The Bokaro - Madras Express

As a kid, summer holidays used to be the most awaited thing. Two and a half months of no school - what more could a boy ask for. Summer holidays also meant something more. It meant I was going to make a 36 hour train journey to Madras where my grand mom would be waiting with my favourite savouries, and my grand father would tell me stories which I would listen sitting in one place for hours. (A near impossible task - a feat which only my grandfather could take credit for).

The Bokaro - Madras Express connected Bihar to Tamil Nadu and it took 36 hours. But crossing eastern, central and southern railway jurisdictions meant that it would be late from anywhere between 4 hours to 16 hours (Yes, you read it right: 16 hours). One particular trip, Godavari was in spate and we could not cross it near Rajamundry. Hence we traveled into Maharashtra and crossed it near Nagpur and came and joined our normal route at Vijayawada. The train was late by 16 hours.
That train was unique. Even with your reserved ticket when you board the train you would find your seat taken and not by one but by 2 or 3 men sitting there refusing to budge. There would be little you could do. The compartment next to you would have lights and water but your compartment would have neither lights nor water. (Those were days when compartments were not connected to each other). The train was so slow and made so many stops that the common joke was that whenever the driver would see a platform he would stop.

The summer train journeys would always be undertaken along with some of my friends and their family. All my friends were my age (and boys!). I am famous or rather infamous for my notoriety. Two or three of us put together and we would start a gang. We would create such a ruckus in that compartment. But the nicest thing about being a 5 year old boy is that you are expected to run around, make noise and people would tolerate you. The entire compartment would take care of you. And of course you would be fed by every family in that train in return for answering those FAQs - What is your name? Where you going? Which school? What is your class teacher's name? Who are your friends in school and so on.

Every time the track would curve, I would push my face into the bars on the window to look at the engine. There would be a fierce fight to see who gets the window seat and who spots the engine first. Oh! And once the engine was spotted - for the Nth time, I would count the number of coaches - for the Nth time.
Half way through our journey we would reach Vishakhapatnam or Vizag. Here the train would stop for 1 hour. That would be the first time my mom would actually allow me to get off the train(but nothing can ever conquer the triumphant feeling of getting off the train sneakily or getting on the train when it had started moving). Vizag is at the coast and there is no route beyond the Vizag railway station. So the train would have to go back for a certain distance on the same tracks before it would be shunted off to another set of tracks towards Madras. For this the engine would be removed from the front and it would be attached at the other end. So when the train would start moving, we would move in the opposite direction to which it traveled earlier. For many journeys I was made to believe that we were going back. The reason for going back according to the elders (parents, uncles, aunts and worst older friends) would vary from "to pick up dad" to "engine driver is angry that you are misbehaving". That last reason would succeed in making me sit quietly, at least for a little while. I would silently curse the engine driver. Quite a few times I would be close to tears and would pray that the engine driver change his mind and that I would be good boy. But with a few journeys under my belt, I figured out the actual reason. And nothing would give me a greater sense of being a grown up than telling younger brothers and sisters of my friends that we were going back as they were misbehaving and then watch them sit quietly for a while.

Bridges always held a soft corner in our hearts. Whenever we heard the sounds of traveling over a bridge (a very distinct sound - which still rings in my ear) we would stop whatever we were doing and try to peep out of windows (and at an older age - doors). In our trip we would cross three big rivers - Mahanadi, Godavari and Krishna. Watching the expanse of water flowing under would always amaze me and I would wonder at those engineering marvels - bridges. The thought of those bridges were constructed would linger in my mind for a while. I would feel very proud when my mom would tell me that engineers build bridges and that my father was also an engineer.

As we neared Madras, the sight of green Pallavan buses was enough to revitalize us. I would start looking forward to Basin Bridge station and the (in)famous stench from Koovam River. The train would invariably halt at Basin Bridge platform prolonging our agony. As Madras Central approached we would look out and shout out the side platform would arrive and try to get it right before others. This would be the last of our 'competitions'.

My uncle would be there standing at the station as ever to receive us. We would bid farewell to friends both old and new-found and part ways. The sadness of parting ways would disappear on reaching home.

Today, time has become precious. I don’t know whether I would have the patience to travel for 36 hours. But even today whenever I travel, I peer out to see the engine and count the number of coaches. I stop and look out of the windows whenever we are crossing a bridge. I don’t run about the compartment today but whenever I see kids running around I give them a knowing smile.