Living in Bangalore and with family in Chennai, the Bangalore-Chennai trip I do often, but usually by the Shatabdi. Recently, a last-minute programme during Christmas had me doing the onward by bus and return by the Brindavan Express.
I may have done this journey during my college days, but have forgotten it in the annals of time and upgraded train journeys and discounted flights, so was in for a rude shock. I had pictured the second class sitting as the one with the usual compartment layout, but with a luggage rack above instead of the berths; I was taken aback at the suburban train layout. And was soon in for a still bigger shock when I saw that a reserved compartment held no such pretensions as people got in at every station and occupied every standing and sitting position.
Squished between the open window (thank god for a window seat) and a rather corpulently endowed lady on the other, I had little wiggle room for comfort. A barely broad enough and thinly cushioned seat was to hold three people but held four. Bag and baggage liberally occupied the one-foot leg space between my seat and the one opposite, hung from hooks and the narrow luggage rack above and squeezed into every nook and cranny available. All in all it was cosy, euphemistically speaking.
But once I looked beyond the discomfort, I started taking in the cacophony of life around me — pulsating, animated, and effervescent This was something one would never find in the almost sterile cocoons of the air-conditioned Shatabdis.
The idli-vadai-pongal sellers reminded people the train had no pantry car. The leaf and paper wrapped packages of the south Indian staple breakfast did look more appetising than the affectations of an English breakfast with plastic-wrapped slices of bread-butter-jam served in the Shatabdi.
The jamboree started in right earnest an hour into the ride. Roasted groundnut- sellers raised the octave in sync with hot ginger cardamom tea-sellers. The children’s books-colouring books-moral story books-number books seller, who intoned his wares in the same order and tune every time, had parents perking in interest; the children preferred the nodding doggies and ingenuously put together plastic helicopter drones. Mobile holder-stands, earphones, chargers in many hues and shapes added to the melee.
The visually challenged singer-duo was not far behind. Their repertoire was truly eclectic, and they effortlessly moved from Hindi to Tamil to Kannada. A single clap, a defiant stare and a synchronised thrust of a bony hip and outstretched hand that demanded attention and remuneration had people scrambling for the scarce loose change in the time of demonetisation.
Somebody brought in shallots. Why would someone buy shallots on a train? One lady thought it was a good idea, and so did the couple with three kids in tow. Shallots were followed by green cooking bananas. The combination, I must admit, is mouth-wateringly appetising; guess the ones who bought it thought so too.
Once again, I was flummoxed over why someone would need to buy purple kanakambaram (firecracker flower) in the train. Why ever not, seems to be the repartee. Traditional South Indian ladies do love flowers in their hair.
At Rs. 150, not only could I travel from Chennai to Bangalore, I wasn’t bored for a second. There was drama, entertainment, music all packed in a seven-hour (yes, the train is invariably late) capsule.
And it has done so for 53 years now, introduced in 1964 as the first inter-city express on the Southern Railway.
I guess the Brindavan is going to feature more in my travels. Trains, especially the day journeys, are alluring: they pack in so much more than just getting one from point A to point B. It’s the epitome of travel romance. And next up, a day bus journey.
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