a joint that flaunts such a blatant disregard for spelling? Besides, I’d choose a clean loo over good grammar any day. Walking in, I realised that the funky spelling was an attempted pun. The restaurant was rail-themed, with tracks running along its many tables, and train-related trivia bedecking its walls.

When in doubt, I tend to order pink pasta. I returned from my loo expedition to find a miniature goods train chugging towards me from the kitchen, carrying my dicey-looking dish. The train was German-made – efficient and punctual. Around me, the few other tables that were occupied were being similarly serviced by their own trains. I’ve been fed on trains countless times; being fed by one was a bizarrely amusing experience.

Runaway train

Backtracking to well over a decade ago, I caught my first Rajdhani from Mumbai to Delhi, buoyed by the experience of dozens of travellers who went on about its soup-and-breadstick extravagance. Waking up the next morning, I expected to greet Nizamuddin station with a Sufi-like serenity. Instead, I found myself somewhere near Jhansi, with spirits that were far from Rani-esque. The train had been rerouted due to the threats of a protesting group. It was now on a circuitous route, food supplies fast depleting. Gone were the halcyon hours of butter sachets and ice cream cups; we were now down to blackening bananas and watery dal. With my phone battery dying, the hours slipping by and our destination far from sight, I had to request my co-travellers to watch my bags whenever I ran out helplessly to buy aloo-puri, or to make a distress phone call at a platform booth.

Where there is a train, there is romance. If not the Sapnon Ki Rani variety, then the more realistic brand, where the object of affection is train travel itself.

As the long day faded, the train took on a ghostly quality, what with the lights being turned off as a precaution against vandals. By the time we stopped at Agra, I felt as ancient and powerless as Mumtaz Mahal in her mausoleum. Many of the passengers had alighted at earlier stops, using their well-charged phones to make fresh arrangements. I, however, was determined to end the journey at the appointed stop, emboldened by a voice in my head that kept saying: Ab Dilli door nahi. After 36 eventful hours, I had conquered the capital.

The vaccine at the end of the tunnel

Where there is a train, there is romance. If not the Sapno Ki Rani variety, where a man in a jeep chases a woman fake-reading a book at a window, then the more realistic brand, where the object of affection is train travel itself. The joys of securing a precious side berth. The too-sweet chai from a kulhad (being re-introduced by Indian Railways). The anticipation of a chicken curry dinner. The nostalgia of being rocked to sleep. The mystique of waking up in an unfamiliar place. The voyeuristic delight in the lives of fellow passengers. I have never missed clichés as much as I have this year, with its many deprivations and denials. In our endless need for newness, these garden-variety pleasures often suffer neglect.

The prospect of a long-distance train ride in a mask is less than attractive, but the promise of a vaccine shines like a light at the end of a very long tunnel. The station master in my head is flagging off all sorts of images, from the train to the Himalayan foothills, to the one that runs down the coast to Kerala. Reincarnation may be a long shot, but I’m so looking forward to my next berth.

From HT Brunch, December 27, 2020

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