My last two-day train journey was on an Amtrak superliner from Chicago to LA. The only significant differences between that and the Chennai-Dehradun Express were the toilets, and the dining and observation cars. Otherwise, there were only surprising similarities. The old-worldness of railway employees, for example (I wrote then that I’d encountered a service ethic on American trains that was conspicuous by its absence elsewhere in the country). There’s also the fundamental way the railway system works and the esoteric language it works in. The station masters standing on the platforms of small stations with green flags. The fan-shaped signals. And many more, less tangible, entirely ineffable things.
The feeling of similarity may have been enhanced by the scenery outside the window. In the middle of India, just like in the American Mid-west, there were long stretches where the strongest impression was of the colossal size of the country. Acre upon acre of land as far as the eye could see, vast empty skies, rocks bigger than houses, lines of trees that never ended, tunnels and bridges beyond counting, lonely railway crossings in the middle of fields (though never unmanned crossings), lonely houses perched in places you wouldn’t think could be reached without a helicopter. Hours passed by where the only living things you saw were herd upon herd of cattle. Another major difference was that the cattle in Kansas did not generally wander along the tracks, nor were they quite so gaunt.
One thing in which the Indian train trumped the American for me, was being able to stand illegally at the open door. But this was tempered the farther North I travelled by the fact that the same spirit was responsible for the iniquities I saw outside. Travelling through Indian states that I’d never seen before, I didn’t have the luxury of just enjoying the scenery. What I noticed, in spite of not wanting to, was that the fields were small, people and livestock alike looked hungry and tired. There was no energy in the air, resignation was an overwhelming feature of the faces that passed. There’s enough land there to feed a billion people, but the bread bowl only had crumbs in it. Six decades after independence, the largest part of the country, the heart of our so-called agricultural economy, remained painfully poor. On my iPod, the little drummer boy chose that moment to become reconciled to his condition because his God was poor too, having been born in a manger. And I thought some bitter thoughts about religion being used by feudal lords and corrupt politicians to keep people down. (I was listening to carols since it was Christmas week, my playlist always having a seasonal aspect).
My previous train travel in India had essentially been through Tamil Nadu and Kerala, so the sense of deprivation was rather starker than it may have been otherwise. I saw no schools when we passed through towns, no women stood in the railway stations with bags and umbrellas, on their way to white collar jobs. There were very few women in general. It brought to mind that this was a part of the country that mostly mourned when a girl was born, and strengthened the conviction that education was as urgent a requirement as food. Everywhere, large groups of young men sat aimlessly by railway tracks in the middle of a weekday. Others were in the unreserved coach behind my insulated one, carrying dusty bags and seeking employment in the cities, which would probably consist of hauling furniture for people who travelled in air-conditioned sleeper cars. There were several people that leapt dangerously on after the train had pulled out of a station and then got off at random spots when the train stopped for a crossing. You could call them enterprising but they were merely desperate. I watched them walk away down unnamed embankments, onto strange roads, and felt that whatever became of them would be the future of the country, too.
