A Night On The Punjab Mail
An hour before my train is due to depart I pay my hotel bill, cross the road and buy a bottle of water and some Wills Classics from one of the street hawkers, then take a cycle-rickshaw that will take me to Lucknow station . I find my name posted on the noticeboard on platform 1: coach S1, compartment C, Upper Berth; the carriage is marshalled 3 back from the engine - perfect. Unlike Allahbad, the platform is clearly displayed, and there are constant " For your kind attention...." announcements over the tannoy. Train 3006 - The Amritsar-Howrah Punjab Mail - is running 30 minutes late; it has already travelled 700 kms through the dense passenger and freight traffic of the Northern Railways coalfields area, and I'm surprised is not later than it is. I buy a bottle of water and drink a chai while I wait. The Punjab Mail pulls into the station behind a single blue and silver WDM; with a 24 coach train of 1,200 tons it is at the very limit of it's haulage capacity: an express train of this weight would normally have a pair of diesels at the front, and the WDM will need every bit of it's 3,300 horsepower to get it up to any speed.
The carriage attendant is waiting at the door of S1 with the reservation list; he checks-off my name and walks me along the corridor to compartment C. It is a 2-berth Coupe in the first class section of the carriage; there are only two other 4-berth compartments in this section - the rest of the coach - separated by a door - is 2-berth air-conditioned sleeper class. The coupe is spacious and comfortable; it has a vanity mirror on the wall, a table for each passenger, and a small wardrobe. As I stow my bag under the table, my travelling companion arrives with a cooli carrying his luggage; he is an elderly Indian gentleman; he is very quiet and well-mannered; and thankfully seems not to want any conversation. As the train pulls out of Lucknow, we take our seats on the lower berth - he reading the paper in the corner near the corridor, while I sit in the window with my notebook on the table. The back of the lower berth will be folded down to make a bed after 9pm; until this time I have use of it as a seating area, after which time I may only use my upper berth.
The door slides open; the pantry car boy asks if I would like lunch. I order the vegetarian meal, which arrives as we reach the outskirts of the city: Aloo Zeera, Dal, rice, 4 chapatis and some lime chutney. It has been cooked at Lucknow station, and picked-up by the Mail's pantry car staff; it is extremely inexpensive and surprisingly good.
I walk down to the end vestibule, open the door and smoke a Wills Classic sitting on the step with my feet resting on the steps outside. The carriage attendant appears behind me.
"You must hold on with door open", he says with an edge of panic in his voice. He points to a Hindi/English sign on the wall outside the toilet compartment - 'Footboard riding is dangerous and should not be encouraged'. If a Westerner fell from the open door of his first class coach, he would be in serious trouble. He folds down the little jumpseat outside his cupboard-sized Train Attendant's compartment, and asks me to: "please sit down". I apologise, sit down in his seat, and tell him that I will not fall out of the train, and will be very careful.
The line across Uddar Pradesh is level and straight. The WDM rattles along at a steady 60mph, it's smoke and noise filling the open vestibule. We stop at several small stations to allow other passenger trains to pass, and while we wait I climb down onto the platform and walk up to the locomotive. The WDM, with its ALCO 251 engine, has a strange, rumbling tick-over; it sounds like some huge, deep-chested animal snoring with slow breaths: chug-chug-chug-CHUG-chug-chug. The design dates back to the 1960s, long before electronic fuel management systems appeared; the WDM uses a mechanical governor to regulate the flow of diesel to the engine - and this is what gives it the uneven tickover. I walk back to my coach, and stand in the open doorway on the far side. Passengers from the crowded unreserved coaches have climbed down onto the tracks to smoke, wait and relieve themselves. Suddenly there is a shout and someone points to a dot that has appeared on the horizon. There is a mad scramble to get back on the train, even though our WDM hasn't blasted it's horns to signal departure. Within a few seconds the dot has turned into a Jumbo - a strange hybrid, part WDM, part full-cabbed passenger locomotive - rocketing towards us at 70mph with an express in tow. It passes in a storm of noise and exhaust fumes, airhorns locked on full; it is an awesome sight, but not one you would want to witness at track-level.
We get a clear signal and move off. I lean from the door and listen to the blatting exhaust note of the WDM. They really are quirky machines: they tick-over at 300rpm - barely turning - and reach maximum power at just 1000rpm - hardly more than a car's petrol engine at idle. The ALCO engine uses sheer brute force rather than speed to turn the generator that drives the electric traction motors; the huge pistons slug away like a heavyweight boxer, each blow accompanied by a massive blat from the exhaust. Then there's the lurch effect produced by the electro-mechanical relays switching. The WDM will accelerate to 30mph using the first relay - something like the dimmer-switch on your living-room light, limiting the amount of current to the traction motors to prevent the wheels simply spinning - before it changes over to the second relay and produces full power. These relays take a several seconds to switch over -they're linked to the power-handle, so this happens automatically as it is pulled wide-open - and train starts to slow down while the engine drops back to idle. Then the second relay kicks in, putting full load back onto the ALCO engine, and the speed suddenly picks-up again. This lurch is what produces the thick clouds of black exhaust fumes, too - something the WDMs are noted for.
I chat to the Train Attendant about his job while he shows me the little room in the vestibule where he sleeps, taking turns with the Train Conductor. It is 4 feet wide and 6 feet long; there is a metal locker against the wall and a thin mattress covered with a sheet takes up the entire floorspace. There is no window. The train left Howrah five days ago - as number 3005 - scheduled to depart at 7pm on it's 2000km trek to Amritsar. After a lay-over of eight hours it then started the return leg as train number 3006 - The Punjab Mail. The Attendant will have been on the train for 6 days - including delays - before he gets home to Kolkata for his one day off - living in his small compartment, eating, sleeping and working on the move. I ask him if he likes his work; he smiles and says:"It's my job."
The pantry car boy comes around as we reach Rae Bareli and I ask for a vegetarian dinner; the food orders will be passed to Rea Bareli who will call them through to the next providing station; the meals are prepared at Varanasi and loaded into the pantry car during the 7.30pm stop. I eat my Dal and rice as the train crawls across the Ganges bridge, then sit in the vestibule jumpseat with the door open and smoke. It is pitch dark outside, just the flicker of the odd cooking fire penetrating the gloom.
I go back to the coupe and find that the Train Attendant has made up the bunks. The old gentleman is sleeping, so I turn off the overhead lights, quietly climb up to my bunk, and open my book under the glow of the reading light.
The trains swaying, rolling motion is more pronounced up in my berth; the WDMs airhorns and exhaust clearly audible above the track-noise inside the closed compartment.
I cannot sleep. I slip out of the compartment and walk down to the vestibule; the Attendant is fast asleep in his tiny cell. I open the door, sit on the step with my Wills Classics, and footboard ride into the early hours. Exhausted, I lie on my bunk and eventually fall into a parody of sleep.
The carriage attendant is waiting at the door of S1 with the reservation list; he checks-off my name and walks me along the corridor to compartment C. It is a 2-berth Coupe in the first class section of the carriage; there are only two other 4-berth compartments in this section - the rest of the coach - separated by a door - is 2-berth air-conditioned sleeper class. The coupe is spacious and comfortable; it has a vanity mirror on the wall, a table for each passenger, and a small wardrobe. As I stow my bag under the table, my travelling companion arrives with a cooli carrying his luggage; he is an elderly Indian gentleman; he is very quiet and well-mannered; and thankfully seems not to want any conversation. As the train pulls out of Lucknow, we take our seats on the lower berth - he reading the paper in the corner near the corridor, while I sit in the window with my notebook on the table. The back of the lower berth will be folded down to make a bed after 9pm; until this time I have use of it as a seating area, after which time I may only use my upper berth.
The door slides open; the pantry car boy asks if I would like lunch. I order the vegetarian meal, which arrives as we reach the outskirts of the city: Aloo Zeera, Dal, rice, 4 chapatis and some lime chutney. It has been cooked at Lucknow station, and picked-up by the Mail's pantry car staff; it is extremely inexpensive and surprisingly good.
I walk down to the end vestibule, open the door and smoke a Wills Classic sitting on the step with my feet resting on the steps outside. The carriage attendant appears behind me.
"You must hold on with door open", he says with an edge of panic in his voice. He points to a Hindi/English sign on the wall outside the toilet compartment - 'Footboard riding is dangerous and should not be encouraged'. If a Westerner fell from the open door of his first class coach, he would be in serious trouble. He folds down the little jumpseat outside his cupboard-sized Train Attendant's compartment, and asks me to: "please sit down". I apologise, sit down in his seat, and tell him that I will not fall out of the train, and will be very careful.
The line across Uddar Pradesh is level and straight. The WDM rattles along at a steady 60mph, it's smoke and noise filling the open vestibule. We stop at several small stations to allow other passenger trains to pass, and while we wait I climb down onto the platform and walk up to the locomotive. The WDM, with its ALCO 251 engine, has a strange, rumbling tick-over; it sounds like some huge, deep-chested animal snoring with slow breaths: chug-chug-chug-CHUG-chug-chug. The design dates back to the 1960s, long before electronic fuel management systems appeared; the WDM uses a mechanical governor to regulate the flow of diesel to the engine - and this is what gives it the uneven tickover. I walk back to my coach, and stand in the open doorway on the far side. Passengers from the crowded unreserved coaches have climbed down onto the tracks to smoke, wait and relieve themselves. Suddenly there is a shout and someone points to a dot that has appeared on the horizon. There is a mad scramble to get back on the train, even though our WDM hasn't blasted it's horns to signal departure. Within a few seconds the dot has turned into a Jumbo - a strange hybrid, part WDM, part full-cabbed passenger locomotive - rocketing towards us at 70mph with an express in tow. It passes in a storm of noise and exhaust fumes, airhorns locked on full; it is an awesome sight, but not one you would want to witness at track-level.
We get a clear signal and move off. I lean from the door and listen to the blatting exhaust note of the WDM. They really are quirky machines: they tick-over at 300rpm - barely turning - and reach maximum power at just 1000rpm - hardly more than a car's petrol engine at idle. The ALCO engine uses sheer brute force rather than speed to turn the generator that drives the electric traction motors; the huge pistons slug away like a heavyweight boxer, each blow accompanied by a massive blat from the exhaust. Then there's the lurch effect produced by the electro-mechanical relays switching. The WDM will accelerate to 30mph using the first relay - something like the dimmer-switch on your living-room light, limiting the amount of current to the traction motors to prevent the wheels simply spinning - before it changes over to the second relay and produces full power. These relays take a several seconds to switch over -they're linked to the power-handle, so this happens automatically as it is pulled wide-open - and train starts to slow down while the engine drops back to idle. Then the second relay kicks in, putting full load back onto the ALCO engine, and the speed suddenly picks-up again. This lurch is what produces the thick clouds of black exhaust fumes, too - something the WDMs are noted for.
I chat to the Train Attendant about his job while he shows me the little room in the vestibule where he sleeps, taking turns with the Train Conductor. It is 4 feet wide and 6 feet long; there is a metal locker against the wall and a thin mattress covered with a sheet takes up the entire floorspace. There is no window. The train left Howrah five days ago - as number 3005 - scheduled to depart at 7pm on it's 2000km trek to Amritsar. After a lay-over of eight hours it then started the return leg as train number 3006 - The Punjab Mail. The Attendant will have been on the train for 6 days - including delays - before he gets home to Kolkata for his one day off - living in his small compartment, eating, sleeping and working on the move. I ask him if he likes his work; he smiles and says:"It's my job."
The pantry car boy comes around as we reach Rae Bareli and I ask for a vegetarian dinner; the food orders will be passed to Rea Bareli who will call them through to the next providing station; the meals are prepared at Varanasi and loaded into the pantry car during the 7.30pm stop. I eat my Dal and rice as the train crawls across the Ganges bridge, then sit in the vestibule jumpseat with the door open and smoke. It is pitch dark outside, just the flicker of the odd cooking fire penetrating the gloom.
I go back to the coupe and find that the Train Attendant has made up the bunks. The old gentleman is sleeping, so I turn off the overhead lights, quietly climb up to my bunk, and open my book under the glow of the reading light.
The trains swaying, rolling motion is more pronounced up in my berth; the WDMs airhorns and exhaust clearly audible above the track-noise inside the closed compartment.
I cannot sleep. I slip out of the compartment and walk down to the vestibule; the Attendant is fast asleep in his tiny cell. I open the door, sit on the step with my Wills Classics, and footboard ride into the early hours. Exhausted, I lie on my bunk and eventually fall into a parody of sleep.
I wake at 5.00 to a tickling on my left forearm; I flick the cockroach off and watch in dismay as it ricochets off the wardrobe door and lands in one of the highly polished black shoes the Indian gentleman has partially tucked under his lower berth.
At 5.30am we reach Asansol; there is a local passenger train waiting alongside the Mail, one of the carriage doors perfectly lined up opposite mine. The train is empty. I climb over and look inside: bare metal floor covered in spit, bits of stale food, drifts of rubbish in the corners; pale yellow paint flaking off the walls; barred open windows; it is filthy and has no toilet other than the floor and the tracks outside at station stops. The smell of decay and human excreta snags in the back of my throat. The carriage is identical to the two unreserved coaches infront of mine, except that they are packed full of people. Last night - from the comfort of my first class air-conditioned coach - I watched a young man jump onto the footboards as the train pulled out of a station; there was so many people in the coach that they were spilling out of the open doors. The young man was clinging to the side of the train, balanced on tiptoes, only able to hold on with his left hand; I timed the next stop at 23 minutes - covered at speeds of between 40 and 60mph. I hope he made it.
The Mail reaches Howrah - one of Kolkata's two main stations - at 10.45am, more than three hours late. I am bleary-eyed, lank-haired and unshaven. I have spent 22 hours on the Mail and travelled 1000kms across Uddar Pradesh, Bihar and West Bengal. I thank the Train Attendant and Conductor and walk down the platform in the hot sunshine. They will be on another gruelling 6 day haul to Amritsar the day after tomorrow; I will be exploring their home city.
At 5.30am we reach Asansol; there is a local passenger train waiting alongside the Mail, one of the carriage doors perfectly lined up opposite mine. The train is empty. I climb over and look inside: bare metal floor covered in spit, bits of stale food, drifts of rubbish in the corners; pale yellow paint flaking off the walls; barred open windows; it is filthy and has no toilet other than the floor and the tracks outside at station stops. The smell of decay and human excreta snags in the back of my throat. The carriage is identical to the two unreserved coaches infront of mine, except that they are packed full of people. Last night - from the comfort of my first class air-conditioned coach - I watched a young man jump onto the footboards as the train pulled out of a station; there was so many people in the coach that they were spilling out of the open doors. The young man was clinging to the side of the train, balanced on tiptoes, only able to hold on with his left hand; I timed the next stop at 23 minutes - covered at speeds of between 40 and 60mph. I hope he made it.
The Mail reaches Howrah - one of Kolkata's two main stations - at 10.45am, more than three hours late. I am bleary-eyed, lank-haired and unshaven. I have spent 22 hours on the Mail and travelled 1000kms across Uddar Pradesh, Bihar and West Bengal. I thank the Train Attendant and Conductor and walk down the platform in the hot sunshine. They will be on another gruelling 6 day haul to Amritsar the day after tomorrow; I will be exploring their home city.
posted by Paul O'Halloran at 9:13 PM
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