My favourite train journey is the journey to Kerala. I have been travelling to Kerala by train for almost five decades, from the days of steam engines to the current generation of high-speed trains. The trains have changed, but the memories have remained.
No. 1 Mangalore Mail, one of the oldest train services in Indian railway history, was and remains our regular train, taking us to our hometown in northern Kerala.
Shoranur Junction was where the tracks seemed to part ways, one line going north, and the other streaming down the southern coast, running parallel to the Arabian Sea in both directions.
But the most spectacular part was always on either side of Walayar.
Tamil Nadu would be dry and almost desert-like. Then, within barely five kilometres, Kerala would suddenly appear, lush, green and pristine. It felt like crossing from one world into another. Almost a desert on one side and a green valley on the other, separated by hardly five kilometres. Surely, God’s work.
Another striking contrast was how dry TN was compared to Kerala, especially when travelling by road in those days. Tamil Nadu had prohibition in place, while once we crossed into Kerala, NH 47 seemed lined with liquor shops, toddy shops and resto-bars on both sides of the road. It felt like crossing not just a state border, but a completely different planet.
But this is not really about the journey. It is about the memories that lasted.
The fights among siblings for the window seat. Coal dust getting into our eyes. And, as our family economy improved, the gradual transition from unreserved coaches to sleeper class. Sleeper was the maximum luxury our parents could afford at that time.
Then came the day when the son took his parents in an AC coach. That wasn’t just a train journey. It was a quiet moment of pride, a confirmation that the parents had done something right.
Some things remained constant, till date, he famous vada at Shoranur Junction, the chai vendors’ music, and conversations that invariably began with, “Naatil evideya?”
The train was our lifeline. It took us to college and work and brought us home.
I also remember the electric suburban trains to school and the girls exchanging glances through their soda-bottle glasses. Those were the days when a love story could run for months on track without a single word being spoken.
The 1990s were a transition in train journeys with the advent of electric engine-driven faster trains. No more smoking in trains. I still wonder how we travelled with co-passengers smoking right next to us in trains those days.
But one thing remained: the parties on trains. Probably extinct now and rightly so!
Those days, booze and train journeys made up the tracks over which the trains rolled.
I remember going to Tiruppur with friends to buy T-shirts. We bought more than we needed, stopped at a local bar, and then ended up chasing our passenger train to get back home.
And we caught it. The Guard saw us, and somehow got the train stopped. We got in, but we had one problem. We had some Hercules rum left that we couldn’t carry home. So, we gave the last quarter to the Guard. Railway hospitality worked both ways.
There were also the days of slip coaches, when part of a train would be left at a station to be picked up by another train later.
I had friends who travelled from Trichy to Madras, got down at Erode for a two-hour wait, went for a drinking session just outside the station at a local bar, and somehow boarded the slip coach coming in the opposite direction. They ended up back in Trichy, dazed and confused.
My late friend Rao was another story. Born with a silver spoon and loads of mischief, he always travelled AC and somehow managed to get confirmed berths for himself and his friends even when the chart showed no vacancy. No prizes for guessing what he carried.
Expensive imported medicine. The TTE’s face was always priceless when Rao boarded, despite his name not appearing on the chart.
But my most memorable Kerala journey was an impromptu trip with a couple of crazy friends and a boss who looked more like a headmaster with a cane than a boss.
A close friend’s father was ill, so we decided to visit him at Trivandrum. It was Christmas season, and every train was packed. There was a train called the Tea Garden Express, running from Trichy to Kochi. We had planned to take a local train from Kochi to Trivandrum. What lovely names trains had in those days. These days, I pity the announcers. Imagine having to announce Train No. 12602, Mangaluru Central to Puratchi Thalaivar Dr. M.G.R. Chennai Central Mail. By the time they finish saying the name, the train might have reached the next station!
We had no reservations. We got into one reserved coach anyway.
We found an empty bay and sat down. Impromptu, the next move was the “Open the bottle” ritual. Our teetotaller boss was already unhappy.
Things were going smoothly until the TTE appeared from nowhere and showered a barrage of expletives on our poor boss, who apparently looked like the leader of our gang. The TTE threatened to hand us over to the RPF for travelling in a reserved coach without tickets and for drinking ( and also trying to offer him some in exchange for 3 berths)
Our boss threatened to get down wherever the train stopped for a red signal, even if it was in the middle of a jungle at midnight, and walk back home. He even hinted at the consequences of our upcoming performance appraisal for promotion.
We somehow persuaded him to get down at Erode and decide what to do there. At Erode, the TTE changed.
The new TTE arrived, whose olfactory epithelium was outrageously good, or we were reeking like a shady arrack bar.
“Hercules Rum?”
That was enough.
We knew we were getting confirmed sleeper berths.
Santa Claus had arrived early.
On the return journey, our boss sat separately from us with a cloud hanging over us and, probably, our pending appraisals.
At Trivandrum Central, having confirmed tickets this time, we started another “Open the bottle” ceremony.
Enter our TTE.
He looked exactly like Jagathy Sreekumar in 20 Madras Mail.
By the time he finished his checking, we had only 30 ml left.
We apologised. He laughed.
“Where there is a TTE, there is a way, Sunnykutta”
The train stopped at Nagercoil for barely five minutes. He gave us the address of the nearest liquor shop, which was ten minutes away by rickshaw.
We left our bags with the boss.
He made it very clear that he had absolutely nothing to do with us and would not be responsible if the bags disappeared or if we missed the train.
Our Jagathy Sreekumar made sure the train waited.
We returned with a full bottle of Nagas rum, banana chips and lemon pickle.
The journey to Madurai was one I will never forget.
Our TTE turned out to be a Carnatic music-trained singer. As each glass of Nagas went down his throat, the ragas pitch went higher and higher.
By Madurai, we had enjoyed a full Carnatic concert on wheels.
Our boss, meanwhile, looked like he was already writing our appraisal reports in his head.
And what happened to our appraisal?
Of course, we all got promoted.
Even today, whenever I think of Kerala by train, I don’t remember just the stations or the scenery.
I remember the people, the madness, the friendships, the bottles, the vadas, the conversations, and the stories that somehow survived the journey.
Perhaps that is what a train journey really gives us.
Not just a destination, but memories that refuse to get off.
(NOTE: Consumption of alcohol is strictly prohibited on railway premises and trains.)
