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Steam Engines and the Wanderlust
Mar 02, 2003
Sky was bright and the fields were green
I was down the road, in the clouded dust
Me and the wanderlust.
- Mark Knopfler
In the bungalow of my childhood two sounds cut across many, and brought much excitement and joy in our young lives. One was the 7.30AM siren, the start of another work day at the old cigarette factory. The other, equally enchanting, was the long whistle of the steam engine at nearby railways stations - the quaint Bangalore East and the larger, the old Cantonment Station.
To actually see the locomotives at close quarters - the huge steamy black engines throbbing with fire and energy and billowing smoke from its sides, was a great and adventurous moment. The opportunity came invariably with a yellow out-station franked post card. The postman just didn’t drop mail into a box. When he came with a khaki bag on his back riding a bicycle, the whole house stirred awake. The mail would be handed over to the head of the joint family, Grandfather. The man was literally central processing unit for all such communication. A stern no-nonsense ex-military officer with medals won in WWI and Mesopotamia, he would be the first to check the contents. Considering them suitable for general audiences, he would summon the whole household, including the domestic help and gardeners to the main hall. When the hush and excitement abated and silence ensued, he would grandly proceed to read the card. In a rich parade ground voice, he’d start with the usual pleasantries – greetings, general enquiry of health and well-being, before coming to the meaty parts. We, fidgeting and restless siblings and young cousins, would wait with great anticipation for the juicy parts. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, the news we were hoping for, would be dramatically out: an uncle from Madras will be visiting and staying with us along with two aunts and the children!
Even as we children became ecstatic and uncontrollably boisterous and vivacious with the news, some killjoy elders would throw daggers at us. Later we’d be buttonholed, at first chance, to be given a litany of instructions. ‘Don’t forget to wish the visiting elders with a ‘Good morning’ or Good evening’, always show respect’, ‘Don’t fidget, and behave like junglies. Act civilized, behave like human beings’, ‘Don’t bolt your food or speak with food in your mouth’, ‘Don’t neglect home work’, ‘Be punctual for the evening puja, after you wash your feet and hands clean,’ and so on, ad infintum.
Finally, when the big day dawned, a welcoming troupe selected from the brood set out for the station. On the platform, early in the misty morning, braving the nippy air, we’d await the arrival of the train. The senior members of the family would stand grandly, in fine clothes. The ladies would stand at a respectful distance, holding water and hot coffee in large round metal vessels that had a screw-type cap. The lucky young ones on the platform were kept in tight control. The smell of wet timber, rusty iron, coal, and other distinctively Indian railway aromas filled the senses. Finally, we’d hear the familiar whistle. Excitement mounted to breaking point as the great locomotive angrily pulled in.
Elders would grab us by the hand, restraining us from going too close to the train and the passengers it was disgorging. Finally, the relatives would descent from their boogies – exhausted but smiling, soot on their faces and soot on their clothes. They’d greet the elders by touching their feet, and call out to the ladies jocularly. Water would be given, for washing hands and faces, and for drinking. Then hot aromatic filter coffee in metal alloy tumblers did the rounds. It wasn’t just us doing all this happened on the platform. Around, several families were similarly engaged. For, it was a time when neither coffee nor other refreshment was served on the moving train.
Back in the bungalow, after a hot bath and a sumptuous breakfast, tales of the train journey would be recounted. The Bangalore Mail took almost 12 hours from the time it left Madras Central. The 400km journey had many stops, including many unscheduled ones.
“We could feel the Bangalore nip in the air even at Jalarpet,” one of the visitors would remark. “Thank goodness I remembered to keep the blankets and woolen mufflers ready,” an aunt would offer. “Really, that was a wise thing you did,” said a smiling male member, giving credit where credit was due. “Luckily here our doctor will keep us warm in Bangalore,” a Madras Uncle would say, winking at Father, “You do have some fine brandy that you served last time, doctor? I don’t know how I’ll survive in this cold weather without it!”
Though it was the height of Bangalore summer, the visitors couldn’t take the early morning chill. As the men discussed the weather, the ladies would embark on matters of the kitchen – Bangalore vegetables, cooking, pickles…and silk saree shopping. We youngsters, by then had our rubber ball and bat or marbles… ready for a long drawn holiday of fun and games!
About this time, one of Father’s overseas patients visiting us from Pondicherry, introduced us to exciting tales of adventure. She’d gather us kids on the portico and read from books that she had brought for the occasion. Tom sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, talking trains and so held our attention over long evenings. A story that fascinated many of us no end was the excerpt from Around the World in 80 Days – of a speeding iron horse being chased by Red Indians in the Wild West.
When the red-haired French lady left, our evenings became routine and dull. We missed her accented voice and histrionics and gesticulations. Her style of storytelling was vastly different from the great aunts in the house who narrated folk tales and from the epics, without the aid of dramatics or written script. Instead, their oral stories were delivered with solemn, straight faces and occasionally, with laughter and mirth.
Together, though, these ladies made a profound impact on our young minds. They filled our hearts and minds with the romance of journeys, adventure, and the excitement of far away places.
Then suddenly the sun would set on the summer. The rollicking times and the fun outings would end. The good times – listening to the army band playing in Coles Park’s bandstand, the picnic in Cubbon Park, the car rides to South Parade and ice creams at Lakeview, the visit to Lalbagh and the Deer Park and mini-Zoo, would be all over rather quickly. The guests would be ready to go back.
The ladies would do their last minute shipping in the peta or on Jeweler’s Street or Commercial Street – going by jutka or hand-drawn rickshaws. The men, with local friends, would do the town in father’s car, a 1942 Fiat convertible that had a spare tyre mounted on the front.
Returning late in the afternoon from the club or the military officers’ mess, jolly and high-spirited, they would hang their solar hats and moan about the summer back in Madras. “This weather is wonderful. It’s like being in a hill station’,” they’d say. “You can wear suits all year round,” some one would remark, while patting us on the back and digging deep in their pockets for chocolates and toffees to give us kids – all dutifully line up for the treat, abandoning games mid-way.
On the day of departure, the car would be readied for the journey from the bungalow to the railways station - a distance of less than 2 kilometers. There’d be much sadness and touching scenes. A grand-auntie would bring out the arthi. Prayers for a safe journey would be said. Water from the Ganges, carefully kept in copper pots for auspicious occasions, would be sprinkled. The men would jokingly say, “C’mon, C’mon! Let’s go. The engine driver won’t be waiting for us forever. We have a long way to go.”
As the car, packed with relatives carrying food, refreshment and baskets of Bangalore fruit and vegetables, spluttered out of the bungalow’s gate, we’d stand on the portico in the dark, waving out. If the invitation to ‘come and visit us next year’ materialized, we knew we’d be making the long train journey to Madras.
Later, as we were bundled off to bed, the upcoming journey would form the topic of many a lively discussion. Lying there, we’d chatter away excitedly. Then as if on cue, a sudden hush would fall on the animated talk. As sure as the big, old wall clock in the living room, struck the hour, we’d hear it.
The whistle chord of the Mail kept drawn for several long seconds. The ‘coal-consuming behemoth’ hissing and puffing, would be impatient to roll. Then we’d hear it move. Slowly at first. Then as it thundered over the tracks we’d feel the adrenaline rush. Yes, the mighty Madras Mail would hurtle over the Tannery Road bridge. A long blast of the whistle would follow. Then a series of short ones that would eventually fade away into the still, starry night. And that disappearing melancholic sound never failed to stir our young hearts.
A great train journey was on, in the dead of the night – firing our imagination. Starting out as whispers, the chatter of the young cousins would build up and in seconds, become high decibel and uncontrollable. A stage when Grandfather from his bedroom, would let out a stentorian bellow. Immediately, magically the nocturnal hi-jinks would grind to a halt. Long after my older cousins were drawn to sleep, I’d lie awake, wondering about the steam engines and travel. A five-year old, fired by wanderlust.
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