Train of thought

Planes may get the job done; but there is no denying the romance of train travel

I never realized how much I missed the charm of train travel until – after years of flying around the globe – I decided to experience the delights of the Italian rail system. Dragging our strollers behind us, my husband and I plunged into the chaotic depths of the railway station at Rome, looking for signage that would direct us to our platform. We settled down in our very comfortable seats, but as the train pulled into the countryside, I found myself overwhelmed by a strong sense of nostalgia.

Suddenly, the memories of train journeys past came strong and fast, even as the landscape turned more picturesque. I remembered the excitement I had felt as a child when we embarked on our annual trip to Assam to visit my aunt at her tea garden. There was a whole ritual attached to our departure from Howrah train station. I was allowed to buy four comic books from the stall at the station, my mother would stock up on magazines, my brother and sister would choose some thrillers or romances to keep them occupied. My father would pay for all of this, settle us down in our seats, and then stand outside the window chatting, until the train left the station. The sight of him growing smaller and smaller as the train pulled away is one of the core memories of my childhood. 

The train journey itself was magical to a child of six (or maybe seven) as I was then. A city girl, the sight of green countryside held me mesmerized. And I remember calling out excitedly to my mother, “Oh look, there’s a real-life farmer!” because I thought until then that farmers only existed in the storybooks that I read. It was only a few hours into the journey, that my mom and sister would crack open the enormous tiffin carrier we had packed to sustain us on the way. The enticing smell of puris and aloo subzi would fill the air, with the subtle aroma of mango pickle providing an added piquancy. And then, when it was time to sleep, the bedrolls (remember those?) would be unfurled with great flourish, and we would settle down on our allotted berths to read ourselves to sleep.

Those train journeys, however, soon became a thing of the past as air travel became more accessible and cheaper. And once I started life as a working professional, train travel fell completely out of favour, as planes got the job done so much quicker. Over time, I got so used to the convenience of air travel, that trains simply didn’t figure in my plans anymore. And even if someone did suggest taking a train somewhere nearby – like Jaipur or Chandigarh – it was simply more convenient to take a car (after all, you could then use it for intra-city travel as well).

But as I sat back in the train that was taking us from Rome to the Amalfi coast, feasting my eyes on the scenery unfolding before me, I realized what I had lost by giving up on train travel. Planes may get you from point A to point B quicker, but while you save time, you lose on the magic of the journey itself, the sense of wonder watching a country unfurl before you. You should try it.

Red letter day

Nothing equals the old-fashioned pleasure of receiving a physical letter

Last week, having tired of the endless police procedurals on every streaming service, I decided to retreat into the cozy world of Downtown Abbey. There was something so ineffably relaxing about the plush interiors, the verdant exteriors, the sumptuous costumes, and the sparkling dialogue that I had soon speeded through two whole seasons. 

 

But the one scene that stuck with me through my binge-watching was when the servants below stairs gathered around as the letters that arrived that morning were distributed to them. Those who recognized the handwriting on the envelopes were wreathed in smiles of anticipation; those who got an unexpected missive were giddy with excitement; and those who didn’t receive a single letter were crushed with the weight of their disappointment.

 

That one scene transported me back to my own childhood, when writing and receiving letters had such a peculiar joy of its own. I used to long for letters sent by my aunt (my mother’s elder sister) from her tea garden in Assam. Reading her letters transported me from my childhood bedroom to the green hillsides of Assam – where the tea pickers were hard at work collecting two leaves and a bud – so effectively that I could almost smell the distinctive smell of leaves being transformed into tea in the factory.

 

The other high point of my life used to be the weekly letters that would arrive from my aunt (my father’s younger sister) in London. These came tinged with the romance of a faraway country that I had yet to visit, though I felt that I knew it well anyway, thanks to my copious reading of Enid Blyton books. But my aunt’s London went beyond boarding schools, midnight feasts, scones and clotted cream. Those letters were my first window into the delights of punting in Cambridge, watching a play at Stratford-Upon-Avon, or just enjoying an ice lolly in a London park – all of which I longed to do once I was all grown up (spoiler alert: I did!)

 

Letters for me were a portal into another world. My uncle (my mother’s youngest brother), who had just been commissioned into the army, was one of my first correspondents. I would laboriously fill two pages of all that I had accomplished in school that week and send it off to him. And then I would wait impatiently for his reply to arrive, replete with details of his training regimen, his mess arrangements, and all the new friends he was making in his regiment.

As I grew older, my letter writing was extended beyond the family. During the holidays, my friends and I would write to each other, describing how we were spending our vacations. When I went on holiday with my family, I would write to my friends in the neighbourhood, keeping them abreast of all my adventures. And in my teenage years, I even acquired a pen pal (remember those?) in Germany, whose letters I found endlessly fascinating.

 

Which is why I can’t help but feel sorry for the young people of today who will never know the raw, unadulterated pleasure of having a letter delivered into your post-box at home, which transports you immediately into an entirely different universe. We are probably the last generation to enjoy that privilege. And more’s the pity!

There's something in the air

Smells can transport you out of this world – and into an entirely different one

 

Smell is a funny thing. No, I don’t mean scent. Or perfume. Or parfum, if you want to get all fancy-schmancy on me. I mean smell. The kind that drifts into your consciousness when you are not even thinking about it. The kind that sneaks up on you while you are doing something else entirely. But before you can say ‘olfactory’ it has transported you to a realm entirely different from the one you inhabit. 

 

That’s what happened to me last week, as I travelled through the tea trails of Sri Lanka and ended up on a guided visit to a tea factory. The moment I walked in and the smell of the dried tea leaves hit my nostrils, I was suddenly ten years old again. And instead of the hills of Sri Lanka, I was back in Assam, visiting the tea garden that my aunt used to own. Memories of the mornings that I spent with my cousins trudging through the tea bushes came rushing back; of lazy afternoons spent on the makeshift swing that my uncle had fashioned for me on a banyan tree; of the time I sneaked out on my own and was held transfixed by a snake that was in the process of swallowing a frog (no, I was too young to be scared, and too stupid to run away!). All it took was one smell, and I was transported back to a childhood that seemed magical in retrospect.

 

This is, of course, not the first time this has happened. I find that smells take me by surprise and take me out of myself all the time. I just have to open a bottle of coconut oil in the kitchen and I immediately feel my grandmother standing beside me, her snow-white hair immaculately braided and exuding that warm, toasty smell that I will always associate with her. I remember all the times she pleaded with me to let her oil my hair, and all the times I refused. And a whiff of regret infuses the air around me as I look back on my obstreperous, younger self. 

 

Sometimes I will walk into a smoke-filled room and just for a moment I will conjure up my father’s face among the shadows, even though he is long gone. My teenage years were spent trying to make him give up smoking. I would ostentatiously walk out of the room if he ever lit up in my presence. And here I am now, searching for him in smoky rooms which he will never enter. It’s funny, the tricks smells play upon you. 

 

It is the most everyday smells that trigger the strongest memories. A friend sent me some home-made mango pickle this season, but it was my mother I remembered as I opened the bottle and took a hit of that aroma. She took her mango pickling so seriously that she would go to the market and choose the unripe fruits herself. Then, the entire household would be coopted into the process of washing, cutting and drying the fruits. Finally, after the whole laborious process was over, the finished product would be stored in large jars and left out in the sun. Not every jar – or ‘biyam’ as we called it – was meant for us. Many were destined to be distributed to friends and family, who would eagerly await this annual present from her. And now, here I was, her daughter, receiving the same gift that she had taken such pleasure in giving.

 

The smell of jasmine takes me back to a flower market I visited in Chennai years ago (when it was still called Madras); the smell of eggs frying reminds me of various rail journeys that were fueled by copious quantities of omelets and fried toast in my younger days; the smell of turpentine puts me in mind of the art classes I took in school, and to the art teacher who despaired of teaching me to draw as much as a straight line.

 

As I said, smell, it’s a funny thing. It’s both a window into your world; and an escape out of it. And I don’t know which one is better.