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?