As the years went by, ‘flights’ became my preferred and most convenient mode of transportation as my financial situation improved and I grew more occupied with work. However, if I had all the time in the world and no particular reason to travel, I would prefer to travel for long, winding, leisurely, and aimless trips by train across the rich, fertile plains of northern India, through the rugged, reddish Deccan plateau, or along the coastal plains of our vast nation.
I can recall the archived memories of my youth, including the sound of railway carriages rattling beneath me, the ever-changing scenery outside the open windows, and the electricity poles swishing past.
As my train stopped, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not, in those one-street villages like Deoli and Shamli, Tundla and Daltonganj, I frequently pondered about the lives of the residents there. Despite having had a great time on many of my train trips overseas—on the Bullet train in Japan because of its sheer speed, under the English Channel because of its sheer novelty, and through the stunningly beautiful landscapes of Switzerland—Indian Railway, with all its heat and dust and with its running late, has a peculiar
charm and excitement that is born out not only due to the immense size and diversity of our country but also due to a sense of a huge movement taking place, a movement that may appear to be chaotic and anarchic but nevertheless is so very different from the picturesque placidity of an European train journey.
As a result, my strongest memories of train journeys are almost always from my childhood, when my enormous, snakelike train, typically a filthy reddish hue, chugged along vast empty plains that stretched from horizon to horizon under a relentless bronze sky, with the hot, dry wind blowing in my face as I sat mesmerized by the kaleidoscope of life unfolding before me, glued wide-eyed to the iron bars of my open window.
