I watched a reel during my usual post-dinner scroll today. A girl’s friend – one she had known for over 10 years – came to meet her at the railway station for two minutes. In the reel, we see the train roll into New Jalpaiguri station. The two friends meet, take a picture, and the train rolls away. One friend on the train, another walking away from the platform.
I love the Indian rail experience. The chaos at the railway station, the dramatic announcements, the 3AC coaches where someone is always encroaching upon your seat, the familiar and unfamiliar cities you encounter as you make your way through the country. Nothing invokes nostalgia in me the way a Shram Shakti Express does.
In 2021, I had to travel to Dehradun for an interview. Naturally, the thing I looked forward to the most was the train ride. I promptly booked myself a chair car ticket on the Dehradun Shatabdi. Noticing that it would halt at Haridwar for three minutes, I asked my maama (who lived there) to come and say hi.
The day of the journey came. I boarded the train. And, as demanded, my maama was at the railway station 10 minutes before my arrival. He wasn’t alone, though. With him came a massive food packet. My maami had decided that no child of hers was going to eat IRCTC food. She had packed aloo parathe (four!), achaar, dahi, fruits and a little chocolate for me to carry on my journey. I had no appetite, but as the engine whistled, maama forced the packet into my hands. The train snaked out of Haridwar and I bid him farewell.
That was the last time I saw him. I left India the year after and my maama passed away in 2025. The reel today reminded me of him. The man who rode 170 kilometres on a scooter the day I was born. Who ensured that the first morning of my summer holidays began with crispy khasta and hot jalebis. Who stood at the platform on Haridwar Junction and waved until I was out of sight.