The shrill whistle blows airily. I crane my head outside the window as we take the curve gently, seesawing side to side. Ahead, billows of white smoke suffuse the bridge like clouds. Beneath us lies a tropical forest so moist, I can almost hear the faint dripping of wet onto leaves. We announce ourselves to the landscape and I sit back happily. We won’t get to our destination for another few hours, but that doesn’t matter because I am riding the train.
On board a train the journey is the destination. It does not particularly matter whether we parade through sweltering rice paddies or frost-bitten steppes. Sitting inside, the terrain rattling past, I’m caught up in the very essence of travel’s romance. It all begins with the slow-growing excitement of departure. As I step into my carriage a tingle seeps from the pit of my stomach towards my fingertips. When the station master gives the all clear signal, I feel that old sense of anticipation. Given today’s congestion woes, the hassles of airports, and plane inconveniences, a train ride exudes adventure however long the journey, or wherever it ends. I’m never bored even when I’m cramped and there is a fractious baby and the compartment smells like a marinating gymnasium and the toilet is a hole through which gravel zigs by at unnerving speed.
The thrill of being served freshly prepared meals while the dining cabin chugs across silver lakes and dust-gold farms is indescribable. Having the leisure to sketch, read, or journal as rolling mountains languidly surrender to sylvan spruce is a meditative experience. Falling asleep to the rocking of the locomotive while stretched out on a bunk bed is strangely soothing.
Unhurried is a word not often used to describe travel anymore, but on a train the word takes on enchanting sincerity. The monotony of movement, the parade-like pace, imbues every voyage with the weight of an epic quest. Nothing introduces communal ambience like a sleeper car. Endless hours in an un air-conditioned third-class carriage delayed by track trouble forefront the socioeconomic divide. There is time for contemplation: of oneself and one’s world.
Where else but on a train can there be such a fascinating commingling of private and public life? Children run alongside, waving gleefully at passengers. Chai wallahs peddle fragrant thirst quenchers in clay vesicles through open windows. Strangers carry on intimate conversations within earshot. Each vignette presents its own mystery and allure. What sort of home does the friendly trolley cart lady who calls everyone ‘sweetheart’ return to? Is the trench-coated man two seats over an international spy or merely a grumpy business magnate? Why are the two elderly nuns carrying potted geraniums in their holdalls?
Trains have long captured the imaginations of writers. From murders to political intrigues to illicit affairs, trains have been the backdrop and plot device to countless fiction. Something about their rhythmic motion, their fostering of nostalgia, their ability to unfurl introspection gives scope to fantasy. The possibility of cruising the gamut of multifaceted places on a single transport with a miscellany of people makes the train a fitting milieu for trouble and tragedy. On the other hand, a rich library of narratives set inside trains has cloaked this means of conveyance with glamor and charm.
I’ve never forgotten any of my train treks. They’ve reminded me that the journey is its own reward. They’ve allowed me to appreciate my surroundings, to learn how to relax, to slow my mind. They have made me more deliberate, teaching me to enjoy the twists and turns of life, the grandest of all journeys. As I prepare to depart for the next station in my adventure, I look forward to making the most of the ride in between.
Bespoke Traveler Note:
“The Train Home,” by Dan-Ah Kim explores the journey of the imagination in search of a dream home.
Thank you for listening. “A Railway Romance” was written and narrated by Atreyee Gupta. For more details, head to the website at www.bespoketraveler.com.
