By Priya Ranganathan
There are people everywhere, splashes of colour sprinkled on drab concrete platforms. Faceless, they blur into pillars and flashes of brightness as the train picks up speed, stirring the green signal flags into a frenzy. It isn’t going to stop. This is the fast train, the train that melts into the vivid sunset and streaks through the night. This train is an electric bird. Its wings cannot be clipped; its path cannot be altered.
The concrete buildings cannot cling to the train tracks forever, and suddenly part for a swath of blue. Kaveri blue. Tiny figures dot the muddy banks of this queen of rivers, dipping mud pots, dirty children, and colourful saris alike into the lazy waters. Soon, the Kaveri’s catlike flow will reach an all-time low and languidly await the onset of the monsoons. But until the scarcity makes itself known, these pots will remain full.
Trees bend gracefully as this night train steams past, their palm fronds like combs with tiny teeth. Then out of the greenery pops a pink and parrot-green bungalow. Others – dazzling in their vivid glory – splatter the grassy expanses. Blues, golds, reds, purples – these are the colours of rural India, the India that I love. The India that this night train knows intimately. Close by the tracks, three brown-faced boys, not quite on the cusp of adulthood, break into a helter-skelter run alongside this train, thin arms energetically waving tattered shirts. The train obliges their efforts by whistling excitably back at them. Toooooooot! The boys pant to a halt, their grins stark white against their dust-streaked faces. A cow glances up in surprise, bits of grass dusting its pink muzzle. A dog waves its tail warily, unsure of this smoking, steaming dragon of the night. The train steams onwards, crossing a rattling wooden trestle with calm precision. The night train, of course, knows its way in the dark. The sun is setting the sky aflame, burning a rich, raw red. There are stations speeding by, but three are barely acknowledged before this train deigns to slow to a grumbling halt.
The bright lights on the platform make the sleepy passengers blink in confused irritation. Vendors seize the opportunity to clamber aboard, trays of delectable goodies and cheap trinkets slung around their necks. They traipse through compartments, taking care to show their wares to small children and young single ladies first, then trying their luck with the more-seasoned, bargain-driving elderly ladies. A young man, one arm protectively slung over the shoulder of his lady love, yields to her big puppy-dog eyes and pays the vendor a tenner, selecting a pretty jewelled hairpin and graciously gifting it to his paramour. The slight fluttering of her eyelashes makes the loss of ten rupees worth it. A small boy tugs on his mother’s arm, chubby cheeks all aglow with enthusiasm at the sight of a small, brightly painted catapult on one vendor’s tray. The clever trader knows his potential customers well; he casually picks up the catapult and twirls it around so that the reds and yellows catch the lights. The child pats his mother’s arm more urgently, and the irritated mother clucks her tongue. “Pleeeeeeease,” begs the child. “I won’t ask for anything else.” His mother relents, pushing a twenty rupee note at the vendor and snatching the catapult from his outstretched hand. This, she shoves at the child, warning him to not accidently smack anyone on the nose. Thrilled with his newest acquisition, the child complies peaceably. There will be ample time to practice aiming seeds at the frog-like man sitting in the opposite seat after his mother falls asleep. Across the aisle and four seats up, a young mother wipes her forehead with a handkerchief as her arms cradle her baby. The child has finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, after having cried for a better part of the journey, unhappy with the crowded compartment and the strong smell of food. The lady looks desperately in need of a nap as well, but when the train is not moving and its doors are open, the flies pour in, buzzing around the baby’s milk-stained lips eagerly, and she must stay awake to swat them away. A shrill laugh slices through her thoughts, and she casts an irate glance at the lady three seats away, who coquettishly pushes away the man bending to kiss her neck. Even in such a public setting, there are always people engaging in flirtations on this train. The train, as though sensing the weariness of its passengers, chooses that moment to blow its horn loudly and shrilly; vendors shout at each other, the last few rupees hastily exchange hands, and the train rolls forward on creaking wheels.
The train picks up speed once again, hurtling into the darkness like a possessed banshee. A forest looms ahead, on either side of the tracks. There is a small shack by the side of the tracks, where a railway guard sits on duty. As the train approaches the forest, he steps out of the shack and waves a red flag. The train slows, screeching ungainly, and once the speed is low enough, the guard holds up a yellow flag. Proceed with caution. Smoke billowing, the train pushes forward, slower this time, and passengers press their noses to the windows, unable to see anything past their own reflections. Outside, the forest is quiet. People sitting on the steps of the train may see a flash of green eyes or hear a jackal’s eerie howl pierce the dense greenery. The moon bobs in and out of view. The train hoots once, tentatively, but otherwise steams silently through the forest. Passengers doze off, lulled by the steady puffing of the engine and the dark cocoon of trees. Eyes pop up at various moments, but the train only toots at them in warning. Metal is no match for skin and bones. The denizens of the forest seem aware of this fact and stay away from the metal dragon slinking through their territory. The trees thin, and the moon bobs into full view again. The night train gives a joyful whistle, and, as the second railway guard holds up a green flag, jumps forward at the pace of a racehorse.
Hills give way to plains as the train leaves the Nilgiris behind. Now, it steams along the Kaveri River, a black wash of silk alongside the tracks. The river is playful; it weaves underneath the tracks, back and forth, forcing the train to take to trestle after trestle. No one bathes in the Kaveri in these stretches. Marsh crocodiles lounge in the muddy edges of the river, waiting to snap up unsuspecting bathers. Only the pious attempt to enter the river here, and that too, only after invoking every god in the Hindu pantheon. The night train speeds up after every trestle, only to slow down reluctantly before the next. It is a game it plays each night – a battle of wills with this goddess of rivers.
The Kaveri eventually parts ways with the train tracks and winds her way over the landscape to her final destination – the Bay of Bengal. The train toots a cheery farewell (it’s only until the next night, after all) and suddenly grumbles to a halt. Passengers crane their necks to see what has halted this fast train, and one astute man, who is hanging halfway out of the door to see the cause of the halt, suddenly shouts “aane, aane!” Elephants. Five elephants, three adults and two calves, amble across the tracks, ears flapping nervously. The calves are bewildered, half-terrified out of their wits by this steaming, smoking metal dragon, but the adults are firm, herding them across steadily, with occasional thwacks of their trunks. The babies blunder across at last, and when the last adult pachyderm disappears into the tree cover, the night train rumbles back to life. It picks up pace, sounding its horn at regular intervals to frighten away any other adventurous animals.
Finally, on the horizon, lights begin to flicker into view. A city, slumbering but not quite asleep. The night train knows this city well; it ends its journey here daily, after all. Now, it switches tracks, jerking and clanking as it does so. None of its passengers awaken, however. The train sounds its horn triumphantly. It chugs leisurely through the outskirts of the sleeping city, frightening four stray dogs out of their slumber. The barking of the dogs brings the railway guard out of his shack, stick in hand, but at the sight of the night train, he simply raises one hand in greeting and heads back to his bed. The dogs watch the train steam past, growling low in their throats at this metal stranger. The train toots lightly, and then suddenly releases a piercing screech. The dogs bark in fear and flee.
And finally, the station platform rolls into sight. The train utters a honk of relief; its journey has come to an end, and it will receive a well-earned drink of diesel at last. The passengers are wide awake now, and bags are being pulled down from the overhead compartments and out from beneath seats. Children are clamouring, parents are shouting, and phones are ringing as families await reunion at the platform. Books are stored in backpacks, and hands are grabbed to avoid losing people in the crowd. A chai wallah dozing on a platform bench wakes up abruptly and grabs his thermos of chai and a bag of paper cups. Customers in the night are a regular occurrence, and one he has learnt to take full advantage of. Not many want chai at night, but there are always those few travellers who are simply changing trains, changing destinations. For them, the chai is a blessing.
As the train slides to a grumbling halt, people pour out of the doors. Some are promptly hugged by waiting friends and family, while others wheel their luggage out towards the exit gate of the station. Some pause to click a selfie with the train in the background. Others are talking nineteen-to-the-dozen on the phone, directing waiting relatives or booking cabs. The station master yawns, well-familiar with this sudden mad rush in the middle of the night. He runs his eyes over the night train affectionately. This train is an old friend.
Two men make their way down the length of the train, checking for any damage or signs of wear and tear. Any scratch is inspected, however minute.
What becomes of our night train now? As its passengers alight, the fire in its eyes dims and ebbs away, leaving behind a trail of ash and dust. It sighs, a rumbling comforting sound. For now, its work is done.
At six in the morning, it will steam back across the trestles and tunnels, through forests and grasslands, past villages and cities – winding through the Nilgiris from dawn to starry night.
By Priya Ranganathan