IN PRAISE OF TRAIN TRAVEL

Praachi Raniwala on taking joy in the slowness of train travel for issue 7 of The Sunday Paper.

Confession: I haven’t been on a long-haul train journey for close to a decade now. Somewhere between the red-eyes and the fastest route(s) available, I became a co-conspirator to a culture that thrives on instant gratification, missing out on the pleasures of slow travel in the process.

But it wasn’t always so. My childhood memories, in fact, are laced with train travel, particularly annual trips from my hometown of Aurangabad to my nani’s (maternal grandmother) home in New Delhi. The 22-hour sojourn was a summer ritual we had down-pat. The food my mother packed was always my favourite—fluffy pooris with spiced potato and okra that I was guilty of having one too many of. The flow of snacks never slowed down, as at every station, we eagerly awaited vendors with their city’s specialities, feeling much like Harry and gang spending all their galleons on the Honeydukes Express Cart aboard the Hogwarts Express. And then there were those implied competitions with my little brother — like who would be the first to spot that odd thumb-shaped mountain we always passed or guess how long the tunnel would last. It was also on these journeys that I made some of my best friends — a motley crew of Betty, Veronica and the Wakefield sisters — and was privy to the adventures of the accidental detective Chacha Chaudhary.

Travelling for weddings — with the extended family, cousins and domestic help in tow — was a crash course on the big fat Indian family. Our maharajs (cooks) would take over the pantry to dish out piping hot snacks, and the elders would take over whole compartments for their poker marathons, while the younger lot contented themselves with antakshari, charades and rookie card games, some amicable, some that ended in tears. Not to forget those school field trips where 36 hours on the train were enough to build friendships, spark romances and form inside jokes that have us in hysterics to this day.

As the self-isolated me reminisces from the comfort of my bed, it takes me back to a simpler time. Maybe the younger me was really on to something? That sipping on diabetic-sweet filter coffee as you aimlessly stare out the window doesn’t mean you’re letting life pass you by. And so what if the scenic route is the longer one? Time is always on our side.

It has me nostalgic for when food was about familiarity, not Instagram credibility, when zero signal bars on the phone did not provoke panic, and when sitting still and doing nothing was everything. When we were just along for the ride; with all its delays and detours, delights and discoveries; because we had nowhere to go but everywhere.

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