Summer of '92

I sit atop a hard suitcase staring sleepily at the empty train tracks, thinking about my recent 8th birthday party. My parents and grandmother meticulously count the number of luggage pieces as we wait for the midnight train to arrive. Despite my drowsiness, my excitement grows as the extra large railway station clock ticks away. After a half a dozen fuzzy announcements over the loudspeaker, the rusty brown train finally arrives. Reading the “Dadar-Madras-Dadar” boards on each compartment all at once as the train wheels by is a fascinating test of persistence of vision. We scramble to locate our berths in the sleeper class compartment, and chain our suitcases under the seat. A couple khaki colored air pillows are blown up and dressed up in pillow cases. I claim the top berth and settle down. I catch a whiff of naphthalene emanating from pillow case as I consider the absurd possibility of the ceiling fan next to my berth coming detached and me saving the day by dive-catching it before it falls on anyone. Before I know it, the rhythmic oscillations of the train rock me to a blissful sleep filled with superhero dreams.

“Kaupheee... Kaupheeee...” 

A gruff voice wakes me up. I pop my head over the corner of the berth and squint. Everyone is up and sipping coffee from plastic tumblers. I climb down with a maneuver, exchange ‘good morning’s, and trudge along the corridor, toothbrush and paste in hand and towel on shoulder. I start brushing while balancing my stance and staring at a deceased fly stuck inside the metal sink. The train starts slowing down. I peer out the door and see Gulbarga station approaching. I finish brushing and walk back lazily. A couple of colporteurs carrying bundles of newspapers and magazines walk past hurriedly. I get back to my seat and notice that the homemade breakfast foil packets are out of our bags. Idlies doused in milagai podi! I start munching and look out the window at the sun rising behind the platform. The train has started moving now and the breeze meanders through my hair.

By mid-morning, the train rolls into Raichur station. I lean over to peer into the train timetable my father is inspecting. “30 minutes late”, he announces. A family of three enters our compartment and occupies the seats across from us. The band consists of a rather loud mother, a fiendish looking boy about my age, and a bespectacled and much older girl. I do not look forward to talking to them. The mother however strikes a conversation with my mother. I do not pay attention. I fish out a Hardy Boys novel from one of the bags and start reading. After about a minute, I glance over the book and catch the boy grinning devilishly at me. I quickly avert my gaze and get back to reading.

It is almost lunch time when the train enters Guntakal Junction. The platform is bustling with activity. I catch sight of a man incongruously riding an Atlas Goldline bicycle on the platform and wonder if he had to buy a platform ticket for the cycle as well. The sun is now blazing angrily, casting sharp shadows on the asphalt. An elderly woman tries to sell us a Bisleri mineral water bottle through the window bars. I feel bad for her as our loud compartment-mates shoo her away rather discourteously. Younger hawkers swarm the compartment carrying lunchables. The aroma of food makes me wish that my parents would, just once, buy a packet of biryani or something, even though I know that my family is the extra careful type that packs every meal from home. Sure enough, once the train is mobile again, packets of homemade chapatis and thengai thogayal are brought out. I don’t complain. I actually love thengai thogayal.

The train starts moving again with a rhythmic “tha-jham , tha-jham , , , “. Or is it “dha-dha , ti-dha , , , “? Also, how come the train moves accurately in chaturasra nadai in Eka talam? Or is it Teentaal? I doze off to sleep with these thoughts while sitting sweatily on the blue rexine berth cushion. I start dreaming of all imminent fun to be had in the company of cousins. I dream that we would go to the beach, stand in the water feeling the sandy waves against our legs, and listen to people argue in the background... “It is Koodappa”, “No, it’s Kadappa”, “No, it’s Koodpahaa”. Suddenly I realize that the argument is happening outside the dream and between the fiendish brother and the nerdy sister across the aisle. The train is standing still. I rub my eyes and squint through the window bars. ‘Cuddapah’ reads the yellow board on the platform.

“Kadalai urundai venuma?”, my mother asks.

I nod my head. “When will we get there?”, I inquire.

“Train is still 30 minutes late”, my father says.

My question hasn’t been fully answered. But I get distracted by the two kadalai urundais my mother hands me. I put my jaw to test as I crack one of them in my mouth. I grab my Hardy Boys novel and start reading again.

The next station I notice is Renigunta. My grandmother says this is the last station before we enter Tamil Nadu. A bunch of presumably ticketless passengers enter the compartment and crowd the corridor. A soft murmur rises in the compartment. I get up and stretch. “2 more hours”, announces my father. Combs and ponds talcum powder containers are passed around as everyone takes turns standing in front of the little mirror trying to reverse obvious fatigue. Suddenly, the train starts slowing down and stops in the middle of nowhere. A couple youngsters jump out the door and walk down to the next compartment. A few others swarm the land around the railway tracks trying to figure out what is wrong. My father talks to a few of these people through the window.

“Train is 4 hours late”, he announces.