It started innocently enough – as all disasters do.
My bitter half, Emmar, wanted to attend a reunion of her classmates because it was fifty years since she and her classmates had left the Elleyess School. I did not object; after all I had first met her, as also several of her classmates, at about the same time – when we all joined the University of Delhi in 1966.
“How many girls would be coming?” I asked excitedly. “Is it over lunch or dinner?” And more to the point, I asked, “Will there be beer?”
“No, it is neither lunch nor dinner. We all are going to Dagshai for a week and live in a B&B kind of place. Dagshai has special memories for us because we used to go there from school for a study camp in the summer vacations.”
I groaned. A B&B? In Dagshai – that small village on the way to Shimla? With a bevy of girls and their husbands? For a whole week! I am a devoted husband but this would clearly require devotion beyond the call of duty. And I told Emmar as much. (Yes, I call her Emmar. Emmar she was in college, and Emmar she remains, notwithstanding the fact that we have been married for more than forty years.)
“Don’t worry,” she said. “There will only be five of us and you already know Aaryem and Idee. They were both in our class in B.Sc. Over the years I have talked enough about Kayjay and Ayeyes, so you as good as know both of them. Ayeyes is the only one whose husband would be there. Don’t worry, you will like him.”
And so to Dagshai. A scenic B&B. Nice cool weather, instead of a blistering May in Delhi. Sitting for hours in the mild Sun. The girls reminiscing endlessly about never heard of people, girls and teachers and such. Droning voices. A single buzzing fly. A gentle breeze soughing through the juniper branches. Soporific.
Oh so boring!
Till suddenly one of the girls suggested that they should take a ride in the ‘toy’ train! Someone suggested “We could go all the way to Shimla and return before nightfall by taxi.” Another said, “I so want to see the small steam engines.” Yet another said, “Those steam engines are history. They have diesel engines now.” Someone gushed, “Oh but the romance! The serene ride through pristine jungles! The sharp smell of pine!”
Thus did I get roped in for the expedition to see the narrow gauge train and, God willing, take a ride to Shimla. It appeared to be a totally harmless pursuit on the face of it. After all, what could go wrong in proceeding to the railway station, having a dekko at the UNESCO world heritage railway and returning to the safe confines of Dagshai?
But full marks to Ayeyes and her husband for opting out straight away! How could they have divined that the expedition was an ill-starred one?
The girls hired a cab to take us to the nearest railway station, Kumarhatti-Dagshai, on the Kalka-Shimla route. The cocky taxi driver looked at the four girls and their dainty footwear. Then he looked at my portly frame – almost a quintal by weight.
“I think you should catch the train from Dharampur. The Kumarhatti railway station can be approached only by going down more than five hundred steps from the road.” He did not need to add that we would probably die on the way.
“But why have they made the station so far away from the road?” I wailed.
“Maybe they wanted to have it close to the railway line?” hazarded the taxi driver, facetiously. Oh, I could have killed him!
The ride to Dharampur was uneventful. We alighted on the main road and walked down a gentle slope to the quaint railway station. The station building was a colonial structure with a long verandah. A majestic Silver Oak, a good hundred feet tall, towered over the station building and the curving railway track which disappeared in a tunnel.
Incongruously, the fact that the Kalka- Shimla Railway had been recognized as an UNESCO Heritage Site was recorded on an ugly looking granite slab. A bronze plaque might have better matched the wrought iron benches in the century-old verandah.
We plonked down on the benches to wait.
Soon the ticket window opened. The solid iron bars resembled some medieval portcullis and the sleepy station master had all the airs of the master of the castle. Kayjay was quick off the mark and asked for five tickets by the chair car to Shimla.
The station master stared as if he had seen some apparition. He looked at Kayjay and then at Aaryem, Emmar and Idee – in that order. He took in their fashionable clothes, their casual hairstyles and general air of genteel upbringing. Then he looked again. I pretended that I was not with them but had strayed there while sleep walking.
“Hullo hullo madam,” said the station master, “You can buy tickets for the chair car only in the Himalayan Queen train which passes in the morning. Between now and the evening, there are only two motor vans, that is trains of two bogies each. Both dabbas are unreserved and I doubt if you or your friends would even be able to board the train.”
Kayjay insisted that she needed five tickets to Shimla. “I tell you what,” said the station master reasonably, “Why don’t you buy tickets up to Solan? If you are able to get onto the train, and you really want to continue to Shimla, you could get your tickets extended there. But if you are not able to board the train, I shan’t be able to give you a refund.”
Thus did Kayjay buy five tickets to Solan, each for the princely sum of Rupees ten, non-refundable in the event of failure to board the train.
We then waited. And waited a bit more. We were told that the train was about to come, but none came. It was getting close to the lunch hour and I did not want to miss my pre-prandial.
“So we have seen the station and we have seen the UNESCO plaque and we have seen this magnificent Silver Oak. Now let’s go home,” I said. Sullenly.
“But we haven’t seen the train’” said Emmar.
“You are such a spoil sport” said Idee.
“But we have bought the tickets!” said Aaryem.
So we waited. Half an hour later, an ancient gang-man emerged from the ancient building and banged loudly on a yard long piece of rail suspended from the rafters of the verandah. The ‘ghanti’ was loud enough to wake the dead. A family of ten emerged from somewhere and positioned themselves at two vantage points on the platform.
With a huffing and puffing the ‘train’ soon came into view, pulled by a small diesel engine. Since the engine was positioned backwards, it could not be called the most impressive, or even the most dignified, entry. The train comprised two small passenger coaches and one flat bed carriage, the kind that you would expect Malaika Arora to do ‘chhaiyan chhaiyan’ on. Except that this held two large PVC tanks of water. The two bogies seemed to be packed with sardines. There were some people sitting even in the water tender, although it had no steps for boarding.
The girls and I approached bogie number one, but the door and steps were packed with many passengers miraculously clinging on. A veritable advertisement for ‘Fevicol’! The entry of bogie number two was blocked by four uncouth youngsters sitting on the floor of the carriage, legs dangling outside. There was some empty space visible behind them, so I asked them to move aside so that we could board. They refused to budge. Instead, one of them said something rather rude.
Kayjay was highly amused when I upbraided him. For some reason she found it funny that I said “Dekhiyae aap nihayat hi badtameezi se pesh aa rahe hain”. Fortunately, she did not hear what I said to him next.
I asked “Aap ko ghar par kya pyara baccha kehtae hai?” I elaborated – “Woh Jo angrezi mein ‘love child’ bolte hain?”
Meanwhile, Aaryem managed to scramble on to the water tender and her efforts were loudly commended by the family of ten, who by then had perched on the water tanks. One of the youngsters started clapping and another whistled loudly. The loud cheering and heated exchanges were enough commotion for the station master to emerge from his fortress. He took in the scene of the overcrowded train and the city slickers in one glance.
“No refunds!” he said in an ‘I told you say’ manner. And then he suggested that instead of boarding from the platform side, we should zip around the train and climb up from the other side. Very clever, we thought.
Someone called out to Aaryem so that we could all travel in the same coach. She joined us as we ran to the other side of the tracks. Unfortunately, the ‘off side’ of the train was quite high from the ground. Further, one of the planks that served for steps was broken and Kayjay had a lot of difficulty in clambering aboard. Idee could not step so high and got stuck on the first stair. Till she climbed up, none of the others could board the train.
And all this while the station master was madly blowing his whistle and waving the green flag. Those inside the ‘dabba’ were highly amused, seldom having seen four fashionably dressed ladies throwing common sense to the winds. The engine driver, who seemed as uncouth a fellow as the lotharios blocking the door, was hanging out of the drivers cabin, quite enjoying the sight of four young ladies trying to scramble on.
But Idee was still not able to climb the steps. And Kayjay was already in the coach! Panic!
I asked “May I?” and then proceeded to grab Idee’s waist and lift her high enough so that she could step into the coach.
Had I had the temerity to grab her in that fashion fifty years back, I would have definitely got a resounding slap from her. And if she had not slapped me, Emmar would definitely have. It just proves that we all mellow with age!
Once we were all inside the coach, things began to settle down. There was initially no place to even stand but by wriggling and shoving and being pushed, I was able to get enough space to plant both feet on the floor. Idee managed to convince a newly married couple to shift closer to each other so that she could share their seat. Having thus been given license to be squeezed together, the husband beamed. And the bride blushed red! The sparkle in Idee’s eyes betrayed how much she was enjoying the situation.
Two matrons grudgingly made space for Kayjay. There were five sullen passengers on another three-seater bench. At the very edge sat a youngish woman, with a man of about her age sitting in her lap. The man was obviously mentally challenged. Emmar got into a rather complicated discussion with the woman and learnt that the man was her husband and that she was taking him to the hospital in Shimla.
Emmar has this peculiar impact on complete strangers – she manages to find some common ground and she empathizes in a totally genuine manner. She seemed to have some such effect on that woman; possibly the shared misfortune of having to live with a difficult husband. So the woman told her husband to get off her lap and invited Emmar to sit. In her lap!
Aaryem had to keep standing, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Meanwhile, I remained fully engaged in glaring at three uncouth youngsters, who were apparently passing clever comments on the girls. I was also concerned about two urchins who alternately hung out of the open door of the bogie and clapped, whistled and jumped around, within bag-snatching distance of Emmar.
As we realized, the overcrowded train was full of people going about their daily business of eking out a living. None of them were travelling for the fun of it; but because the ride was cheaper than a bus or because the train ran closer to the place they wanted to reach. None of them were interested in the scenery.
The view outside the window was indeed charming; but the coach was so jam-packed that I could catch a glimpse only if I bent low and looked under the armpit of a tall villager standing next to me. I could hardly smell any pine; but the armpit, the clouds of diesel smoke and the unmistakable smell of urea were overpowering.
Seeing the pained look on Aaryem and Kayjay, I shouted above the heads of several passengers. “Should we get off at Kumarhatti, the next station?” But Kayjay shook her head. “Five hundred steps!” she shouted back. Going up would be vastly more difficult than coming down would have been!
After a brief halt at Kumarhatti, the train passed through a long tunnel near Barog. I had to take the word of another passenger that it was the longest tunnel, because I could not look out of the window.
A long halt at Barog and then we arrived at Solan. We got off, resolved that we would not suffer the ignominy of another train journey and would take a taxi home. But topography defeated us again! Because the taxi stand was said to be about two hundred steps up a steep incline.
There was no time to decide our further strategy because just then there was a hustle and a bustle on account of a Kalka-bound train coming from Shimla. This train too was a two coach affair, pulled by a small diesel engine – but this time facing the right direction. Emmar quickly bought tickets for Dharampur and, like seasoned travelers; we all zipped to the off side to get on.
There were fewer sardines in this train and we were actually able to see snatches of the hillsides from the window. At Barog, Aaryem was able to get off the train to stretch her legs. In a spirit of defiance rather than good sense, she bought a plate of some vile stuff, which the vendor assured his customers were “Testee breadpakoras! Testee breadpakoras.” The oily pieces of bread were served with a dash of green paste on paper plates. Aaryem offered the pakoras all around and we could hardly refuse – partly because it was past lunch time and partly because they did look ‘testee’.
(I spent half that night clutching my belly. Whether it was because of the breadpakoras or the chutney or for some other reason, I don’t know. The next morning, I didn’t have the heart to accuse Aaryem of trying to poison me because it was clear from her appearance that her delicate American constitution had been subverted to a larger extent!)
Anyway, we returned to Dharampur with no greater discomfort or tragedy. A cup of tea in the market revived our spirits and we were soon back in the B&B. Which now seemed oh so welcoming!
Sitting around a sort of campfire that night, we dissected the day. We were happy we had seen the famed Kalka-Shimla railway. We all agreed that the diesel fumes were nauseating. We agreed that the men ogling the women were unpleasant. We also agreed it was an ill-conceived outing. But we all agreed it was fun! It was exhilarating! It was liberating! It was awesome!
And I for one never want to repeat the experience!
Emmar and the others used to learn Physics and Maths in the camps at Dagshai. I too learnt the new Maths during my Dagshai stay. The new Math is: One Elleyess School girl fifty years after passing out of school is equal to one grandmother. Two such girls are equal to teen-aged gossipers. Add one more of the same vintage and the sum is confusion. Add still another and the result is total chaos. QED.
After the Dagshai camp, I am much wiser. So if Emmar and her friends want to have a Diamond Jubilee or a Platinum Jubilee bash, they are welcome to have it.
By all means.
But it shall have to be without me!!
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(Unlike the other pieces, this one is based on events that really took place. Exactly as narrated!)