The romance of a train journey.
My work had got done, and I had no tearing hurry to get back to Pune. It had been ages since I had undertaken a train journey from mumbai to pune.
I check the time table and the Sinhagad Express is scheduled to depart at 2.30 pm. Its 2.10. On an impulse, i take a cab from Nariman Point to CST. I quickly settle the cab and rush to the ticket counter. Gasp. A long queue. I quickly go to the window and request a guy just 2 slots away from the window to buy a ticket for me. I thrust a100 buck note into his hands. I sheepishly pacify the guys behind by flashing my Doctor identity.
It's 2.25. The fellow obliges and soon hands me my ticket. We make a dash to platform no 9 where the Sinhagad is hooting and has started its labored puffing and panting before breaking its inertia. We squeeze into the general compartment.
The stench and the grease hits hard. The co passengers are hostile. There is no vacant seat. I am left panting and gasping for breath. I'm standing near the loo and the aromas are unbearable.
My good samaritan ticket purchasing friend suggests that he will disembark and rush into the compartment that's reserved and locked for the passengers who board the train at Dadar. That's the other main port of boarding the train.
The train chugs on and crawls to Dadar.
My friend jumps off and rushes into the just opened doors of the compartment reserved for passengers boarding at Dadar. I follow suit. But I cannot grab a seat. The aggression and skills of procuring a seat have become vestigial.
My friend has kindly blocked a window seat for me. I am touched and heave a sigh of relief as I settle into the seat. We are soon off, on the short 4 hour ride, but an unending saga of memories. The train soon picks up speed as the suburbs of this monstrously large city whiz past.
Soon, the very familiar blind beggar, with his blind wife singing some devotional songs make their appearance. They very aptly sing songs that highlight the virtue of charity, bribing us emotionally by promising the good karma of our philanthropy will surely serve the welfare of our kids . Such nostalgia. These characters are so typical, in fact a legacy of the train journey. They are the essential fixtures without which the experience is incomplete.
The couple is soon followed by the wada paav vendor, and the tea vendor. The co passengers once ensconced in their seats soon reveal a bonhomie . Foes turned friends. Some initiate a conversation that's very perfunctory. Just to kill time.
The train hurtles along, and the slums fly past as we catch glimpse of squalor and a whiff of the stench.
My good Samaritan turns a bit, pulls out his lunch packet. It's stuffed with chapatis and an oily vegetable. He tucks into it, very formally asking me to join. I decline his offer though I'm tempted to rip a piece of chapati and shovel a mouthful of that spicy vegetable.
The train has now picked up speed and is hurtling down the tracks at well over 90 km an hour. The landscape morphs into green fields and tall trees, a sudden change in the rhythmic sounds of the wheels as the train navigates a bridge. The musical sounds are such stark reminders of childhood memories. Of sitting in the door and lifting the feet up in time at the fast appearing platform of a remote station that is not worthy of a halt by this Express train. The struggle to light a cigarette by backing into the door through which the wind rushes in like a gale.
Those frequent cups of tea, to foment the throat , meek attempts to soothe the smokers cough. We reach Karjat, that's at the foothills of the Sahyadri. The gradient of the tracks on this section is one of the steepest in the world. The climb needs to be augmented by another locomotive engine that's quickly attached to the rear end of the train. We set off on the arduous climb.The train heaves along and strains to keep moving despite the supplemental rear engine as it navigates the ghat section. The thrill of the train going through a string of tunnels added to the magic of the journey. I remember there were 26 tunnels and they all seem to be very much around still. Memories of getting off the train after the third tunnel while descending, crowd the mind. Five of us classmates, under my leadership trekked down the valley ( called Ulhas valley) with a tent. Could locate the spot and uploaded a picture of the spot herewith. We all got a rude shock when we ran into bootleggers who were preparing hooch in large drums at the bottom of the valley. We managed to evade attention and camped in the tent. It rained the whole night and Kanwar Singh, the tall sardar's feet remained outside. They were all swollen and soggy by morning. It was a nightmare that just didn't seem to end.Early morning, looking like fugitives, we made our way up the valley to relieve ourselves in the luxurious ambience of Fariyas.
Lonavla will always remain the epicentre of all the seismic events that irreversibly restructured the landscape of my life. Lonavla bears testimony to so many moments and experiences that sculpted the contours of manhood from the malleable, vulnerable clay of those years of innocence. The never ending night of strumming the guitar under the stars, those misty early mornings, that hazed the landscape of reality to a blur of romanticism, those tender times of soaking into that mystical potion called Love.......
The train soon recovers from the exertion of the ascent and speeds along the plains. The weary landscape readies to wrap itself in the blanket of darkness. As the train thunders on, it serves as a gentle reminder of the speed with which life is hurtling along. It leaves a load of memories that bring a smile on the lips, caressing those pleasurable scars, attempting to peel away the scabs and recreate the times of indulgence and insanity.
My work had got done, and I had no tearing hurry to get back to Pune. It had been ages since I had undertaken a train journey from mumbai to pune.
I check the time table and the Sinhagad Express is scheduled to depart at 2.30 pm. Its 2.10. On an impulse, i take a cab from Nariman Point to CST. I quickly settle the cab and rush to the ticket counter. Gasp. A long queue. I quickly go to the window and request a guy just 2 slots away from the window to buy a ticket for me. I thrust a100 buck note into his hands. I sheepishly pacify the guys behind by flashing my Doctor identity.
It's 2.25. The fellow obliges and soon hands me my ticket. We make a dash to platform no 9 where the Sinhagad is hooting and has started its labored puffing and panting before breaking its inertia. We squeeze into the general compartment.
The stench and the grease hits hard. The co passengers are hostile. There is no vacant seat. I am left panting and gasping for breath. I'm standing near the loo and the aromas are unbearable.
My good samaritan ticket purchasing friend suggests that he will disembark and rush into the compartment that's reserved and locked for the passengers who board the train at Dadar. That's the other main port of boarding the train.
The train chugs on and crawls to Dadar.
My friend jumps off and rushes into the just opened doors of the compartment reserved for passengers boarding at Dadar. I follow suit. But I cannot grab a seat. The aggression and skills of procuring a seat have become vestigial.
My friend has kindly blocked a window seat for me. I am touched and heave a sigh of relief as I settle into the seat. We are soon off, on the short 4 hour ride, but an unending saga of memories. The train soon picks up speed as the suburbs of this monstrously large city whiz past.
Soon, the very familiar blind beggar, with his blind wife singing some devotional songs make their appearance. They very aptly sing songs that highlight the virtue of charity, bribing us emotionally by promising the good karma of our philanthropy will surely serve the welfare of our kids . Such nostalgia. These characters are so typical, in fact a legacy of the train journey. They are the essential fixtures without which the experience is incomplete.
The couple is soon followed by the wada paav vendor, and the tea vendor. The co passengers once ensconced in their seats soon reveal a bonhomie . Foes turned friends. Some initiate a conversation that's very perfunctory. Just to kill time.
The train hurtles along, and the slums fly past as we catch glimpse of squalor and a whiff of the stench.
My good Samaritan turns a bit, pulls out his lunch packet. It's stuffed with chapatis and an oily vegetable. He tucks into it, very formally asking me to join. I decline his offer though I'm tempted to rip a piece of chapati and shovel a mouthful of that spicy vegetable.
The train has now picked up speed and is hurtling down the tracks at well over 90 km an hour. The landscape morphs into green fields and tall trees, a sudden change in the rhythmic sounds of the wheels as the train navigates a bridge. The musical sounds are such stark reminders of childhood memories. Of sitting in the door and lifting the feet up in time at the fast appearing platform of a remote station that is not worthy of a halt by this Express train. The struggle to light a cigarette by backing into the door through which the wind rushes in like a gale.
Those frequent cups of tea, to foment the throat , meek attempts to soothe the smokers cough. We reach Karjat, that's at the foothills of the Sahyadri. The gradient of the tracks on this section is one of the steepest in the world. The climb needs to be augmented by another locomotive engine that's quickly attached to the rear end of the train. We set off on the arduous climb.The train heaves along and strains to keep moving despite the supplemental rear engine as it navigates the ghat section. The thrill of the train going through a string of tunnels added to the magic of the journey. I remember there were 26 tunnels and they all seem to be very much around still. Memories of getting off the train after the third tunnel while descending, crowd the mind. Five of us classmates, under my leadership trekked down the valley ( called Ulhas valley) with a tent. Could locate the spot and uploaded a picture of the spot herewith. We all got a rude shock when we ran into bootleggers who were preparing hooch in large drums at the bottom of the valley. We managed to evade attention and camped in the tent. It rained the whole night and Kanwar Singh, the tall sardar's feet remained outside. They were all swollen and soggy by morning. It was a nightmare that just didn't seem to end.Early morning, looking like fugitives, we made our way up the valley to relieve ourselves in the luxurious ambience of Fariyas.
Lonavla will always remain the epicentre of all the seismic events that irreversibly restructured the landscape of my life. Lonavla bears testimony to so many moments and experiences that sculpted the contours of manhood from the malleable, vulnerable clay of those years of innocence. The never ending night of strumming the guitar under the stars, those misty early mornings, that hazed the landscape of reality to a blur of romanticism, those tender times of soaking into that mystical potion called Love.......
The train soon recovers from the exertion of the ascent and speeds along the plains. The weary landscape readies to wrap itself in the blanket of darkness. As the train thunders on, it serves as a gentle reminder of the speed with which life is hurtling along. It leaves a load of memories that bring a smile on the lips, caressing those pleasurable scars, attempting to peel away the scabs and recreate the times of indulgence and insanity.
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