(continued from Part 1)
On the first day—a hot summer day—as the train left Bombay, we traversed the beautiful, browning hills of the Western ghats. Most of the second day, we chugged along arid, drought prone regions of Andhra Pradesh where we sometimes saw carcasses of farm animals lying on dry, bare fields; the drinking water from railway station taps didn’t taste as sweet as we were used to. By late afternoon, we left behind the sweltering weather and dull sceneries as we entered regions with a little vegetation and humongous, weathered boulders. These boulders came in a myriad of shapes and sizes, perched precariously over each other. They were an aesthete’s delight. For me, these trips became my informal initiation into the wonders of geography—landscapes, weather, people, language, food and attire.
I strained my head against the window grills to watch the train move over straight and winding tracks; along the plains and farms, over rivers, bridges and hills and inside long tunnels. Somewhere along the way, our train changed engines from diesel to coal and coated my face lightly with black soot. If my mother noticed it, she would pull me away from the window and take me to the wash basin. She’d wash my face with soap and dry it down with a hand towel. The elders were keen to chat with each other, play card games, entertain us, feed us, read newspapers and magazines, share the food they carried from home, sip regular cups of chaa-ye served on trains, and eat exotic fruits from mobile salespersons. By late evening, everyone had their fill of travel and were eager to get to their destinations. By 10 pm, the lights went out; everyone went to sleep early.