The iron horse and I

As I lazily flipped through the newspaper on a Sunday morning, two stories about trains in Bihar caught my eye. Suddenly, I found myself reminiscing about the significant role trains played in my younger years. Growing up in an industrial town in Bihar in the 1960s, I was no stranger to trains. Every two years, my family and I would embark on a two-night train journey to Bengaluru, then a relatively unknown town beyond Madras. Preparing for this journey was a labour of love for my parents, who looked forward to meeting their families. For me, it was the start of an exciting adventure.

Steam locomotives enthralled me. The ones that pulled our trains, and those that passed by, had the gold letters ‘SE’ engraved on them -- South Eastern Railway, of course. My father once told me that any of them could be one that he had worked on to build! Yes, the Locomotive company was a very important one! 

Years later, my cousins and I would sneak out of our homes to watch the trains pass by. We’d stand on the railway overbridge at Perambur Loco Works station, eagerly awaiting the iconic Brindavan Express. As the train’s headlight came into view, the rhythmic thundering grew louder, followed by the arresting metallic roar of the diesel locomotive. We were spellbound! The Brindavan Express was the crown jewel of Southern Railway, renowned for its punctuality. Legend had it that people would set their watches by its passing time.

My father’s family had a shining star – my uncle, a brilliant student and engineer who topped the Railway Services examination. He went on to make significant contributions to Indian Railways, working in crucial hubs across Southern Railway. His early posting was in Andhra Pradesh’s busy Bitragunta Junction. As a small child passing by in a train, I remember the words HOME OF THE IRON HORSES painted on a shed. What magnificent locomotives resided inside, I wondered in awe.

I remember visiting his office in the heritage building next to Madras Central station, where he worked as deputy chief mechanical engineer. He occupied the largest office I had ever seen, with four black telephones on his table. His humility and kindness had earned him the respect and admiration of his colleagues and workers. We lost him to a dreadful heart attack when he was just 53. A deluge of stunned mourners thronged his palatial railway bungalow in Perambur. An old friend who was driving back home from his factory in Padi, found the road blocked by a sea of people. Only later did he realise that the sea was an outpouring of grief by railwaymen for their beloved officer. 

That afternoon, the train waited for extra time in Bangalore City station, to ferry his shocked family members to Madras. For possibly the first time in its history, the Brindavan Express arrived late. Even the great iron horse paid tribute to the caring master.