Ah Trains! Hemkund (the lake of snow) Express. Nostalgia unlimited

At one point in time, trains were an integral part of our formative years; so romanticised by films like Sholay, Aradhana, Coolie and the like. Those of us who have travelled, even once in second class, will surely still have the smell of the train in their nostrils even decades later; a strange mixture of metal, soot and grime.

Remember the anxiety as one scrolled down the reservation list trying to locate one’s name? And the unexplainable smugness on sighting it, noting the berth number, and while at it, also noting the names of our fellow travellers? And remember how, even if the train was already 30 min late, there would invariably be a family making a last minute dash for their seats, panic on their faces, exhorting each other to move faster? Amongst all this could be sighted the black coated, all powerful TTE, with a gaggle of less fortunate travellers hoping to haggle a seat through bribes/cajoling/entreaties……

Remember the stations enroute? The coolies blessed with superhuman strength, trunks and ‘hold all’ balanced over the head and additional bags slung over both shoulders – portly matrons following? Remember the garama garam chai chants, the mad rush to fill your bottles with tepid water of dubious origins (or, for the more affluent, bottled water of equally mysterious antecedents), the boiled eggs and bread omelettes, the peanut sellers and the oily samosas/vadas? The anxious looks of relatives looking out for the ‘elder’ who had got off to get water/magazines/chai as the train started to pull out?

Remember the strange gait used by people to navigate the way to the ‘restrooms’ in a moving train? And the chained mugs which are best left untouched? The ‘one of a kind’ taste of the water as we attempted to brush our teeth?

Remember the excitement of kids as the middle berth was lowered for the night? The ceremonial spreading of bedsheets, the squaring away of slippers? The umpteenth check to see if our ‘saamaan’ was still under the berth? The eerie quiet of a small compartment packed with 72 souls, but for the loud snores from some corners and faint shouts at platforms enroute from enterprising tea/samosa/vada vendors?

And the friendships made over the hours with our fellow passengers, the overly inquisitive questions, the exchanges of addresses/phone numbers and the fervent promises to meet up in future? Remember the various aromas that wafted through the compartment during meal timings; some via enterprising families who come well prepared, others via the train ‘special meals’, which needed great skills on behalf of the cooks to make them so unpalatable? All in all, I am in full agreement with Gandhiji’s statement (and I have said this earlier) – “if one wants to truly experience India, one should travel by train”.
 
We – self, The Wife and a few more friends had recently gone on a very exciting trip to Dharamsala/Mcleodganj/Barot. But as with anything else in life, all good things do come to an end sometime, and so it was for our trip. We dispersed in different directions after the trip; some towards Delhi and some to Pune. Three of us – self, The Wife and family friend Anjali, had on onward journey to Dehradun for some additional sightseeing and being the adventurous sort, we thought – “It has been years, why not try the train?”

So, here we were – self, The Wife and Anjali at Pathankot station awaiting arrival of the Hemkund (Lake of Snow) Express to take us till Dehradun. Now for those of you who haven’t travelled by train for some time, let me tell you, you haven’t missed much. The platforms, the coolies, the food stalls, the spurious ‘mineral water’ bottles, the restrooms that are quaintly signposted as ‘toilets’, the droning announcements – pure nostalgia. You still get to experience people lying on the platforms, ladies contentedly combing their hair while keeping a zealous eye on their belongings, the ‘chailwala chai’ chants, etc. Déjà vu.
 
The ladies being foresighted had asked some random guy at the station where the 2nd AC car would stop. You know how random guys are – saying ‘I don’t know’ being an alien custom to them, this one guided us to one end of the platform with an admirable degree of authority. All AC cars are attached to the front of the train, he said, and that is where we parked ourselves. Now, as the train was pulling in, pushing a swarm of indignant flies ahead of it, I for some reason asked a TTE who was floating around the same question, viz location of the 2nd AC car. Imagine our consternation, when he pointed to the other end of the platform! Did I tell you that the train stops at Pathankot for only four minutes? The ladies panicked, and I must admit, so did I. But I am not known as a man of action for nothing. Quickly, discarding my pose of languid elegance, I undertook a quick role change to that of a coolie, snatched as many suitcases/bags/handbags (God, these ladies do not believe in the concept of travelling light) as I could, and started running. The ladies, while flustered momentarily, soon got into the spirit and being unencumbered with things called luggage, overtook me at a fast waddle. We reached the car just as the train was starting to move and I had to use generous prods on the backside to shove the fairer of the species in, followed by the rather copious quantities of luggage.  You’ll agree that it was cause for a good almighty WHEW once the task was accomplished.
 
We found the way to our berths to find some other random guys cosily swaddled in the blankets that we were supposed to use. Some minor arguments and much waving of tickets later, the random guys reluctantly agreed that we were indeed the rightful owners and vacated the berths. It took us another 30 min to locate the train attendant, persevere through his unhelpfulness, and get fresh linen. But finally, we settled in for the night.
 
Maybe it was the mad rush to get into the train that made us miss the fact that while the stations had not changed much over the years, the trains had actually regressed. A closer inspection revealed that the train was, to put it politely, underserved wrt hygiene. And though our berths were somewhere near the centre of the bogie, every time the end doors towards the ‘toilets’ were opened by someone, we got a disconcerting whiff that filled us with dread. No visit to the toilet for me I declared. However, while my declaration was resolute, my bladder disagreed and after about four hours of struggle between will and bladder, the latter won. I wouldn’t want to burden those of you with delicate digestive systems, hence it would suffice to say that the toilet had its mandatory mug with a chain, some streaks here and there that I tried my best to ignore and a stench that kept my olfactory senses overwhelmed for another two days. Suitably chastised by my experience, my declaration became ‘resoluter’ and I kept to my berth for the balance seven hours. I must also add here gentlemen, that the ladies had far, far greater forbearance cause they stuck to their berths like leeches for the entire journey of eleven hours; as if their very lives depended on it.
 
The rest of the journey passed uneventfully other than the discomfort of having to keep all sphincters tightly shut and we alighted at a place called Raiwalla at 0730 hrs next morning. The train stops at Raiwalla for just two minutes, but the last evening had taught us a few things and we were standing next to the door, noses covered like dacoits in a B Grade movie, half an hour prior ETA. Surprisingly, we were the only three people who got off at said station. Not a very popular station we surmised. Perhaps the unpopularity of this station was well known to the taxi walas too, cause there were none. We stood scratching our heads not knowing what to do till one good Samaritan asked us solicitously if we needed a taxi. On our nod of affirmation, he whipped out a phone and like PC Sorcar, materialised a taxi.  The taxi of course could truthfully, only be called a taxi by exercising a certain degree of laxity in definitions – for it was actually a tempo. The tempo guy asked us for 4000 rupees for a drop to Dehradun and the ladies who had displayed tremendous tenacity and haggling skills throughout our sojourn at Dharamshala, Barot and McLeod Ganj, trooped in like defeated Generals, nary a murmur.

Today, eight months later, I can still smell that strange mixture of metal, soot and grime.