A hold-all of memories

Day journeys in trains are particularly conducive to conversations. Perhaps because, in these times of living life on the go, train journeys actually force you to slow down, and give up, for a few hours, the control of the direction of your life, to some unseen but reliable power. The world passes by, but does not intrude, thanks to the double glass windows of the AC compartment. You cannot, even if you try, stick your neck out, literally in this case, to catch a glimpse of the train as it takes on that bend, and catch a bit of soot from the huffing engine. Spending a few hours with another human being, that too an acquaintance, without recourse to the outside world, is a skill that is buried deep inside somewhere, harking back to lazy summer holidays of silent afternoons and games of “seven tiles”. Yes, train journeys do encourage conversation and reminiscing.

On one such journey, a short while ago, the conversation somehow wound its way to train journeys of our growing up years.  And suddenly, the hold-all appeared from the crevices of ones’ memory.  Tellingly,  also called a bistraaband, at least by my mother. It brought memories rushing back…. Frenzied stuffing of the hold-all with quilts, pillows, towels and even occasionally shoes, for leisurely vacations. Sitting on it, to tighten the leather straps and lugging it to the station. It was wonderful to sit and bounce on while father paced the station to find out how late the train was running. The mater pulling out holiday fare of puri alu.

One particular memory is a train journey to visit Hazaribagh and Ranchi. Those were the days we weren’t petrified of cholesterol and lipid profiles were unheard of. We tucked into a puri – pakora combination! That leads  of course, to  the famous bondas of Igatpuri, the snack facilitated by the long stop to change to an electric engine, now that we were so close to Bombay. The biryani at Daund, recommended by the boys in the batch. I almost got left behind on the station, while tucking into it! Had to run to catch a moving train. Once I actually did get left behind on the platform , this time waiting for a dosa, I think. Some devotion to culinary offerings of railway platforms. The paper thin omelettes of railway platform dining rooms, if available today, would actually induce me to miss the train. Sadly the omelettes and ceiling fans with those impossibly long stems have passed into history.

Creatures of comfort that we are today, the intensity of the earlier experience is whittled down. The hold-all is history. The ride through tunnels do not induce palpitations ..the compartment is lit , not pitch black. The wind does not flap in through the window, neither do drops of rain. And you do not stick your neck out, to catch a glimpse of the train as it takes on that bend. No soot to catch from the huffing engine. Yet, all is not comfortable. The plastic strewn landscape, the squalor of the settlements along the track, are visible even through the double glass window, our legacy for our children. Is the platform , where hordes jostle for air, opportunity and elbow room , our future?

The Flight to Mandalay

The flight to Mandalay landed on a dusty, rattle-y runway, in the middle of nowhere. A looooong drive to Mandalay took us past a  vista that has at least one,   and mostly many, muted gold pagoda spires in view.   Myanmar is steeped in Buddhist tradition, calm and peaceful, the people, as well as the terrain. The green vista was broken infrequently when people drove past on two wheelers and bicycles modified to allow sarong wearers to ride comfortably. Cars too, almost all of a certain vintage, all driving past silently, no horns blaring unlike some places we know……….

The Mandalay fort is unusual in that it is on flat ground, unlike the Sinhgadh, Purandhar, Jaipur  and other forts that guard impregnable heights. The fort in Mandalay is protected by a moat that runs on four sides…. A picturesque protection. The water body attracts walkers and exercise buffs in the morning, no crushing melee, a silent group, only mildly curious about an alien looking fellow morning walker.

At the Kuthodaw pagoda were the entrancing stone inscription caves. Symmetrically laid out white stupas, each bearing a marble slab inscribed in Pali. While the pagoda is apparently in the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s largest book, it was the tranquility of the shrine that was more remarkable than any record.

The town is made of symmetrically laid streets , on old imperial capital.  The fort had served as a jail for Bal Gangadhar Tilak and the city as  a stopover for the bravehearts of the INA on their way to Manipur. The Indian connection remains , though much whittled down. I met two Indian families  with  roots in Calcutta; their Hindi was intact, though interspersed with Myanmarese. The city has two gurudwaras, both in the vicinity of the fort.

Yangon was a different story. Parts of it were elegant, colonial and very clean. Others parts, run down and crowded, but like a cleaner, quieter version of the less affluent Bombay suburbs. People in both cities wear male and female versions of the sarong; a strong sense nationalism ensured that Western attire did not take root post independence.

The Traders Hotel in Yangon is plush and hospitable. The Mandalay Swan Hotel requires to work on air conditioning and internet access.

Myanmar has been Buddhist for two thousand years. The more austere Theravada form of Buddhism is practiced, so there is none of the exuberance of the Tibetan tradition of Buddhism. Monks, children and adult, and nuns walk the roads seeking alms. The greeting “ Minglaba” is made with folded hands. I gather, from Wikipedia, that one of the cardinal principle of Burmese culture is concern for that ones’ action may lead the other to be offended or lose face or be embarrassed. I can’t imagine something so diametrically opposite to what one perceives every day in Delhi.

Even as I write, Aung San Suu Kyi has won the bye election, her fragile form hiding steel within.

There is a possibility that I might travel to Myanmar again. I look forward to that.

Post script: Tried a Thai massage at the Bangkok airport - a singularly unpleasant experience during which a surprisingly strong, slightly built, petite girl proceeded to successively dig the sides of her palms, elbows and knees into my limbs and torso. I was seriously concerned regarding the health of my bones, and later, of  each of my joints, since she yanked at them with all her considerable strength. The grande finale of the massage was an extended maceration of each fibre of my trapezius muscle, which continued to complain for a few days thereafter!!