At Home in Indian Railways`

For those lost, bereft of the ordinary, familiar, and commonplace, the anchor of a home, especially of a comforting, middle class, Indian home- traveling by Indian railways, sleeper class, is sure to cure individuality blues, or modernisation angst; maybe the scene is worthy of study by a sociology scholar, or participation by a theatre experimentalist. It certainly kept me fully engrossed, entertained, nourished, comforted and most of all delighted, in the 48 hour journey from Kolkata to Bangalore (including 13 hours delay) on the familiar Yeshwantpur-Howrah express. The already announced, and expected delay, was hardly comment worthy, in a country routinely thrown into chaos by recurring natural disasters, political upheavals, and breakdowns of fractal orders. People on platform, lying, reclining, sleeping, eating family dinners in circles over a shared common plate, hurriedly gathered up their belongings and rushed to join a mad crowd at the approaching train. Within minutes of our taking our seats in the 'reserved' compartment, stowing away luggage, the train slowly chugged out. A sense of excitement,waving goodbyes, tears here and there, children with noses out of the open window. Train picked up speed, lights rushed backward, I settled back to enjoy the familiar rhythm of a fast moving train, scenes outside, people inside. I found several of my fellow passengers already stripped, down to their waist, others in the process of tying their tiny, flimsy gumcha around their portly middle, ready to change, for the night. Others had converted shared seating area into kitchen platforms, cucumbers were being sliced, onions peeled and diced, bottles of chilli pickles extracted, punget mustard oil dribbled, tart lime squirted, in preparation for a late night feast. The TT never showed up to check tickets, and all the extra, non ticketed passengers, arranged themselves quickly for the night, in corridors, alley ways, between reserved berths, outside shared toilet doors.

Early morning saw continued scenes of familiar domesticity, with people marching up and down with little mugs, toothbrushes, towels. All men, who felt particularly affected by the increasing intense heat, were again stripped to their waist, comfortable in their long, loose, underwear, dripping into the well worn polished seats of accumulated grime and sweat. The tiny toilets had become bathrooms for a quick bath- some particularly vain individuals emerged in ironed, sparkley white kurta of mulmul. A young marwari in front of us had changed, after his bath, from his dull work clothes into flamboyant orange patterned shirt of his native land, and then sprayed under this shirt the mandatory "deo" that the youth use, with the nonchalance of a young son. Here a pious muslim gentleman emerged in his fresh skull cap and turquoise lungi ready for namaaz. Crimson feet peeked under pink saree of a discreetly covered young bride. Children ran, fed, cried. Old and young shared introductions, then jokes, and finally settled down to a game of cards.

Domesticity filtered into a deeper level, as time passed and the neighbors got more comfortable with each other. Newspapers were borrowed, seats swapped, tea and snacks shared, a few lethargic squabbles started over differing political opinions. We rushed through blinding green landscapes, chocolate rivers, swollen and heavy, through searing, miraging heat.

After all that grooming, feeding, sharing, there was a late morning lull-I sat with my steaming tea cup, part of my transient family, observing, and participating in the moving theatre of Indian Railways.