After six years I got an opportunity to visit Old Delhi Railway Station. As regards volume of traffic on its approach road, I suppose, there was no perceptible change, contrary to the claims made by the civic and the Railway authorities. The old fashioned animal pulled carts still compete for space with the jet age Toyota and Suzuki automobiles. In this portion of the country’s capital, jay walkers show no regard to the traffic lights. When one gets closer to the station, there is hardly any board welcoming the private or the Government owned vehicles. Most of the entry points are in reality No Entry points. Driving, therefore, becomes a challenging proposition in these situations. 
On gaining entry into the premises, a typical gothic style imposing structure welcomes you. The place is full of visible signs of renovation. Newly installed swanky flex and electronic boards give an indication of the state of preparedness for the 2010 Commonwealth Games. But what a mismatch they have with the upkeep of platforms! They are not only dirty and uneven; some of them have potholes as well.
The first and foremost information I sought, was the expected arrival time of 2817 Jharkhand Express,the train Amma had boarded for Delhi. A grave voice at the ‘Inquiry’ informed me that same was delayed further by more than an hour. It was nothing unusual. What actually shocked me instead was the flat refusal of the platform ticket. I presumed, the authorities were preempting inflow of unwanted visitors. When my turn came at the‘HELP’ counter, the reason given was the expected rush of people on the eve of the Chhath Pooja. I kept my fingers crossed, therefore, on learning about denial of platform ticket to a few persons. It was becoming irritating being in queue for nearly fifteen minutes. I along with a fellow ‘receiver’ could somehow convince the clerk that each one of us was genuinely intending to help our respective female relatives, who desperately looked forward to our assistance on account of age and safety considerations.
Having secured a platform ticket after some exercise, I was looking forward to a bout of relaxation. I would have preferred having a piping hot cup of tea. But as soon as I entered, I escaped being hit by a hand pulled cart carrying sealed parcel sacks, a scene one is familiar with since the childhood. I had not finished thanking my stars that I was disturbed by a group of middle aged men bent upon chasing a departing train. Though I was pushed aside by their rapid fire action, I watched the whole thing with a degree of amusement. Why can’t they be on time? Why can’t they have some consideration for the fellow passengers or those intending to play the role of ‘receivers’to perfection?, I asked my inner-self. While half of them could succeed in their efforts, a few hit others in the process. This included a petty hawker. He appeared to have lost eatables worth Rs. fifty. For a daily wage earner it meant a lot specially when he has to give commissions to gain entry into and sustain on a platform.
Upon being witness to what I have described, I managed to arrive on the platform number 10. A wait of fifteen minutes ensured a sort of seat for me. I prefer to call it a sort of seat as the person seating next to me was reluctant to remove his handbag on the false plea that another person was occupying it already. I pleaded, but he was not in a mood to budge. Later he realized that by not allowing me to sit properly, he was, perhaps not resorting to fair play.
A couple of trains arrived and left in the next half an hour. Each time a platform would be free, futile attempts by the sweepers would follow to clear the garbage on the tracks. Gradually, however, the stench emanating from there began becoming unbearable. It was, nevertheless, interesting to hear the casual and sometimes foolish queries of some passengers.
In order to get past the boredom ,I decided to take a stroll and thereafter establish a contact with Amma through a mobile number held by her immediate neighbor inside the compartment. The first attempt was futile. So I made a local call to pass on the news about delayed arrival of the train.
Soon the dull platform became alive with a minor scuffle between the telephone booth operator and a dirty urchin selling unlicensed, king sized saboodana papad. The former had taken away one piece apparently without even realizing a need to pay. Being hefty and in command of a better and bigger business outlet, I suppose he was in a position to dictate terms to the lesser mortals. The boy ultimately gave up after churning out choicest abuses. When it was all quiet, I wished to pay for the local call. Somehow the booth operator got an impression that I had made two calls but was willing to pay only for one. I did not surrender when he tried to charge me extra. Then he insisted on accepting only change. I was, on the contrary, possessive of same to make sundry payments outside the station. Seeing no other PCO,I had to relent. After all I was also anxious to speak to Amma in this hour of extended wait.
I could taste success in my second attempt. Not only I got a chance to hear her voice, but I was equally relieved to hear the reassuring voice of her caring ‘neighbor’.He appeared cool and unperturbed. Normally in good old days this sort of help would be forthcoming in the IInd Class Sleeper and most of the AC kind of passengers would not only act snobbish but they would be also aloof and insensitive to the fellow passengers. Maybe the magnanimous behavior in question was indicative of the enhanced purchasing power of the middle class or the said gentleman was actually nice, helpful and considerate.
When the electronic clock shows 15.55 hours, I decide to get up and look for the area wherein AI coach was expected. Finding no railway staff, the old trusted coolie comes to my rescue. All the half sleeping relatives of the passengers too come back to ‘life’. While waiting for the elusive train, a minor altercation is witnessed between a husband and his wife over something trivial. A truce is ensured in no time by timely intervention by some good soul. The catering stalls and the roving hawkers begin doing brisk business.
The scheduled time of 16.00 hours passes by but the train we were waiting for, is nowhere in sight. To add insult to our injuries, a train began departing from the adjacent platform number 8.Within a few minutes, however, a middle-aged Bengali gentleman, named Ritupurno Ghosh(RG) giving me company all along, shows a ray of hope. He notices an approaching engine. Everyone felt relieved. But our joy was short-lived. The engine in question was bringing in a local overcrowded rake. At this point of time, R.G. lost his patience. His scathing attack on the railways was not only genuine but justifiable. He was to collect a packet or two from his younger sister coming by 2817 and same was to be handed over to his elder brother departing by the Awadh Assam Express at 16:30 hours. While imagining his state of tension for a moment, I forgot my own.To console ourselves, we decided to sit down over a piece of huge railway parcel. A pouch of fruit juice gave us the needed relief.
Within a few minutes, God appeared kind to us. The time was 16:12 hours. The sought after announcement relating to arrival of 2817 was audible. We position ourselves appropriately. This time the engine and the accompanying coaches do not deceive us. Exactly at 16:18 hours, i.e. two hours and eighteen minutes behind schedule, the Jharkhand Express comes to a screeching halt. I have to run at least three hundred metres for locating A-1 coach. While doing so, I curse the Coolie in question for not guiding me properly. In the process,I lose touch with RG. Nevertheless, I pray to God for the success of his ambitious‘mission transfer’.
It takes me barely three minutes to locate Amma. She is beaming despite her extended journey. While coming out, she tries her best to overcome the pain emanating from her upper back. I lean forward to touch her feet. Seeing her after months amuses me. She reciprocates. As expected, behind her are Mr. and Mrs. Jayant Aggarwal of Ranchi, gently carrying her two bags. At the first glance,I perceive them to be very fine and benevolent. After Amma alights from the bogie with some difficulty, I take her to a vacant bench. While thanking Aggarwals profusely for their kind help extended throughout the journey, I ask if they need a lift to any point in the city. Apt comes the response that their brother,a resident of Gurgaon was already waiting outside the station. We lose no time in warmly shaking hands and conveying to each other the normal courtesy of being in touch in future.
While I begin walking towards the congested staircase leading to exit, I sincerely attempt to forget the sweet and sour experiences undergone at the Old Delhi Station for close to two hours. Focus of attention rightly begins shifting from the state of platform to more mundane things engaging my attention at home. This is how life goes on.
On gaining entry into the premises, a typical gothic style imposing structure welcomes you. The place is full of visible signs of renovation. Newly installed swanky flex and electronic boards give an indication of the state of preparedness for the 2010 Commonwealth Games. But what a mismatch they have with the upkeep of platforms! They are not only dirty and uneven; some of them have potholes as well.
The first and foremost information I sought, was the expected arrival time of 2817 Jharkhand Express,the train Amma had boarded for Delhi. A grave voice at the ‘Inquiry’ informed me that same was delayed further by more than an hour. It was nothing unusual. What actually shocked me instead was the flat refusal of the platform ticket. I presumed, the authorities were preempting inflow of unwanted visitors. When my turn came at the‘HELP’ counter, the reason given was the expected rush of people on the eve of the Chhath Pooja. I kept my fingers crossed, therefore, on learning about denial of platform ticket to a few persons. It was becoming irritating being in queue for nearly fifteen minutes. I along with a fellow ‘receiver’ could somehow convince the clerk that each one of us was genuinely intending to help our respective female relatives, who desperately looked forward to our assistance on account of age and safety considerations.
Having secured a platform ticket after some exercise, I was looking forward to a bout of relaxation. I would have preferred having a piping hot cup of tea. But as soon as I entered, I escaped being hit by a hand pulled cart carrying sealed parcel sacks, a scene one is familiar with since the childhood. I had not finished thanking my stars that I was disturbed by a group of middle aged men bent upon chasing a departing train. Though I was pushed aside by their rapid fire action, I watched the whole thing with a degree of amusement. Why can’t they be on time? Why can’t they have some consideration for the fellow passengers or those intending to play the role of ‘receivers’to perfection?, I asked my inner-self. While half of them could succeed in their efforts, a few hit others in the process. This included a petty hawker. He appeared to have lost eatables worth Rs. fifty. For a daily wage earner it meant a lot specially when he has to give commissions to gain entry into and sustain on a platform.
Upon being witness to what I have described, I managed to arrive on the platform number 10. A wait of fifteen minutes ensured a sort of seat for me. I prefer to call it a sort of seat as the person seating next to me was reluctant to remove his handbag on the false plea that another person was occupying it already. I pleaded, but he was not in a mood to budge. Later he realized that by not allowing me to sit properly, he was, perhaps not resorting to fair play.
A couple of trains arrived and left in the next half an hour. Each time a platform would be free, futile attempts by the sweepers would follow to clear the garbage on the tracks. Gradually, however, the stench emanating from there began becoming unbearable. It was, nevertheless, interesting to hear the casual and sometimes foolish queries of some passengers.
In order to get past the boredom ,I decided to take a stroll and thereafter establish a contact with Amma through a mobile number held by her immediate neighbor inside the compartment. The first attempt was futile. So I made a local call to pass on the news about delayed arrival of the train.
Soon the dull platform became alive with a minor scuffle between the telephone booth operator and a dirty urchin selling unlicensed, king sized saboodana papad. The former had taken away one piece apparently without even realizing a need to pay. Being hefty and in command of a better and bigger business outlet, I suppose he was in a position to dictate terms to the lesser mortals. The boy ultimately gave up after churning out choicest abuses. When it was all quiet, I wished to pay for the local call. Somehow the booth operator got an impression that I had made two calls but was willing to pay only for one. I did not surrender when he tried to charge me extra. Then he insisted on accepting only change. I was, on the contrary, possessive of same to make sundry payments outside the station. Seeing no other PCO,I had to relent. After all I was also anxious to speak to Amma in this hour of extended wait.
I could taste success in my second attempt. Not only I got a chance to hear her voice, but I was equally relieved to hear the reassuring voice of her caring ‘neighbor’.He appeared cool and unperturbed. Normally in good old days this sort of help would be forthcoming in the IInd Class Sleeper and most of the AC kind of passengers would not only act snobbish but they would be also aloof and insensitive to the fellow passengers. Maybe the magnanimous behavior in question was indicative of the enhanced purchasing power of the middle class or the said gentleman was actually nice, helpful and considerate.
When the electronic clock shows 15.55 hours, I decide to get up and look for the area wherein AI coach was expected. Finding no railway staff, the old trusted coolie comes to my rescue. All the half sleeping relatives of the passengers too come back to ‘life’. While waiting for the elusive train, a minor altercation is witnessed between a husband and his wife over something trivial. A truce is ensured in no time by timely intervention by some good soul. The catering stalls and the roving hawkers begin doing brisk business.
The scheduled time of 16.00 hours passes by but the train we were waiting for, is nowhere in sight. To add insult to our injuries, a train began departing from the adjacent platform number 8.Within a few minutes, however, a middle-aged Bengali gentleman, named Ritupurno Ghosh(RG) giving me company all along, shows a ray of hope. He notices an approaching engine. Everyone felt relieved. But our joy was short-lived. The engine in question was bringing in a local overcrowded rake. At this point of time, R.G. lost his patience. His scathing attack on the railways was not only genuine but justifiable. He was to collect a packet or two from his younger sister coming by 2817 and same was to be handed over to his elder brother departing by the Awadh Assam Express at 16:30 hours. While imagining his state of tension for a moment, I forgot my own.To console ourselves, we decided to sit down over a piece of huge railway parcel. A pouch of fruit juice gave us the needed relief.
Within a few minutes, God appeared kind to us. The time was 16:12 hours. The sought after announcement relating to arrival of 2817 was audible. We position ourselves appropriately. This time the engine and the accompanying coaches do not deceive us. Exactly at 16:18 hours, i.e. two hours and eighteen minutes behind schedule, the Jharkhand Express comes to a screeching halt. I have to run at least three hundred metres for locating A-1 coach. While doing so, I curse the Coolie in question for not guiding me properly. In the process,I lose touch with RG. Nevertheless, I pray to God for the success of his ambitious‘mission transfer’.
It takes me barely three minutes to locate Amma. She is beaming despite her extended journey. While coming out, she tries her best to overcome the pain emanating from her upper back. I lean forward to touch her feet. Seeing her after months amuses me. She reciprocates. As expected, behind her are Mr. and Mrs. Jayant Aggarwal of Ranchi, gently carrying her two bags. At the first glance,I perceive them to be very fine and benevolent. After Amma alights from the bogie with some difficulty, I take her to a vacant bench. While thanking Aggarwals profusely for their kind help extended throughout the journey, I ask if they need a lift to any point in the city. Apt comes the response that their brother,a resident of Gurgaon was already waiting outside the station. We lose no time in warmly shaking hands and conveying to each other the normal courtesy of being in touch in future.
While I begin walking towards the congested staircase leading to exit, I sincerely attempt to forget the sweet and sour experiences undergone at the Old Delhi Station for close to two hours. Focus of attention rightly begins shifting from the state of platform to more mundane things engaging my attention at home. This is how life goes on.
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