All of us wishfor a life that is idyllic and devoid of urban hustle bustle
ONCE in a while, when I feel the world is too occupied in itself, I sneak out and liberate myself. Momentarily. I go early morning to see the railway station soaked in cold and mellow sunshine with very little to pollute its essence. When you want to discover the truth about people or places, catch them at ‘the first ray of sunshine’, when they are yet to put the mask of disguise on and when they are without weariness that a day’s passing invariably deposits on the mind and appearance. Yes, it applies to places too. As the darkness of night gives way to light, these places wake up gradually, brimming with freshness. You can almost hear a whispering song hummed by these inanimate objects, both natural and those carved from concrete, feigning unawareness about the human marauders who overrun pristine ambience with unwitting regularity.
There are places and things in life that keep you enthralled all your life, more than anything else, at times without any explanation. These are fascinations that become familiar to you very early in your life and stay without you as you journey your way in life, stumbling and groping away in different directions. Their effect dims at times to a level where you almost lose them in the recesses of your mind, but they state a strong resurgence, especially when you are fatigued by the circus of life made even more unsavoury by inspired jokers on stage.
My connection with railway stations goes back, I do not know till when, maybe to the womb or maybe even before that. I only remember that I like being there from the beginning of my life. There are a number of aspects from which to view a railway station. The platforms present a contrasting picture. Some are deserted, standing out for lack of urgency, uncomfortable with their loneliness, while the other across the line bustle with activity due to the impending arrival of trains. It is like different phases of moon visibility cycle seen from earth; one platform lit up with activity, getting all the attention and all feet marching towards the bridge leading to that platform. The other ceases to exist for people as if darkness has fallen and made it invisible. It is this neglect that gives a railway station its human face. Somebody ignored to the point where it doubts its own existence just because it is not useful.
All things that have the capacity to bring excitement are agreeable sights to our eyes, even though they themselves may not be the desired objects. It is no different with trains. We like their appearance because they bring back those who matter in our lives. Aeroplanes never compare well with trains in this excitement. Maybe it is the proximity of the platform and train, the lack of regulations on the railway station and opportunity to spot our loved one while train is yet to halt, that makes the experience far more sweeter than the one at the airport. Even the porters have shine in their eyes because every arrival brings business.
For me, those forlorn platforms on the far side hold great interest. They seldom come into use in a big way and are always discernible because of the absence of people and porters. They lay there without being oblivious to the hectic activity in the neighbourhood, perhaps brooding and longing to host the party someday that takes place on arrival of trains. Or perhaps they are content to be sparingly used as everyday carnivals lose their spirit of bliss. It is pure luck if you find yourself there on the day when they are to host a train. You can feel the festivity run through you. It is like people coming to picnic in a forest. There are no platform kiosks here, but the hawkers from across entrench themselves in the right corners. You feel happy for the platform. Once in a while, one needs to be made to feel important enough, even those who are forgotten by the world.
The arrival of the train is one major even, but even more important period is encapsulated in the frenzy that precedes the arrival. The platform starts to fill in, pretty fast. A buzz starts to fly around. The whole place becomes alive. Anticipation and expectation become one and sweep across the length of the platform. People use multiple methods to steal a glance of something that has been their single most obsession in life for the past hour or so, if not more.
And when you board the train for your own journey, it is a feeling also worth savouring. Going without your family is always unpleasant, but when you are on a trip with family, exhilaration is difficult to keep beneath the skin. Train travel itself is enchanting and if that is accompanied with the knowledge that you will also return through the same mode of travel, the delight is doubled. At times, travelling itself becomes the enticement; landscapes of fields and platforms are a sufficient reasons to book a seat.
It is so different when you are a traveller yourself. Every city’s image in your mind is crystallized through the station you see and the wandering crowd that mills about and the stalls that sell their merchandize. Except at night when stopping or even slowing down of train breeds frustration, daytime stops always open a window for travellers to observe a condensed form of town that they might never visit. All those platforms are sacred to me because everywhere a different set of people visit them for their share of excitement.
I have great admiration for railway staff that are directly related to operations and whose offices are right on the platform. Even the building, which houses equipment for changing tracks is a place of great reverence for me. My view of the perfect life would be to live in a small town that might not have the best infrastructure but must have an idyllic railway station closer to the fields. It should have one overhead bridge, clean platforms and at most three arrivals a day. And everyday, on my way home, I should take a detour, pay my regards to it, stand there on the bridge, feel the air of the railway station and do nothing. If you feel that there is no logical explanation why I find this so fanciful, note my warning in the beginning. Core enchantments perhaps can never be traced to anything. They were there before you existed, waiting for your arrival.
ONCE in a while, when I feel the world is too occupied in itself, I sneak out and liberate myself. Momentarily. I go early morning to see the railway station soaked in cold and mellow sunshine with very little to pollute its essence. When you want to discover the truth about people or places, catch them at ‘the first ray of sunshine’, when they are yet to put the mask of disguise on and when they are without weariness that a day’s passing invariably deposits on the mind and appearance. Yes, it applies to places too. As the darkness of night gives way to light, these places wake up gradually, brimming with freshness. You can almost hear a whispering song hummed by these inanimate objects, both natural and those carved from concrete, feigning unawareness about the human marauders who overrun pristine ambience with unwitting regularity.
