Window Seat
The quintessence of traveling through India’s heartland by trains
I was always fascinated by thick green forests that would speed past me while traveling by trains. Especially in sleeper compartments of express trains. The ones that took around 40 hours to reach Ahmedabad, or Mumbai from Howrah Station. Time was relatively less expensive back when I was growing up. 48 hours seemed okay to me at least, and my brother, because that meant spending time gazing out through the window without having to care about school or homework.
A lot of my childhood is rooted in memories of traveling long distances across the country. Summers or Durga Puja holidays were invested in vacations to the sea, the Himalayas, the south, or my Uncle’s home in Gujarat. Back in the day, we didn’t travel in AC compartments, primarily because we were on a tight budget, and secondly, I think my parents didn’t want us to get accustomed to luxurious lifestyles. To this day, even when we have practically stopped traveling by trains, I romanticize those moments of my magical connection with the outside worlds that were forged through my little rectangular window with four horizontal rods. I still feel the wind in my hair and on my face, feel the constant shaking and rhythmic undulations; hear the deafening noise of the train changing tracks, the horn of a maal-gaari (goods train) approaching from the opposite direction, feel the thrill in my guts because the sound was so ominously loud, I’d fear it might just crash my train because both vessels were on such maddeningly high speeds! Besides these, there was the quintessential jhalmuriwala who would concoct a mouth-watering item with puffed rice, mixed with mustard oil, spices, onion, tomato, potato, nuts, coriander, sometimes small pieces of unripe mango, tamarind sauce, lemon juice, green chilies, and then place a long slice of coconut on the top. A paper bowl of happiness at only Rs. 15! In fact, a train journey devoid of an occasional jhalmuri was like going to school and learning there would be no recess. I was quite a stubborn kid when it came to nagging for these kinds of snacks. And then, of course, the drama around pantry food was a soapy watch in itself. The pantry boys clad in navy blue IRCTC uniforms persuading the passengers to order their food - and then writing down our orders on a small notepad corresponding to the seat numbers- and all the haggling that came along with it. Yes, of course, they wouldn’t care about noting down names. Remembering food preferences by the seat numbers made more sense, but I recall that would bug me a little. Were we fellow travelers worthy of being reduced to mere numbers? I was little and the universe used to revolve around me back then, but now I get it. I distinctly remember wanting to eat only non-veg meals because that included chicken and egg. I detested anything veg. But non-veg was a little pricier, so I would not stress too much if my parents were going for an all-veg meal once in a while.
Waiting for 2–3 hours for lunch or dinner to arrive was perhaps the most strenuous part of the whole journey. Not that I was hungry, but the mere anticipation of food in a moving vehicle was exciting in itself. When we were very little, Ma would feed me and bhai (brother) and then eat hers. This meant, we did not have to use our hands and instead do all kinds of monkey business while our tummies got loaded. We loved climbing up and down the side ladders. Monkeys going all the way up and down, or running between coupes! And no one would even mind. We were not ever disruptive, and our cute little faces probably did the trick and so we ended up being adored and cuddled by all neighboring co-passengers. Another major chore that would never go undone was singing whenever and whatever we wanted to, and aunties and uncles and grandpas and grandpas would indulge us even more- “Do you know this? Do you have any favorite Christmas carol? What did you sing in the school assembly on the Independence Day celebration?” and so on and so forth. My brother was more of a white fluffball and a cotton candy-like head full of black hair. He was a crowd-pleaser by his mischievous but cute smile and I was the one with two waist-length braids and two of front teeth missing (yes, it was that awkward age).
Once I remember they finished serving dinner and we were awaiting a pantry guy to return and give us some change. It was a couple hundred rupees or so that he owed us, and my parents had almost started to believe he wasn’t going to come back. Just about then, a different guy came, reconfirmed our names and how much they owed us. Then he said, “Chhutta to nai he saab, par gulab jamun khila sakte he.” (“We don’t have enough change, but we do have sweets instead.” ). Most passengers were already in bed by then as it was really late as per train night time. I think I saw my father’s red nose flaring up, but what could he do? Create a ruckus? I guess not, because they were not even denying any wrong on their part. So, to settle things, we all decided to accept their gulab jamuns. I remember feeling bad. Not that the sweets were substandard, but they were definitely not worth a few hundred rupees. And there have been a few other such altercations with IRCTC pantry, mostly because of their cold-blooded plundering and then appeasing the customers with leftovers.
I used to remain glued to the window. How I used to frantically pray for at least two lower berths because then I would not have to take turns with bhai to share a window. I would intently observe how the soil would change color and form while the train crossed states. The Ganges floodplain had everything to offer- rice, paddy, yellow mustard plantations, but mostly what I loved about the eastern part of my country was the lush green fields and sometimes, one or two scattered solitary banyan or peepul trees standing with the fertile arms spread out widely. And somewhere far away, lines of coconut and palm trees stood tall, high up in the sky, like custodians guarding the vast green fields that promised food to so many. Once in a while, small solitary huts would appear in the midst of the idyllic lands, and I used to imagine it was my home. My home, surrounded by greenery, under a clear night sky. Except for a passing train, there was nothing else that could perturb the sanctity of my little haven. And that thought blew my mind. I would imagine the Milky Way right atop my head, and the idea that my universe comprised the starry sky, my green fields, and my hut- made me feel complete in itself. Sometimes, even as a little kid, I would picture an imaginary man living with me. And that was it! We would play, dance, sing, run between the trees, chase each other, hide in the rice fields and bathe in a small pond that was half a mile from our home. This was my idea of a life. And thinking about it today is as though I haven’t grown up a bit. The intense clarity with which I used to envision this idea of a perfect home for myself, is still evoking the same feelings. After 20 years, am I still that little girl at heart, aspiring for a life filled with simple joys- a life that is mostly blue, green, a little red, and yellow? The stupor that I am in now reimagining my idea of life, is deeply meditative. The only thing that has moved out of this picture is perhaps the presence of a man. I think I’d rather be alone today, than have routine squabbles that couples like to believe keep the love alive. As a silly 6-year-old, the idea of being with someone implied eating, sleeping, and participating in mundane activities in pairs. Maybe that included playtime too. However, the last 20 odd years have made it clear that happiness is a lifelong pursuit if one doesn’t find peace in one’s own self. Do I want a playmate today? Maybe not. I would rather go on solo trips in a sleeper coach, and see if my 6-year-old’s fantasies surrounding life have morphed into something closer to reality. I would rather engage in conversations with co-passengers about how they live their lives, what they want, and how expectations are changing with time. I want to sit at the window and stare at the kids who actually dwell in the huts and imagine myself amongst them. Would I be really happy there? I am afraid I wouldn’t. Life is great when I am moving. It is magical when it is constantly changing. I am like a train that has to have speed, in order for the inner self to be stable. A moving train is a contradiction, just like me. I am more like myself when I do things. A train in a car shed is nothing but a box with little purpose. And all the ideas of romanticism associated with it vanish into thin air when it is not alive, fulfilling its purpose.
A window seat is a peek into the multiple realities that we call India. In all its mind-boggling diversity, there is poverty and wealth coexisting in superficial harmony. Once the rural scenes are behind, there arrives a station with a promise to more sophistication and ideals of happy lives. Travelers get off at stations because they might have arrived at their destination, or maybe they have a connecting train to catch. In the midst of all this, the window stays still, making the observer think myriad things. And then suddenly a handicapped 10-year-old boy extends his hand seeking alms. Or, maybe a sickly young girl bearing a child comes begging for leftovers. In those moments, I regret sitting at the window, every damn time. It is like a beautiful dream is being taken over by the cobwebs of harsh truths that we try to avoid during holidays. And my mind plummets from the heaven of paddy fields to the ground. After all, this is what we are. A society where some have the luxury to take a break once in a while, for most of the rest, they are waiting to go on their ultimate long vacation.
Train journeys have made me appreciative of the essence of life while there is time. People come and people go, and that experience of transience has always left an indelible mark. And the window seat, to me, is like slices of good and bad, happy and sad, coming and going, reappearing and vanishing. Now I know, nothing really goes just because I can’t see or perceive. It is up to me to choose what I do about the realities that stir my molecules. Because if I don’t do something about it, I might have several window seats residing in me, but what do they have to offer if I end up in a forlorn car shed?
