During most of the past 10 years of our married life, Nikhil and I have been posted in different places. It started with one of us posted in the eastern corner of India, while the other, in the west.
Many of my regular journeys have been to meet him, to visit what we called ‘our home’.
The journey to the ‘home’ always was so very happy and the return was the saddest thing ever. It tore and broke us each time, again and again.
Initially we met usually once in three-four months. The rhythmic Howrah-Ahmedabad express would take me to Baroda, chugging through the dark forests of Midnapur, the picturesque Odisha landscapes, the green Chattisgarh and Madhya Pradesh, the fertile Maharashtra, enter South Gujarat and then halt at Baroda, after two days. I would spend the days usually chatting with the co travelers and answering questions like why we have to stay apart from each other, what’s so much about my job. During the nights I would breathe in the crisp air, marvel at the telegraph lines passing fast like lightning and enjoy the shadows and lights played by the mighty engine. I have always been intrigued by the moon and to watch its image on a river we passed by, was an out of the world experience. It would fill my heart with yearning and joy, all of it, together.
At times I would visit Nikhil after finishing my tour at Anand. He lived only 4 hrs away from Anand so I would often board an evening train to my destination and haven.
I remember boarding the Rajkot-Jabalpur train and following part of the ‘Burning train’ route, the opposite side, of course. Baroda-Godhra-Dahod. Seated usually at the lower berth at the aisle, I would nearly stick my head out of the window. I felt an unknown thrill seeing the poles rushing past in the vigil of the night, seeing the green signal from far, and the superfast train crossing the signals, one after the other, with a speed that matched my thrill. As if the green signals were all collaborating to send me to my destination, to the person waiting at the other end of the journey. The superfast in super speed would take me in no time to Dahod, the place where my heart belonged.
My posting at Shajapur at MP brought me closer to home. The small station of the little town of Shajapur was a beautiful and poetic place all together, like one of those we read in novels. I would get my reservation, manually, from the person who was the station master-cum-signal man-cum everything at the station. The one-manned station was a lovely neat and clean one and once in a while when a train would arrive, the dust near the railway trucks would rise from their sleep. The train could be seen from a distance, in a meandering railway track and slowly the mammoth giant would halt at the sleepy station. During morning hours, the first sleepy eyes would begin to emerge with the arrival of the Sabarmati Express, one of the very few express trains to cross this station and vendors would, for a while get busy with their samosas and water ‘pouches’.
I would, most of the time, board the Sabarmati on Saturdays. The train, scheduled at around two in the afternoon would usually arrive at midnight. My residence was so close to the station that I would leave home, only at the whistling sound of the friendly giant, broadcasting its gracious arrival, ready to take me home.
The Sabarmati used to be unusually crowded, most of the time. Nonetheless, my mood used to be unusually great during my homeward journeys too. So I would, often share my berth with ladies travelling with wait listed tickets and most of the time, accommodate kids in my berth too.
At times I also had to travel in the general coach, when no reservations were available. And I must say I enjoyed them. As I said, my mood would be great during those journeys so I would often strike a good rapport with the co passengers. For the UP crowd, usually making their way to Ahmedabad, in search of fortune and a better life, a lady, travelling alone with an office bag, married but with no visible signs of marriage like the sindoor, bichia and bangles, was something they were not familiar with. But during the journey, the rapport would build soon and I would no more remain a stranger to them.
Once a crowd belonging to Bhil community boarded the train and spread throughout the compartment, seating themselves at the passageway. Each of them was blissfully asleep. As Meghnagar approached, I was anxious, on their behalf, that they may not wake up in time to alight from the train. Of course it was only my guess, from my travelling experience that they would alight at Meghnagar. As the train stopped, I woke one of them saying, “Ben, Meghnagar aa gaya..” She shouted at me, making me guilty of spoiling her sleep and went back to her dreamland again.
From Ujjain, my next posting, I would take the ‘Jab We Met’ route to Dahod, opposite side, again. Ujjain-Nagda-Ratlam-Barnagar-Meghnagar-Dahod. Crossing the benevolent Khsipra in the early evening, I would reach Dahod when moon would rise in the sky and the world would sleep in darkness. Once the train would leave the Meghnagar station, my heartbeat would increase and without any consideration for the little soul that I was, beat like drum, announcing my arrival at Dahod….every week. As the first lights of Dahod would become visible, I would move two-three berths ahead, towards the door and as it would enter Dahod with élan and move parallel to the road, for a while before reaching the platform, I could almost imagine (and sometimes actually see) Nikhil reaching the station in the bike.
The return journeys were always painful. I would hate the Dahod-Ujjain route and love the Ujjain-Dahod travel although jo raste Ujjain se Dahod aate hain, wohee raste Dahod se bhi Ujajin jaatein hain. But then during return, the route was never pally with me and was witness to my pain.
Life remained a journey and a return journey for quite some time until we were posted at the same place. I am sure Nikhil has his own stories to share about his travel to my place of posting. Hope to hear his side soon….
May the journey of life be pleasant for all…
